 section 14 of Confessions volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 14. It is understood, I believe, that a child, or even a man, is likely to be most sincere while persevering in that religion in whose belief he was born and educated. We frequently detract from, seldom make any additions to it. Dogmatical faith is the effect of education. In addition to this general principle which attached me to the religion of my forefathers, I had that particular aversion our city entertains for Catholicism, which is represented there as the most monstrous idolatry, and whose clergy are painted in the blackest colours. This sentiment was so firmly imprinted on my mind that I never dared to look into their churches. I could not bear to meet a priest in his surplus, and never did I hear the bells of a procession sound without shuddering with horror. These sensations soon wore off in great cities, but frequently returned in country parishes which bore more similarity to the spot where I first experienced them. Meantime, this dislike was singularly contrasted by the remembrance of those caresses which priests in the neighbourhood of Geneva are fond of bestowing on the children of that city. If the bells of the vaticum alarmed me, the chiming for mass or vespers called me to a breakfast, a collation, to the pleasure of regaling on fresh butter, fruits or milk. The good cheer of Monsieur de Ponvère had produced a considerable effect on me. My former abhorrence began to diminish, and looking on potpourri through the medium of amusement and good living, I easily reconciled myself to the idea of enduring, though I never entertained but a very transient and distant idea of making a solemn profession of it. At this moment such a transaction appeared in all its horrors. I shuddered at the engagement I had entered into, and its inevitable consequences. The future neophytes with which I was surrounded were not calculated to sustain my courage by their example, and I could not help considering the holy work I was about to perform as the action of a villain. Though young, I was sufficiently convinced that whatever religion might be the true one, I was about to sell mine, and even should I chance to choose the best, I lied to the holy ghost, and merited the disdain of every good man. The more I considered, the more I despised myself, and trembled at the fate which had led me into such a predicament, as if my present situation had not been of my own seeking. There were moments when these compunctions were so strong that had I found the door open but for an instant I should certainly have made my escape. But this was impossible, nor was the resolution of any long duration, being combated by too many secret motives to stand any chance of gaining the victory. My fixed determination not to return to Geneva, the shame that would attend it, the difficulty of reparting the mountains, at a distance from my country, without friends and without resources, everything concurred to make me consider my remorse of conscience as a too late repentance. I affected to reproach myself for what I had done, to seek excuses for that I intended to do, and by aggravating the errors of the past, looked on the future as an inevitable consequence. I did not say, nothing is yet done, and you may be innocent if you please. But I said, tremble at the crime thou hast committed, which hath reduced thee to the necessity of filling up the measure of thine iniquities. It required more resolution than was natural to my age to revoke those expectations which I had given them reason to entertain, break those chains with which I was enthralled, and resolutely declare I would continue in the religion of my forefathers whatever might be the consequence. The affair was already too far advanced, and in spite of all my efforts they would have made a point of bringing it to a conclusion. The sophism which ruined me has had a similar effect on the greater part of mankind who lament the want of resolution when the opportunity for exercising it is over. The practice of virtue is only difficult from our own negligence. Where we always discreet, we should seldom have occasion for any painful exertion of it. We are captivated by desires we might readily surmount, given to temptations that might easily be resisted, and insensibly get into embarrassing perilous situations from which we cannot extricate ourselves but with the utmost difficulty. Intimidated by the effort, we fall into the abyss, saying to the Almighty, Why hast thou made us such weak creatures? But not withstanding our vain pretexts, he replies by our consciences, I formed ye too weak to get out of the gulf, because I gave ye sufficient strength not to have fallen into it. I was not absolutely resolved to become a catholic, but as it was not necessary to declare my intentions immediately, I gradually accustomed myself to the idea, hoping meantime that some unforeseen event would extricate me from my embarrassment. In order to gain time, I resolved to make the best defence I possibly could in favour of my own opinion. But my vanity soon rendered this resolution unnecessary, for on finding I frequently embarrassed those who had the care of my instruction, I wished to heighten my triumph by giving them a complete overthrow. I zealously pursued my plan, not without the ridiculous hope of being able to convert my converters, for I was simple enough to believe that could I convince them of their errors, they would become Protestants. They did not find, therefore, that facility in the work which they had expected, as I differed both in regard to will and knowledge from the opinion they had entertained of me. Protestants in general are better instructed in the principles of their religion than Catholics. The reason is obvious. The doctrine of the former requires discussion of the latter a blind submission. The Catholic must content himself with the decisions of others. The Protestant must learn to decide for himself. They were not ignorant of this. But neither my age nor appearance promised much difficulty to men so accustomed to disputation. They knew likewise that I had not received my first communion, nor the instructions which accompany it. But on the other hand they had no idea of the information I received at Monsieur L'Ambassie's, or that I had learned the history of the church and empire almost by heart at my father's. And though since that time nearly forgot, when warmed by the dispute, very unfortunately for these gentlemen it again returned to my memory. A little old priest, but tolerably venerable, held the first conference, at which we were all convened. On the part of my comrades it was rather a catechism than a controversy, and he found more pains in giving them instruction than answering their objections. But when it came to my turn it was a different matter. I stopped him at every article and did not spare a single remark that I thought would create a difficulty. This rendered the conference long and extremely tiresome to the assistance. My old priest talked a great deal, was very warm, frequently rambled from the subject, and extricated himself from difficulties by saying he was not sufficiently versed in the French language. The next day, lest my indiscreet objections should injure the minds of those who were better disposed, I was led into a separate chamber and put under the care of a younger priest, a fine speaker, that is one who was fond of long perplexed sentences and proud of his own abilities, if ever doctor was. I did not, however, suffer myself to be intimidated by his overbearing looks, and being sensible that I could maintain my ground, I combatted his assertions, exposed his mistakes, and laid about me in the best manner I was able. He thought to silence me at once with St. Augustine, St. Gregory and the rest of the Fathers, but found to his ineffable surprise that I could handle these almost as dexterously as himself. Not that I had ever read them, or he either, perhaps, but I retained a number of passages taken from my le sueur. And when he bore hard on me with one citation, without standing to dispute, I parried it with another, which method embarrassed him extremely. At length, however, he got the better of me for two very potent reasons. In the first place he was of the strongest side. Young as I was, I thought it might be dangerous to drive him to extremities, for I plainly saw the old priest was neither satisfied with me, nor my erudition. In the next place he had studied, I had not. This gave a degree of method to his arguments, which I could not follow. And whenever he found himself pressed by an unforeseen objection, he put it off to the next conference, pretending I rambled from the question in dispute. Sometimes he even rejected all my quotations, maintaining they were false, and offering to fetch the book defied me to find them. He knew he ran very little risk, and that with all my borrowed learning I was not sufficiently accustomed to books, and to poor a Latinist to find a passage in a large volume, had I been ever so well assured it was there. I even suspected him of having been guilty of a perfidy with which he accused our ministers, and that he fabricated passages sometimes in order to evade an objection that incommodated him. Meanwhile the hospital became every day more disagreeable to me, and seeing but one way to get out of it, I endeavoured to hasten my abjuration with as much eagerness as I had hitherto sought to retard it. The two Africans had been baptised with great ceremony. They were habited in white from head to foot to signify the purity of their regenerated souls. My turn came a month after, for all this time was thought necessary by my directors that they might have the honour of a difficult conversion, and every dogma of their faith was recapitulated in order to triumph the more completely over my new docility. End of Section 14 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey. Section 15 of Confessions Volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions Volumes 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 15 At length, sufficiently instructed and disposed to the will of my masters, I was led in procession to the Metropolitan Church of St John to make a solemn abjuration, and undergo a ceremony made use of on these occasions, which, though not baptism, is very similar, and serves to persuade the people that Protestants are not Christians. I was clothed in a kind of grey robe decorated with white brandon-burgs. Two men, one behind the other before me, carried copper basins, which they kept striking with a key, and in which those who were charitably disposed put their arms, according as they found themselves influenced by religion or goodwill for the new convert. In a word, nothing of Catholic pageantry was omitted that could render the solemnity edifying to the populace or humiliating to me. The white dress might have been serviceable, but as I had not the honour to be either Moor or Jew, they did not think fit to compliment me with it. The affair did not end here. I must now go to the inquisition to be absolved from the dreadful sin of heresy, and return to the bosom of the church with the same ceremony to which Henry IV was subjected by his ambassador. The heir and manor of the right reverend Father Inquisitor was by no means calculated to dissipate the secret horror that seized my spirits on entering this holy mansion. After several questions relative to my faith, situation and family, he asked me bluntly if my mother was damned. Terror repressed the first gust of indignation. This gave me time to recollect myself, and I answered, I hope not, for God might have enlightened her last moments. The monk made no reply, but his silence was attended with a look by no means expressive of approbation. All these ceremonies ended. The very moment I flattered myself I should be plentifully provided for, they exhorted me to continue a good Christian, and live in obedience to the grace I had received. Then wishing me good fortune, with rather more than twenty francs of small money in my pocket, the produce of the above-mentioned collection turned me out, shut the door on me, and I saw no more of them. Thus in a moment all my flattering expectations were at an end, and nothing remained from my interested conversion but the remembrance of having been made both a dupe and an apostate. It is easy to imagine what a sudden revolution was produced in my ideas, when every brilliant expectation of making a fortune terminated by seeing myself plunged into the completest misery. In the morning I was deliberating what palace I should inhabit. Before night I was reduced to seek my lodging in the street. It may be supposed that I gave myself up to the most violent transports of despair, rendered more bitter by a consciousness that my own folly had reduced me to these extremities. But the truth is I experienced none of these disagreeable sensations. I had passed two months in absolute confinement. This was new to me. I was now emancipated, and the sentiment I felt most forcibly was joy at my recovered liberty. After a slavery which had appeared tedious, I was again master of my time and actions, in a great city, abundant in resources, crowded with people of fortune, to whom my merits and talents could not fail to recommend me. I had sufficient time before me to expect this good fortune. For my twenty livres seemed an inexhaustible treasure which I might dispose of without rendering an account of to any one. It was the first time I had found myself so rich, and far from giving way to melancholy reflections, I only adopted other hopes, in which self-love was by no means a loser. Never did I feel so great a degree of confidence and security. I looked on my fortune as already made, and was pleased to think I should have no one but myself to thank for the acquisition of it. The first thing I did was to satisfy my curiosity by rambling all over the city, and I seemed to consider it as a confirmation of my liberty. I went to see the soldiers mount guard, and was delighted with their military acutament. I followed processions, and was pleased with the solemn music of the priests. I next went to see the King's Palace, which I approached with awe, but seeing others enter, I followed their example, and no one prevented me. Perhaps I owed this favour to the small parcel I carried under my arm, be that as it may, I conceived a higher pinion of my consequence from this circumstance, and already thought myself an inhabitant there. The weather was hot. I had walked about till I was both fatigued and hungry. Wishing for some refreshment, I went into a milk-house. They brought me some cream cheese, curds, and whey, and two slices of that excellent piedmont bread, which I prefer to any other. And for five or six sous, I had one of the most delicious meals I ever recollect to have made. It was time to seek a lodging. As I already knew enough of the piedmontese language to make myself understood, this was a work of no great difficulty. And I had so much prudence that I wished to adapt it rather to the state of my purse than to the bent of my inclinations. In the course of my inquiries I was informed that a soldier's wife in Poe Street furnished lodgings to servants out of place at only one sous a night, and finding one of her poor beds disengaged I took possession of it. She was young and newly married, though she already had five or six children. Mother, children, and lodgers all slept in the same chamber, and it continued thus while I remained there. She was good-natured, swore like a car-man, and wore neither cap nor handkerchief, but she had a gentle heart, was officious, and to me both kind and serviceable. For several days I gave myself up to the pleasures of independence and curiosity. I continued wondering about the city and its environs, examining every object that seemed curious or new, and indeed most things had that appearance to a young novice. I never omitted visiting the court, and assisted regularly every morning at the king's mass. I thought it a great honour to be in the same chapel with this prince and his retinue, but my passion for music, which now began to make its appearance, was a greater incentive than the splendour of the court, which, soon seen and always the same, presently lost its attraction. The king of Sardinia had at that time the best music in Europe, Sommi, Desjardins, and the Bezzuzzi shone there alternately. All these were not necessary to fascinate a youth whom the sound of the most simple instrument provided it was just transported with joy. Magnificence only produced a stupid admiration. Without any violent desire to partake of it, my thoughts were principally employed in observing whether any young princess was present that merited my homage, and from whom I could make the heroine of a romance. Meantime I was on the point of beginning one. In a less elevated sphere it is true, but where could I have brought it to a conclusion I should have found pleasures a thousand times more delicious? Though I lived with the strictest economy, my purse insensibly grew lighter. This economy was, however, less the effect of prudence than that love of simplicity, which even to this day the use of the most expensive tables has not been able to vitiate. Nothing in my idea, either at that time or since, could exceed a rustic repast. Give me milk, vegetables, eggs, and brown bread, with tolerable wine, and I shall always think myself sumptuously regaled. A good appetite will furnish out the rest if the metre d'hôtel, with a number of unnecessary footmen, do not satiate me with their important attentions. Five or six soons would then procure me a more agreeable meal than as many leavers would have done since. I was abstinence, therefore, for want of a temptation to be otherwise. Though I do not know but I am wrong to call this abstinence, for with my pears, new cheese, bread, and some glasses of morferra wine, which you might have cut with a knife, I was the greatest of epicures. Notwithstanding my expenses were very moderate, it was possible to see the end of twenty leavers. I was every day more convinced of this, and, despite of the giddiness of youth, my apprehensions for the future amounted almost to terror. All my castles in the air were vanished, and I became sensible of the necessity of seeking some occupation that would procure me a subsistence. Even this was a work of difficulty. I thought of my engraving, but knew too little of it to be employed as a journeyman, nor do masters abound in Turin. I resolved, therefore, till something better presented itself, to go from shop to shop, offering to engrave ciphers or coats of arms on pieces of plate, etc., and hoped to get employment by working at a low price, or taking what they chose to give me. Even this expedient did not answer my expectations. Almost all my applications were ineffectual. The little I procured, being hardly sufficient to produce a few scanty meals. End of Section 15 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmayer Surrey. Section 16 of Confessions, Volumes 1 and 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. Confessions, Volumes 1 and 2, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 16 Walking one morning, pretty early, in the Contranova, I saw a young tradeswoman behind a counter, whose looks were so charmingly attractive that notwithstanding my timidity with the ladies, I entered the shop without hesitation, offered my services as usual, and had the happiness to have it accepted. She made me sit down and recite my little history, pitied my forlorn situation, made me be cheerful and endeavoured to make me so by an assurance that every good Christian would give me assistance. Then, while she had occasion, she went upstairs and fetched me something for breakfast. This seemed a promising beginning, nor was what followed less flattering. She was satisfied with my work, and when I had a little recovered myself, still more with my discourse. She was rather elegantly dressed and notwithstanding her gentle looks, this appearance of gaiety had disconcerted me. But her good nature, the compassionate tone of her voice, with her gentle and caressing manner, soon set me at ease with myself. I saw my endeavours to please were crowned with success, and this assurance made me succeed the more. Though an Italian and too pretty to be entirely devoid of cocketry, she had so much modesty, and I so great a share of timidity, that our adventure was not likely to be brought to a very speedy conclusion, nor did they give us time to make any good of it. I cannot recall the few short moments I passed with this lovely woman, without being sensible of an inexpressible charm, and can yet say it was there I tasted, in their utmost perfection, the most delightful, as well as the purest pleasures of love. She was a lively, pleasing brunette, and the good nature that was painted on her lovely face rendered her vivacity more interesting. She was called Madame Bazile. Her husband, who was considerably older than herself, consigned her during his absence to the care of a clerk, too disagreeable to be thought dangerous, but who notwithstanding had pretensions that he seldom showed any signs of, except of ill humours, a good share of which he bestowed on me. Though I was pleased to hear him play the flute on which he was a tolerable musician, this second aegistus was sure to grumble whenever he saw me go into his mistress's apartment, treating me with a degree of disdain which she took care to repay him with interest, seeming pleased to caress me in his presence on purpose to torment him. This kind of revenge, though perfectly to my taste, would have been still more charming in a tetatet, but she did not proceed so far. At least there was a difference in the expression of her kindness, whether she thought me too young, that it was my place to make advances, or that she was seriously resolved to be virtuous. She had at such times a kind of reserve, which, though not absolutely discouraging, kept my passion within bounds. I did not feel the same real and tender respect for her as I did for Madame du Vachance. I was embarrassed, agitated, feared to look and hardly dared to breathe in her presence, yet to have left her would have been worse than death. How fondly did my eyes devour whatever they could gaze on without being perceived. The flowers on her gown, the point of her pretty foot, the interval of a round white arm that appeared between her glove and ruffle, the least part of her neck, each object increased the force of all the rest and added to the infatuation. Gazing thus on what was to be seen, and even more than was to be seen, my sight became confused, my chest seemed contracted, respiration was every moment more painful. I had the utmost difficulty to hide my agitation, to prevent my sighs from being heard, and this difficulty was increased by the silence in which we were frequently plunged. Happily Madame Bazile, busy at her work, saw nothing of all this, or seemed not to see it. Yet I sometimes observed a kind of sympathy, especially at the frequent rising of her handkerchief, and this dangerous sight almost mastered every effort. But when on the point of giving way to my transports, she spoke a few words to me with an air of tranquility, and in an instant the agitation subsided. I saw her several times in this manner without a word, a gesture, or even a look too expressive, making the least intelligence between us. The situation was both my torment and delight, for heartily in the simplicity of my heart could I imagine the cause of my uneasiness. I should suppose these tetatets could not be displeasing to her. At least she sought frequent occasions to renew them. This was a very disinterested labour certainly, as appeared by the youths she made, or ever suffered me to make of them. Being one day wearied with the clerk's discourse, she had retired to her chamber. I made haste to finish what I had to do in the back shop, and followed her. The door was half open, and I entered without being perceived. She was embroidering near a window on the opposite side of the room. She could not see me, and the carts in the streets made too much noise for me to be heard. She was always well-dressed, but this day her attire bordered on cockatry. Her attitude was graceful. Her head, leaning gently forward, discovered a small circle of her neck. Her hair, elegantly dressed, was ornamented with flowers. Her figure was universally charming, and I had an uninterrupted opportunity to admire it. I was absolutely in a state of ecstasy, and involuntarily sinking on my knees I passionately extended my arms towards her. Certain she could not hear, and having no conception that she could see me. But there was a chimney-glass at the end of the room that betrayed all my proceedings. I am ignorant what effect this transport produced on her. She did not speak. She did not look at me, but partly turning her head with the movement of her finger only. She pointed to the mat that was at her feet. To start up with an articulate cry of joy and occupy the place she had indicated was the work of a moment. But it will hardly be believed I dared attempt no more, not even to speak, raise my eyes to hers, or rest an instant on her knees, though in an attitude which seemed to render such a support necessary. I was dumb, immovable, but far enough from a state of tranquility. Agitation, joy, gratitude, ardent, indefinite wishes, restrained by the fear of giving displeasure, which my unpracticed heart too much dreaded were sufficiently discernible. She neither appeared more tranquil nor less intimidated than myself. Uneasy at my present situation, confounded at having brought me there, beginning to tremble for the effects of a sign which she had made without reflecting on the consequences, neither giving encouragement nor expressing disapprobation. With her eyes fixed on her work, she endeavoured to appear unconscious of everything that passed. But all my stupidity could not hinder me from concluding that she partook of my embarrassment. Perhaps my transports, and was only hindered by a bashfulness like mine, without even that supposition giving me power to surmount it. Five or six years older than myself, every advance, according to my idea, should have been made by her, and since she did nothing to encourage mine, I concluded they would offend her. Even at this time I am inclined to believe I thought right. She certainly had wit enough to perceive that a novice like me had occasion not only for encouragement, but instruction. I am ignorant how this animated, though dumb scene would have ended, or how long I should have continued immovable in this ridiculous, though delicious situation had we not been interrupted. In the height of my agitation I heard the kitchen door open, which joined Madame Bazile's chamber. Who, being alarmed, said with a quick voice and action, Get up, here's Rosina. Rising hastily I seized one of her hands which she held out to me, and gave it to eager kisses. At the second I felt this charming hand press gently on my lips. Never in my life did I enjoy so sweet a moment, but the occasion I had lost returned no more, this being the conclusion of our amours. This may be the reason why her image yet remains imprinted on my heart in such charming colours, which have even acquired fresh lustre since I became acquainted with the world and women. Had she been mistress of the least degree of experience, she would have taken other measures to animate so youthful a lover. But if her heart was weak, it was virtuous, and only suffered itself to be borne away by a powerful, though involuntary, inclination. This was apparently her first infidelity, and I should perhaps have found more difficulty in vanquishing her scruples than my own. But without proceeding so far I experienced in her company the most inexpressible delights. Never did I taste with any other woman pleasures equal to those two minutes which I passed at the feet of Madame Bazile, without even daring to touch her gown. I am convinced no satisfaction can be compared to that we feel with a virtuous woman we esteem. All is transport. A sign with the finger, a hand lightly pressed against my lips, were the only favours I ever received from Madame Bazile. Yet the bare remembrance of these trifling condescensions continues to transport me. It was in vain I watched the following two days for another tet-a-tet. It was impossible to find an opportunity, nor could I perceive on her part any desire to forward it. Her behaviour was not colder, but more distant than usual, and I believe she avoided my looks for fear of not being able sufficiently to govern her own. The cursed clerk was more vexatious than ever. He even became a wit, telling me with a satirical sneer that I should unquestionably make my way among the ladies. I trembled lest I should have been guilty of some indiscretion, and looking at myself as already engaged in an intrigue, endeavoured to cover with an air of mystery, an inclination which hitherto certainly had no great need of it. This made me more circumspect in my choice of opportunities, and by resolving only to seize such a should be absolutely free from the danger of a surprise, I met none. Another romantic folly which I could never overcome, and which joined to my natural timidity, tended directly to contradict the clerk's predictions, is I always loved too sincerely, too perfectly, I may say, to find happiness easily attainable. Never were passions at the same time more lively and pure than mine. Never was love more tender, more true, or more disinterested. Freely would I have sacrificed my own happiness to that of the object of my affection. Her reputation was dearer than my life, and I could promise myself no happiness for which I would have exposed her peace of mind for a moment. This disposition has ever made me employ so much care, use so many precautions, such secrecy in my adventures, that all of them have failed. In a word, my want of success with the women has ever proceeded from having loved them too well. End of section 16 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey Section 17 of Confessions Vol. 1 and 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Martin Giesen Confessions Vol. 1 and 2 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau Anonymously translated Section 17 To return to our aegistus, the fluta, it was remarkable that in becoming more insupportable the traitor put on the appearance of complacence. From the first day Madame Bazile had taken me under her protection, she had endeavoured to make me serviceable in the warehouse, and finding I understood arithmetic tolerably well, she proposed his teaching me to keep the books. A proposition that was but indifferently received by this humorist, who might perhaps be fearful of being supplanted. As this failed, my whole employ, besides what engraving I had to do, was to transcribe some bills and accounts, to write several books over fare, and translate commercial letters from Italian into French. All at once he thought fit to accept the before rejected proposal, saying he would teach me bookkeeping by double entry, and put me in a situation to offer my services to Monsieur Bazile on his return. But there was something so false, malicious and ironical in his air and manner, that it was by no means calculated to inspire me with confidence. Madame Bazile replied archly that I was much obliged to him for his kind offer, but she hoped fortune would be more favourable to my merits, for it would be a great misfortune, with so much sense, that I should only be a pitiful clerk. She often said she would procure me some acquaintance that might be useful. She doubtless felt the necessity of parting with me, and had prudently resolved on it. Our mute declaration had been made on Thursday. The Sunday following she gave a dinner. A Jacobin of good appearance was among the guests, to whom she did me the honour to present me. The monk treated me very affectionately, congratulated me on my late conversion, mentioned several particulars of my story, which plainly showed he had been made acquainted with then tapping me familiarly on the cheek, made me be good to keep up my spirits, and come to see him at his convent, where he should have more opportunity to talk with me. I judged him to be a person of some consequence, by the deference that was paid him, and by the paternal tone he assumed with Madame Bazile to be her confessor. I likewise remember that his decent familiarity was attended with an appearance of esteem, and even respect for his fair penitent, which then made less impression on me than at present. Had I possessed more experience, how should I have congratulated myself on having touched the heart of a young woman respected by her confessor? 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 Madame Bazile did the honours of the table with peculiar grace. In the middle of the dinner we heard a shares stop at the door, and presently someone coming upstairs. It was Monsieur Bazile. He thinks I now see him entering in his scarlet coat with gold buttons. From that day I have held the colour in the porrents. Monsieur Bazile 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 through 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. Madame Bazile 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 eulogy among Madame Bazile. 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 well-born 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 L 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, endeavouring in vain to meet with him. At length other events banished the delightful remembrance of Madame Bazile, and in a short time I so far forgot her that I remained as simple, as much a novice as ever, nor did my passion 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 favourite, 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 contest de Versailles, with whom I now lived, was a widow without children. Her husband was a pied-montese, 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 Madame de Savigny'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. Madame de Versailles not only possessed a good understanding, but a strong and elevated soul. I was with her during her last stillness, 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 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 Madame de Varas, 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 endeavouring to conceal our own. One and Two by Jean-Jacques Rousseau Anonymously Translated Section 18 Madame de Versélice 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 maneuver which has counteracted me throughout my life, and given me a very natural aversion for everything that has the least appearance of it. Madame de Versélice having no children, her nephew, the court de l'arroque, was her heir, and paid his court assiduously, as did her principal domestics, who, seeing her end approaching, endeavoured 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 Monsieur Laurent Z, 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 ladies' maid. Her name was Mademoiselle Pontale, 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 inquiritude. They saw I was not in my proper situation, and feared the countess would discover it likewise, and by placing me in it decreased 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 lovely 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 gaiety, too regular to be assumed, which served as a counter-poise 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 court de la Rue, however, ordered me thirty leave hers, and the new coat I had on which Monsieur Laurent Z 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 had to say of my living at Madame de Verselices? 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 monsieur and madame l'oransie 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 Pontelle. 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 bobble, 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 to me. Marion was a young moriennese, and had been cook to madame de Vercelis ever since she left off giving entertainment. For being sensible she had more need of good broths than fine ragus. 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 every one 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 court de l'arroque. 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, oh, so 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 favour, and the court de la Hague, incending 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 calamity, but there is little probability of her having been able to place herself agreeably after this, as she laboured 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 the thought of rendering her even worse than myself? The cruel remembrance of this transaction sometimes so troubles and disorders me, but 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 woefully 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 Madame de Vérance. 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 fulfil 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 agonised, 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 columbiator. An unconquerable fear of this overcame every other sensation. Had I been left to myself I should infallibly have declared the truth, or if Monsieur de la Huc 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 ripe 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 honour 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.