Book: The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Book II.
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Jean Jacques Rousseau >> The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Book II.
The table not being large enough to accommodate all the company, a small
one was prepared, where I had the satisfaction of dining with our
agreeable clerk; but I lost nothing with regard to attention and good
cheer, for several plates were sent to the side-table which were
certainly not intended for him.
Thus far all went well; the ladies were in good spirits, and the
gentlemen very gallant, while Madam Basile did the honors of the table
with peculiar grace. In the midst of the dinner we heard a chaise stop
at the door, and presently some one coming up stairs--it was M. Basile.
Methinks I now see him entering, in his scarlet coat with gold buttons
--from that day I have held the color in abhorrence. M. Basile was a tall
handsome man, of good address: he entered with a consequential look and
an air of taking his family unawares, though none but friends were
present. His wife ran to meet him, threw her arms about his neck, and
gave him a thousand caresses, which he received with the utmost
indifference; and without making any return saluted the company and took
his place at table. They were just beginning to speak of his journey,
when casting his eye on the small table he asked in a sharp tone, what
lad that was? Madam Basile answered ingenuously. He then inquired
whether I lodged in the house; and was answered in the negative. "Why
not?" replied he, rudely, "since he stays here all day, he might as well
remain all night too." The monk now interfered, with a serious and true
eulogium on Madam Basile: in a few words he made mine also, adding, that
so far from blaming, he ought to further the pious charity of his wife,
since it was evident she had not passed the bounds of discretion. The
husband answered with an air of petulance, which (restrained by the
presence of the monk) he endeavored to stifle; it was, however,
sufficient to let me understand he had already received information of
me, and that our worthy clerk had rendered me an ill office.
We had hardly risen from table, when the latter came in triumph from his
employer, to inform me, I must leave the house that instant, and never
more during my life dare to set foot there. He took care to aggravate
this commission by everything that could render it cruel and insulting.
I departed without a word, my heart overwhelmed with sorrow, less for
being obliged to quit this amiable woman, than at the thought of leaving
her to the brutality of such a husband. He was certainly right to wish
her faithful; but though prudent and wellborn, she was an Italian, that
is to say, tender and vindictive; which made me think, he was extremely
imprudent in using means the most likely in the world to draw on himself
the very evil he so much dreaded.
Such was the success of my first adventure. I walked several times up
and down the street, wishing to get a sight of what my heart incessantly
regretted; but I could only discover her husband, or the vigilant clerk,
who, perceiving me, made a sign with the ell they used in the shop, which
was more expressive than alluring: finding, therefore, that I was so
completely watched, my courage failed, and I went no more. I wished,
at least, to find out the patron she had provided me, but, unfortunately,
I did not know his name. I ranged several times round the convent,
endeavoring in vain to meet with him. At length, other events banished
the delightful remembrance of Madam Basile; and in a short time I so far
forgot her, that I remained as simple, as much a novice as ever, nor did
my penchant for pretty women even receive any sensible augmentation.
Her liberality had, however, increased my little wardrobe, though she had
done this with precaution and prudence, regarding neatness more than
decoration, and to make me comfortable rather than brilliant. The coat I
had brought from Geneva was yet wearable, she only added a hat and some
linen. I had no ruffles, nor would she give me any, not but I felt a
great inclination for them. She was satisfied with having put it in my
power to keep myself clean, though a charge to do this was unnecessary
while I was to appear before her.
A few days after this catastrophe; my hostess, who, as I have already
observed, was very friendly, with great satisfaction informed me she had
heard of a situation, and that a lady of rank desired to see me. I
immediately thought myself in the road to great adventures; that being
the point to which all my ideas tended: this, however, did not prove so
brilliant as I had conceived it. I waited on the lady with the servant;
who had mentioned me: she asked a number of questions, and my answers not
displeasing her, I immediately entered into her service not, indeed, in
the quality of favorite, but as a footman. I was clothed like the rest
of her people, the only difference being, they wore a shoulder--knot,
which I had not, and, as there was no lace on her livery, it appeared
merely a tradesman's suit. This was the unforeseen conclusion of all my
great expectancies!
The Countess of Vercellis, with whom I now lived, was a widow without
children; her husband was a Piedmontese, but I always believed her to be
a Savoyard, as I could have no conception that a native of Piedmont could
speak such good French, and with so pure an accent. She was a
middle-aged woman, of a noble appearance and cultivated understanding,
being fond of French literature, in which she was well versed. Her
letters had the expression, and almost the elegance of Madam de
Savigne's; some of them might have been taken for hers. My principal
employ, which was by no means displeasing to me, was to write from her
dictating; a cancer in the breast, from which she suffered extremely,
not permitting her to write herself.
Madam de Vercellis not only possessed a good understanding, but a strong
and elevated soul. I was with her during her last illness, and saw her
suffer and die, without showing an instant of weakness, or the least
effort of constraint; still retaining her feminine manners, without
entertaining an idea that such fortitude gave her any claim to
philosophy; a word which was not yet in fashion, nor comprehended by her
in the sense it is held at present. This strength of disposition
sometimes extended almost to apathy, ever appearing to feel as little for
others as herself; and when she relieved the unfortunate, it was rather
for the sake of acting right, than from a principle of real
commiseration. I have frequently experienced this insensibility, in some
measure, during the three months I remained with her. It would have been
natural to have had an esteem for a young man of some abilities, who was
incessantly under her observation, and that she should think, as she felt
her dissolution approaching, that after her death he would have occasion
for assistance and support: but whether she judged me unworthy of
particular attention, or that those who narrowly watched all her motions,
gave her no opportunity to think of any but themselves, she did nothing
for me.
I very well recollect that she showed some curiosity to know my story,
frequently questioning me, and appearing pleased when I showed her the
letters I wrote to Madam de Warrens, or explained my sentiments; but as
she never discovered her own, she certainly did not take the right means
to come at them. My heart, naturally communicative, loved to display its
feelings, whenever I encountered a similar disposition; but dry, cold
interrogatories, without any sign of blame or approbation on my answers,
gave me no confidence. Not being able to determine whether my discourse
was agreeable or displeasing, I was ever in fear, and thought less of
expressing my ideas, than of being careful not to say anything that might
seem to my disadvantage. I have since remarked that this dry method of
questioning themselves into people's characters is a common trick among
women who pride themselves on superior understanding. These imagine,
that by concealing their own sentiments, they shall the more easily
penetrate into those of others; being ignorant that this method destroys
the confidence so necessary to make us reveal them. A man, on being
questioned, is immediately on his guard: and if once he supposes that,
without any interest in his concerns, you only wish to set him a-talking,
either he entertains you with lies, is silent, or, examining every word
before he utters it, rather chooses to pass for a fool, than to be the
dupe of your curiosity. In short, it is ever a bad method to attempt to
read the hearts of others by endeavoring to conceal our own.
Madam de Vercellis never addressed a word to me which seemed to express
affection, pity, or benevolence. She interrogated me coldly, and my
answers were uttered with so much timidity, that she doubtless
entertained but a mean opinion of my intellects, for latterly she never
asked me any questions, nor said anything but what was absolutely
necessary for her service. She drew her judgment less from what I really
was, than from what she had made me, and by considering me as a footman
prevented my appearing otherwise.
I am inclined to think I suffered at that time by the same interested
game of concealed manoeuvre, which has counteracted me throughout my
life, and given me a very natural aversion for everything that has the
least appearance of it. Madam de Vercellis having no children, her
nephew, the Count de la Roque, was her heir, and paid his court
assiduously, as did her principal domestics, who, seeing her end
approaching, endeavored to take care of themselves; in short, so many
were busy about her, that she could hardly have found time to think of
me. At the head of her household was a M. Lorenzy, an artful genius,
with a still more artful wife; who had so far insinuated herself into the
good graces of her mistress, that she was rather on the footing of a
friend than a servant. She had introduced a niece of hers as lady's
maid: her name was Mademoiselle Pontal; a cunning gypsy, that gave
herself all the airs of a waiting-woman, and assisted her aunt so well in
besetting the countess, that she only saw with their eyes, and acted
through their hands. I had not the happiness to please this worthy
triumvirate; I obeyed, but did not wait on them, not conceiving that my
duty to our general mistress required me to be a servant to her servants.
Besides this, I was a person that gave them some inquietude; they saw I
was not in my proper situation, and feared the countess would discover it
likewise, and by placing me in it, decrease their portions; for such sort
of people, too greedy to be just, look on every legacy given to others as
a diminution of their own wealth; they endeavored, therefore, to keep me
as much out of her sight as possible. She loved to write letters, in her
situation, but they contrived to give her a distaste to it; persuading
her, by the aid of the doctor, that it was too fatiguing; and, under
pretence that I did not understand how to wait on her, they employed two
great lubberly chairmen for that purpose; in a word, they managed the
affair so well, that for eight days before she made her will, I had not
been permitted to enter the chamber. Afterwards I went in as usual, and
was even more assiduous than any one, being afflicted at the sufferings
of the unhappy lady, whom I truly respected and beloved for the calmness
and fortitude with which she bore her illness, and often did I shed tears
of real sorrow without being perceived by any one.
At length we lost her--I saw her expire. She had lived like a woman of
sense and virtue, her death was that of a philosopher. I can truly say,
she rendered the Catholic religion amiable to me by the serenity with
which she fulfilled its dictates, without any mixture of negligence or
affectation. She was naturally serious, but towards the end of her
illness she possessed a kind of gayety, too regular to be assumed, which
served as a counterpoise to the melancholy of her situation. She only
kept her bed two days, continuing to discourse cheerfully with those
about her to the very last.
She had bequeathed a year's wages to all the under servants, but, not
being on the household list, I had nothing: the Count de la Roque,
however, ordered me thirty livres, and the new coat I had on, which M.
Lorenzy would certainly have taken from me. He even promised to procure
me a place; giving me permission to wait on him as often as I pleased.
Accordingly, I went two or three times, without being able to speak to
him, and as I was easily repulsed, returned no more; whether I did wrong
will be seen hereafter.
Would I had finished what I have to say of my living at Madam de
Vercellis's. Though my situation apparently remained the same, I did not
leave her house as I had entered it: I carried with me the long and
painful remembrance of a crime; an insupportable weight of remorse which
yet hangs on my conscience, and whose bitter recollection, far from
weakening, during a period of forty years, seems to gather strength as I
grow old. Who would believe, that a childish fault should be productive
of such melancholy consequences? But it is for the more than probable
effects that my heart cannot be consoled. I have, perhaps, caused an
amiable, honest, estimable girl, who surely merited a better fate than
myself, to perish with shame and misery.
Though it is very difficult to break up housekeeping without confusion,
and the loss of some property; yet such was the fidelity of the
domestics, and the vigilance of M. and Madam Lorenzy, that no article of
the inventory was found wanting; in short, nothing was missing but a pink
and silver ribbon, which had been worn, and belonged to Mademoiselle
Pontal. Though several things of more value were in my reach, this
ribbon alone tempted me, and accordingly I stole it. As I took no great
pains to conceal the bauble, it was soon discovered; they immediately
insisted on knowing from whence I had taken it; this perplexed me--I
hesitated, and at length said, with confusion, that Marion gave it me.
Marion was a young Mauriennese, and had been cook to Madam de Vercellis
ever since she left off giving entertainments, for being sensible she had
more need of good broths than fine ragouts, she had discharged her former
one. Marion was not only pretty, but had that freshness of color only to
be found among the mountains, and, above all, an air of modesty and
sweetness, which made it impossible to see her without affection; she was
besides a good girl, virtuous, and of such strict fidelity, that everyone
was surprised at hearing her named. They had not less confidence in me,
and judged it necessary to certify which of us was the thief. Marion was
sent for; a great number of people were present, among whom was the Count
de la Roque: she arrives; they show her the ribbon; I accuse her boldly:
she remains confused and speechless, casting a look on me that would have
disarmed a demon, but which my barbarous heart resisted. At length, she
denied it with firmness, but without anger, exhorting me to return to
myself, and not injure an innocent girl who had never wronged me. With
infernal impudence, I confirmed my accusation, and to her face maintained
she had given me the ribbon: on which, the poor girl, bursting into
tears, said these words--"Ah, Rousseau! I thought you a good
disposition--you render me very unhappy, but I would not be in your
situation." She continued to defend herself with as much innocence as
firmness, but without uttering the least invective against me. Her
moderation, compared to my positive tone, did her an injury; as it did
not appear natural to suppose, on one side such diabolical assurance; on
the other, such angelic mildness. The affair could not be absolutely
decided, but the presumption was in my favor; and the Count de la Roque,
in sending us both away, contented himself with saying, "The conscience
of the guilty would revenge the innocent." His prediction was true, and
is being daily verified.
I am ignorant what became of the victim of my calumny, but there is
little probability of her having been able to place herself agreeably
after this, as she labored under an imputation cruel to her character in
every respect. The theft was a trifle, yet it was a theft, and, what was
worse, employed to seduce a boy; while the lie and obstinacy left nothing
to hope from a person in whom so many vices were united. I do not even
look on the misery and disgrace in which I plunged her as the greatest
evil: who knows, at her age, whither contempt and disregarded innocence
might have led her?--Alas! if remorse for having made her unhappy is
insupportable, what must I have suffered at the thought of rendering her
even worse than myself. The cruel remembrance of this transaction,
sometimes so troubles and disorders me, that, in my disturbed slumbers,
I imagine I see this poor girl enter and reproach me with my crime,
as though I had committed it but yesterday. While in easy tranquil
circumstances, I was less miserable on this account, but, during a
troubled agitated life, it has robbed me of the sweet consolation of
persecuted innocence, and made me wofully experience, what, I think, I
have remarked in some of my works, that remorse sleeps in the calm
sunshine of prosperity, but wakes amid the storms of adversity. I could
never take on me to discharge my heart of this weight in the bosom of a
friend; nor could the closest intimacy ever encourage me to it, even with
Madam de Warrens: all I could do, was to own I had to accuse myself of an
atrocious crime, but never said in what it consisted. The weight,
therefore, has remained heavy on my conscience to this day; and I can
truly own the desire of relieving myself, in some measure, from it,
contributed greatly to the resolution of writing my Confessions.
I have proceeded truly in that I have just made, and it will certainly be
thought I have not sought to palliate the turpitude of my offence; but I
should not fulfill the purpose of this undertaking, did I not, at the
same time, divulge my interior disposition, and excuse myself as far as
is conformable with truth.
Never was wickedness further from my thoughts, than in that cruel moment;
and when I accused the unhappy girl, it is strange, but strictly true,
that my friendship for her was the immediate cause of it. She was
present to my thoughts; I formed my excuse from the first object that
presented itself: I accused her with doing what I meant to have done,
and as I designed to have given her the ribbon, asserted she had given
it to me. When she appeared, my heart was agonized, but the presence
of so many people was more powerful than my compunction. I did not fear
punishment, but I dreaded shame: I dreaded it more than death, more than
the crime, more than all the world. I would have buried, hid myself in
the centre of the earth: invincible shame bore down every other
sentiment; shame alone caused all my impudence, and in proportion as I
became criminal, the fear of discovery rendered me intrepid. I felt no
dread but that of being detected, of being publicly, and to my face,
declared a thief, liar, and calumniator; an unconquerable fear of this
overcame every other sensation. Had I been left to myself, I should
infallibly have declared the truth. Or if M. de la Rogue had taken me
aside, and said--"Do not injure this poor girl; if you are guilty own
it,"--I am convinced I should instantly have thrown myself at his feet;
but they intimidated, instead of encouraging me. I was hardly out of my
childhood, or rather, was yet in it. It is also just to make some
allowance for my age. In youth, dark, premeditated villainy is more
criminal than in a riper age, but weaknesses are much less so; my fault
was truly nothing more; and I am less afflicted at the deed itself than
for its consequences. It had one good effect, however, in preserving me
through the rest of my life from any criminal action, from the terrible
impression that has remained from the only one I ever committed; and I
think my aversion for lying proceeds in a great measure from regret at
having been guilty of so black a one. If it is a crime that can be
expiated, as I dare believe, forty years of uprightness and honor on
various difficult occasions, with the many misfortunes that have
overwhelmed my latter years, may have completed it. Poor Marion has
found so many avengers in this world, that however great my offence
towards her, I do not fear to bear the guilt with me. Thus have I
disclosed what I had to say on this painful subject; may I be permitted
never to mention it again.