Book: The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Complete

J >> Jean Jacques Rousseau >> The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Complete




It is not only painful to me to give language to my ideas but even to
receive them. I have studied mankind, and think myself a tolerable
observer, yet I know nothing from what I see, but all from what I
remember, nor have I understanding except in my recollections. From all
that is said, from all that passes in my presence, I feel nothing,
conceive nothing, the exterior sign being all that strikes me; afterwards
it returns to my remembrance; I recollect the place, the time, the
manner, the look, and gesture, not a circumstance escapes me; it is then,
from what has been done or said, that I imagine what has been thought,
and I have rarely found myself mistaken.

So little master of my understanding when alone, let any one judge what I
must be in conversation, where to speak with any degree of ease you must
think of a thousand things at the same time: the bare idea that I should
forget something material would be sufficient to intimidate me. Nor can
I comprehend how people can have the confidence to converse in large
companies, where each word must pass in review before so many, and where
it would be requisite to know their several characters and histories to
avoid saying what might give offence. In this particular, those who
frequent the world would have a great advantage, as they know better
where to be silent, and can speak with greater confidence; yet even they
sometimes let fall absurdities; in what predicament then must he be who
drops as it were from the clouds? it is almost impossible he should speak
ten minutes with impunity.

In a tete-a-tete there is a still worse inconvenience; that is; the
necessity of talking perpetually, at least, the necessity of answering
when spoken to, and keeping up the conversation when the other is silent.
This insupportable constraint is alone sufficient to disgust me with
variety, for I cannot form an idea of a greater torment than being
obliged to speak continually without time for recollection. I know not
whether it proceeds from my mortal hatred of all constraint; but if I am
obliged to speak, I infallibly talk nonsense. What is still worse,
instead of learning how to be silent when I have absolutely nothing to
say, it is generally at such times that I have a violent inclination: and
endeavoring to pay my debt of conversation as speedily as possible, I
hastily gabble a number of words without ideas, happy when they only
chance to mean nothing; thus endeavoring to conquer or hide my
incapacity, I rarely fail to show it.

I think I have said enough to show that, though not a fool, I have
frequently passed for one, even among people capable of judging; this was
the more vexatious, as my physiognomy and eyes promised otherwise, and
expectation being frustrated, my stupidity appeared the more shocking.
This detail, which a particular occasion gave birth to, will not be
useless in the sequel, being a key to many of my actions which might
otherwise appear unaccountable; and have been attributed to a savage
humor I do not possess. I love society as much as any man, was I not
certain to exhibit myself in it, not only disadvantageously, but totally
different from what I really am. The plan I have adopted of writing and
retirement, is what exactly suits me. Had I been present, my worth would
never have been known, no one would even have suspected it; thus it was
with Madam Dupin, a woman of sense, in whose house I lived for several
years; indeed, she has often since owned it to me: though on the whole
this rule may be subject to some exceptions. I shall now return to my
history.

The estimate of my talents thus fixed, the situation I was capable of
promised, the question only remained how to render her capable of
fulfilling my destined vocation. The principle difficulty was, I did not
know Latin enough for a priest. Madam de Warrens determined to have me
taught for some time at the seminary, and accordingly spoke of it to the
Superior, who was a Lazarist, called M. Gras, a good-natured little
fellow, half blind, meagre, gray-haired, insensible, and the least
pedantic of any Lazarist I ever knew; which, in fact, is saying no great
matter.

He frequently visited Madam de Warrens, who entertained, caressed, and
made much of him, letting him sometimes lace her stays, an office he was
willing enough to perform. While thus employed, she would run about the
room, this way or that, as occasion happened to call her. Drawn by the
lace, Monsieur the Superior followed, grumbling, repeating at every
moment, "Pray, madam, do stand still;" the whole forming a scene truly
diverting.

M. Gras willingly assented to the project of Madam de Warrens, and, for a
very moderate pension, charged himself with the care of instructing me.
The consent of the bishop was all that remained necessary, who not only
granted it, but offered to pay the pension, permitting me to retain the
secular habit till they could judge by a trial what success they might
have in my improvement.

What a change! but I was obliged to submit; though I went to the seminary
with about the same spirits as if they had been taking me to execution.
What a melancholy abode! especially for one who left the house of a
pretty woman. I carried one book with me, that I had borrowed of Madam
de Warrens, and found it a capital resource! it will not be easily
conjectured what kind of book this was--it was a music book. Among the
talents she had cultivated, music was not forgotten; she had a tolerable
good voice, sang agreeably, and played on the harpsichord. She had taken
the pains to give me some lessons in singing, though before I was very
uninformed in that respect, hardly knowing the music of our psalms.
Eight or ten interrupted lessons, far from putting me in a condition to
improve myself, did not teach me half the notes; notwithstanding, I had
such a passion for the art, that I determined to exercise myself alone.
The book I took was not of the most easy kind; it was the cantatas of
Clerambault. It may be conceived with what attention and perseverance I
studied, when I inform my reader, that without knowing anything of
transposition or quantity, I contrived to sing with tolerable
correctness, the first recitative and air in the cantata of Alpheus and
Arethusa; it is true this air is, so justly set, that it is only
necessary to recite the verses in their just measure to catch the music.

There was at the seminary a curst Lazarist, who by undertaking to teach
me Latin made me detest it. His hair was coarse, black and greasy, his
face like those formed in gingerbread, he had the voice of a buffalo, the
countenance of an owl, and the bristles of a boar in lieu of a beard; his
smile was sardonic, and his limbs played like those of a puppet moved by
wires. I have forgotten his odious name, but the remembrance of his
frightful precise countenance remains with me, though hardly can I
recollect it without trembling; especially when I call to mind our
meeting in the gallery, when he graciously advanced his filthy square cap
as a sign for me to enter his apartment, which appeared more dismal in my
apprehension than a dungeon. Let any one judge the contrast between my
present master and the elegant Abbe de Gauvon.

Had I remained two months at the mercy of this monster, I am certain my
head could not have sustained it; but the good M. Gras, perceiving I was
melancholy, grew thin, and did not eat my victuals, guessed the cause of
my uneasiness (which indeed was not very difficult) and taking me from
the claws of this beast, by another yet more striking contrast, placed me
with the gentlest of men, a young Faucigneran abbe, named M. Gatier,
who studied at the seminary, and out of complaisance for M. Gras, and
humanity to myself, spared some time from the prosecution of his own
studies in order to direct mine. Never did I see a more pleasing
countenance than that of M. Gatier. He was fair complexioned, his beard
rather inclined to red; his behavior like that of the generality of his
countrymen (who under a coarseness of countenance conceal much
understanding), marked in him a truly sensible and affectionate soul.
In his large blue eyes there was a mixture of softness, tenderness, and
melancholy, which made it impossible to see him without feeling one's
self interested. From the looks and manner of this young abbe he might
have been supposed to have foreseen his destiny, and that he was born to
be unhappy.

His disposition did not belie his physiognomy: full of patience and
complaisance, he rather appeared to study with than to instruct me.
So much was not necessary to make me love him, his predecessor having
rendered that very easy; yet, notwithstanding all the time he bestowed on
me, notwithstanding our mutual good inclinations, and that his plan of
teaching was excellent, with much labor, I made little progress. It is
very singular, that with a clear conception I could never learn much from
masters except my father and M. Lambercier; the little I know besides I
have learned alone, as will be seen hereafter. My spirit, impatient of
every species of constraint, cannot submit to the law of the moment; even
the fear of not learning prevents my being attentive, and a dread of
wearying those who teach, makes me feign to understand them; thus they
proceed faster than I can comprehend, and the conclusion is I learn
nothing. My understanding must take its own time and cannot submit to
that of another.

The time of ordination being arrived, M. Gatier returned to his province
as deacon, leaving me with gratitude, attachment, and sorrow for his
loss. The vows I made for him were no more answered than those I offered
for myself. Some years after, I learned, that being vicar of a parish,
a young girl was with child by him, being the only one (though he
possessed a very tender heart) with whom he was ever in love. This was a
dreadful scandal in a diocese severely governed, where the priests (being
under good regulation) ought never to have children--except by married
women. Having infringed this politic law, he was put in prison, defamed,
and driven from his benefice. I know not whether it was ever after in
his power to reestablish his affairs; but the remembrance of his
misfortunes, which were deeply engraven on my heart, struck me when I
wrote Emilius, and uniting M. Gatier with M. Gaime, I formed from these
two worthy priests the character of the Savoyard Vicar, and flatter
myself the imitation has not dishonored the originals.

While I was at the seminary, M. d'Aubonne was obliged to quit Annecy,
Moultou being displeased that he made love to his wife, which was acting
like a dog in the manger, for though Madam Moultou was extremely amiable,
he lived very ill with her, treating her with such brutality that a
separation was talked of. Moultou, by repeated oppressions, at length
procured a dismissal from his employment: he was a disagreeable man; a
mole could not be blacker, nor an owl more knavish. It is said the
provincials revenge themselves on their enemies by songs; M. d'Aubonne
revenged himself on his by a comedy, which he sent to Madam de Warrens,
who showed it to me. I was pleased with it, and immediately conceived
the idea of writing one, to try whether I was so silly as the author had
pronounced me. This project was not executed till I went to Chambery,
where I wrote 'The Lover of Himself'. Thus when I said in the preface to
that piece, "it was written at eighteen," I cut off a few years.

Nearly about this time an event happened, not very important in itself,
but whose consequence affected me, and made a noise in the world when I
had forgotten it. Once a week I was permitted to go out; it is not
necessary to say what use I made of this liberty. Being one Sunday at
Madam de Warrens, a building belonging to the Cordeliers, which joined
her house, took fire; this building which contained their oven, being
full of dry fagots, blazed violently and greatly endangered the house;
for the wind happening to drive the flames that way, it was covered with
them. The furniture, therefore, was hastily got out and carried into the
garden which fronted the windows, on the other side the before-mentioned
brook. I was so alarmed that I threw indiscriminately everything that
came to hand out of the window, even to a large stone mortar, which at
another time I should have found it difficult to remove, and should have
thrown a handsome looking-glass after it had not some one prevented me.
The good bishop, who that day was visiting Madam de Warrens, did not
remain idle; he took her into the garden, where they went to prayers with
the rest that were assembled there, and where sometime afterwards,
I found them on their knees, and presently joined them. While the good
man was at his devotions, the wind changed, so suddenly and critically,
that the flames which had covered the house and began to enter the
windows, were carried to the other side of the court, and the house
received no damage. Two years after, Monsieur de Berner being dead, the
Antoines, his former brethren, began to collect anecdotes which might
serve as arguments of his beatification; at the desire of Father Baudet,
I joined to these an attestation of what I have just related, in doing
which, though I attested no more than the truth, I certainly acted ill,
as it tended to make an indifferent occurrence pass for a miracle. I had
seen the bishop in prayer, and had likewise seen the wind change during
the prayer, and even much to the purpose, all this I could certify truly;
but that one of these facts was the cause of the other, I ought not to
have attested, because it is what I could not possibly be assured of.
Thus much I may say, that as far as I can recollect what my ideas were at
that time, I was sincerely, and in good earnest a Catholic. Love of the
marvellous is natural to the human heart; my veneration for the virtuous
prelate, and secret pride in having, perhaps, contributed to the event in
question, all helped to seduce me; and certainly, if this miracle was the
effect of ardent prayer, I had a right to claim a share of the merits.

More than thirty years after, when I published the 'Lettres de la
Montagne', M. Feron (I know not by what means) discovered this
attestation, and made use of it in his paper. I must confess the
discovery was very critically timed, and appeared very diverting,
even to me.

I was destined to be the outcast of every condition; for notwithstanding
M. Gatier gave the most favorable account he possibly could of my
studies, they plainly saw the improvement I received bore no proportion
to the pains taken to instruct me, which was no encouragement to continue
them: the bishop and superior, therefore, were disheartened, and I was
sent back to Madam de Warrens, as a subject not even fit to make a priest
of; but as they allowed, at the same time, that I was a tolerably good
lad, and far from being vicious, this account counterbalanced the former,
and determined her not to abandon me.

I carried back in triumph the dear music book, which had been so useful
to me, the air of Alpheus and Arethusa being almost all I had learned at
the seminary. My predilection for this art started the idea of making a
musician of, me. A convenient opportunity offered; once a week, at
least, she had a concert at her house, and the music-master from the
cathedral, who directed this little band, came frequently to see her.
This was a Parisian, named M. le Maitre, a good composer, very lively,
gay, young, well made, of little understanding, but, upon the whole, a
good sort of man. Madam de Warrens made us acquainted; I attached myself
to him, and he seemed not displeased with me. A pension was talked of,
and agreed on; in short, I went home with him, and passed the winter the
more agreeably at his chambers, as they were not above twenty paces
distant from Madam de Warrens', where we frequently supped together.
It may easily be supposed that this situation, ever gay, and singing with
the musicians and children of the choir, was more pleasing to me than the
seminary and fathers of St. Lazarus. This life, though free, was
regular; here I learned to prize independence, but never to abuse it.
For six whole months I never once went out except to see Madam de
Warrens, or to church, nor had I any inclination to it. This interval is
one of those in which I enjoyed the greatest satisfaction, and which I
have ever recollected with pleasure. Among the various situations I have
been placed in, some were marked with such an idea of virtuous
satisfaction, that the bare remembrance affects me as if they were yet
present. I vividly recollect the time, the place, the persons, and even
the temperature of the air, while the lively idea of a certain local
impression peculiar to those times, transports me back again to the very
spot; for example, all that was repeated at our meetings, all that was
sung in the choir, everything that passed there; the beautiful and noble
habits of the canons, the chasubles of the priests, the mitres of the
singers, the persons of the musicians; an old lame carpenter who played
the counter-bass, a little fair abbe who performed on the violin, the
ragged cassock which M. le Maitre, after taking off his sword, used to
put over his secular habit, and the fine surplice with which he covered
the rags of the former, when he went to the choir; the pride with which I
held my little flute to my lips, and seated myself in the orchestra, to
assist in a recitative which M. le Maitre had composed on purpose for me;
the good dinner that afterwards awaited us, and the good appetites we
carried to it. This concourse of objects, strongly retraced in my
memory, has charmed me a hundred time as much, or perhaps more, than ever
the reality had done. I have always preserved an affection for a certain
air of the 'Conditor alme Syderum', because one Sunday in Advent I heard
that hymn sung on the steps of the cathedral, (according to the custom of
that place) as I lay in bed before daybreak. Mademoiselle Merceret,
Madam de Warrens' chambermaid, knew something of music; I shall never
forget a little piece that M. le Maitre made me sing with her, and which
her mistress listened to with great satisfaction. In a word, every
particular, even down to the servant Perrine, whom the boys of the choir
took such delight in teasing. The remembrance of these times of
happiness and innocence frequently returning to my mind, both ravish and
affect me.

I lived at Annecy during a year without the least reproach, giving
universal satisfaction. Since my departure from Turin I had been guilty
of no folly, committed none while under the eye of Madam de Warrens.
She was my conductor, and ever led me right; my attachment for her became
my only passion, and what proves it was not a giddy one, my heart and
understanding were in unison. It is true that a single sentiment,
absorbing all my faculties, put me out of a capacity of learning even
music: but this was not my fault, since to the strongest inclination,
I added the utmost assiduity. I was attentive and thoughtful; what could
I do? Nothing was wanting towards my progress that depended on me;
meantime, it only required a subject that might inspire me to occasion
the commission of new follies: that subject presented itself, chance
arranged it, and (as will be seen hereafter) my inconsiderate head gave
in to it.

One evening, in the month of February, when it was very cold, being all
sat round the fire, we heard some one knock at the street door. Perrine
took a light, went down and opened it: a young man entering, came
upstairs, presented himself with an easy air, and making M. Maitre a
short, but well-turned compliment, announced himself as a French
musician, constrained by the state of his finances to take this liberty.
The hart of the good Le Maitre leaped at the name of a French musician,
for he passionately loved both his country and profession; he therefore
offered the young traveller his service--and use of his apartment, which
he appeared to stand much in need of, and which he accepted without much
ceremony. I observed him while he was chatting and warming himself
before supper; he was short and thick, having some fault in his shape,
though without any particular deformity; he had (if I may so express
myself) an appearance of being hunchbacked, with flat shoulders, and I
think he limped. He wore a black coat, rather worn than old, which hung
in tatters, a very fine but dirty shirt, frayed ruffles; a pair of
splatterdashes so large that he could have put both legs into either of
them, and, to secure himself from the snow, a little hat, only fit to be
carried under his arm. With this whimsical equipage, he had, however,
something elegant in his manners and conversation; his countenance was
expressive and agreeable, and he spoke with facility if not with modesty;
in short, everything about him bore the mark of a young debauchee, who
did not crave assistance like a beggar, but as a thoughtless madcap.
He told us his name was Venture de Villeneuve, that he came from Paris,
had lost his way, and seeming to forget that he had announced himself for
a musician, added that he was going to Grenoble to see a relation that
was a member of Parliament.

During supper we talked of music, on which subject he spoke well: he knew
all the great virtuosi, all the celebrated works, all the actors,
actresses, pretty women, and powerful lords; in short nothing was
mentioned but what he seemed thoroughly acquainted with. Though no
sooner was any topic started, than by some drollery, which set every one
a-laughing, he made them forget what had been said. This was on a
Saturday; the next day there was to be music at the cathedral: M. le
Maitre asked if he would sing there--"Very willingly."--"What part would
he chose?"--"The counter-tenor:" and immediately began speaking of other
things. Before he went to church they offered him his part to peruse,
but he did not even look at it. This Gasconade surprised Le Maitre
--"You'll see," said he, whispering to me, "that he does not know a single
note."--I replied: "I am very much afraid of him." I followed them into
the church; but was extremely uneasy, and when they began, my heart beat
violently, so much was I interested in his behalf.

I was presently out of pain: he sung his two recitatives with all
imaginable taste and judgment; and what was yet more, with a very
agreeable voice. I never enjoyed a more pleasing surprise. After mass,
M. Venture received the highest compliments from the canons and
musicians, which he answered jokingly, though with great grace. M. le
Maitre embraced him heartily; I did the same; he saw I was rejoiced at
his success, and appeared pleased at my satisfaction.

It will easily be surmised, that after having been delighted with M.
Bacle, who had little to attract my admiration, I should be infatuated
with M. Venture, who had education, wit, talents, and a knowledge of the
world, and might be called an agreeable rake. This was exactly what
happened, and would, I believe, have happened to any other young man in
my place; especially supposing him possessed of better judgment to
distinguish merit, and more propensity to be engaged by it; for Venture
doubtless possessed a considerable share, and one in particular, very
rare at his age, namely, that of never being in haste to display his
talents. It is true, he boasted of many things he did not understand,
but of those he knew (which were very numerous) he said nothing,
patiently waiting some occasion to display them, which he then did with
ease, though without forwardness, and thus gave them more effect.
As there was ever some intermission between the proofs of his various
abilities, it was impossible to conjecture whether he had ever discovered
all his talents. Playful, giddy, inexhaustible, seducing in
conversation, ever smiling, but never laughing, and repeating the rudest
things in the most elegant manner--even the most modest women were
astonished at what they endured from him: it was in vain for them to
determine to be angry; they could not assume the appearance of it.
It was extraordinary that with so many agreeable talents, in a country
where they are so well understood, and so much admired, he so long
remained only a musician.

My attachment to M. Venture, more reasonable in its cause, was also less
extravagant in its effects, though more lively and durable than that I
had conceived for M. Bacle. I loved to see him, to hear him, all his
actions appeared charming, everything he said was an oracle to me, but
the enchantment did not extend far enough to disable me from quitting
him. I spoke of him with transport to Madam de Warrens, Le Maitre
likewise spoke in his praise, and she consented we should bring him to
her house. This interview did not succeed; he thought her affected, she
found him a libertine, and, alarmed that I had formed such an ill
acquaintance, not only forbade me bringing him there again, but likewise
painted so strongly the danger I ran with this young man, that I became a
little more circumspect in giving in to the attachment; and very happily,
both for my manners and wits, we were soon separated.

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