 section 14 of Confessions volumes 3 and 4. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions volumes 3 and 4 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 14. It is a long time since I mentioned Madame de Varance, but it should not be supposed that I had forgotten her. Never was she a moment absent from my thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her, not merely because she was necessary to my subsistence, but because she was infinitely more necessary to my heart. My attachment to her, though lively and tender as it really was, did not prevent my loving others. But then it was not in the same manner. All equally claimed my tenderness for their charms. But it was those charms alone I loved. My passion would not have survived them, while Madame de Varance might have become old or ugly without my loving her the less tenderly. My heart had entirely transmitted to herself the homage it first paid to her beauty, and whatever change she might experience, while she remained herself, my sentiments could not change. I was sensible how much gratitude I owed to her, but in truth I never thought of it, and whether she served me or not it would ever have been the same thing. I loved her neither from duty, interest, nor convenience. I loved her because I was born to love her. During my attachment to another I own this affection was in some measure deranged. I did not think so frequently of her, but still with the same pleasure. And never in love or otherwise did I think of her without feeling that I could expect no true happiness in life, while in a state of separation. Though in so long a time I had received no news from Madame de Varance, I never imagined I had entirely lost her, or that she could have forgotten me. I said to myself, she will know sooner or later that I am wandering about, and will find some means to inform me of her situation. I am certain I shall find her. In the meantime it was a pleasure to live in her native country, to walk in the streets where she had walked, and before the houses that she had lived in. Yet all this was the work of conjecture, for one of my foolish peculiarities was not daring to inquire after her, or even pronounce her name without the most absolute necessity. It seemed, in speaking of her, that I declared all I felt, that my lips revealed the secrets of my heart, and in some degree injured the object of my affection. I believe fear was likewise mingled with this idea. I dreaded to hear ill of her. Her management had been much spoken of, and some little of her conduct in other respects, fearing therefore that something might be said which I did not wish to hear. I preferred being silent on the subject. As my scholars did not take up much of my time, and the town where she was born was not above four leagues from Lausanne, I made it a walk of three or four days, during which time a most pleasant emotion never left me. A view of the lake of Geneva and its admirable banks had ever, in my idea, a particular attraction, which I cannot describe, not arising merely from the beauty of the prospect, but something else, I know not why, more interesting, which affects and softens me. Every time I have approached the Vaudois country, I have experienced an impression composed of the remembrance of Madame de Varence, who was born there, of my father, who lived there, of Mademoiselle Vulson, who had been my first love, and of several pleasant journeys I had made there in my childhood, mingled with some nameless charm, more powerfully attractive than all the rest. When that ardent desire for a life of happiness and tranquility, which ever follows me, and for which I was born, inflames my mind, it is ever to the country of Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains, that imagination leads me. An orchard on the banks of that lake, and no other, is absolutely necessary, a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow, and a little boat. Nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth without these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity with which I have several times gone into that country for the sole purpose of seeking this imaginary happiness, when I was ever surprised to find the inhabitants, particularly the women, of a quite different disposition to what I sought. How strange did this appear to me! The country, and the people who inhabit it, were never, in my idea, formed for each other. Walking along these beautiful banks on my way to Vervais, I gave myself up to the soft melancholy. My heart rushed with ardour into a thousand innocent felicities. Melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept like a child. How often, stopping to weep more at my ease, and seated on a large stone, did I amuse myself with seeing my tears drop into the water. On my arrival at Vervais, I lodged at the Quay, and during the two days I remained there, without any acquaintance, conceived a love for that city, which has followed me through all my travels, and was finally the cause that I fixed on this spot in the novel I afterwards wrote, for the residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to anyone who has taste and feeling, go to Vervais, visit the surrounding country, examine the prospects, go on the lake, and then say whether nature has not designed this country for a jolie, a clair, and a simple, but do not seek them there. I now return to my story. Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or scruple, the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was fine, I went to hear Mass at Assam, a place too leaks distant from Lausanne, and generally in company with other Catholics, particularly a Parisian embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten. Not such a Parisian as myself, but a real native of Paris, an arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest as a peasant. He loved his country so well, that he would not doubt my being his countryman, for fear he should not have so much occasion to speak of it. The lieutenant governor, Monsieur de Crusat, had a gardener who was likewise from Paris, but not so complacent. He thought the glory of his country concerned, when anyone claimed that honour who was not really entitled to it. He put questions to me, therefore, with an air and tone, as if certain to detect me in a falsehood. And once, smiling malignantly, asked what was remarkable in the Marche enough. It may be supposed I asked the question, but I have since passed twenty years at Paris, and certainly know that city. Yet was the same question repeated at this day, I should be equally embarrassed to answer it. And from this embarrassment it might be concluded I had never been there. Thus, even when we meet with truths, we are subject to build our opinions on circumstances which may easily deceive us. I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne, that were worth recollecting, nor can I say exactly how long I remained there. I only know that not finding sufficient to subsist on, I went from thence to Neuchâtel, where I passed the winter. Here I succeeded better. I got some scholars, and saved enough to pay my good friend Pérotet, who had faithfully sent my baggage, though at that time I was considerably in his debt. By continuing to teach music, I insensibly gained some knowledge of it. The life I led was sufficiently agreeable, and any reasonable man might have been satisfied, but my unsettled heart demanded something more. On Sundays, or whenever I had leisure, I wandered sighing and thoughtful about the adjoining woods, and when once out of the city never returned before night. One day, being at Boudry, I went to dine at a public house, where I saw a man with a long beard, dressed in a violet-coloured Grecian habit with a fur cap, and whose air and manner were rather noble. This person found some difficulty in making himself understood, speaking only an unintelligible jargon, which bore more resemblance to Italian than any other language. I understood almost all he said, and I was the only person present who could do so, for he was obliged to make his request known to the landlord, and others about him, by signs. On my speaking a few words in Italian, which he perfectly understood, he got up and embraced me with rapture. A connection was soon formed, and from that moment I became his interpreter. His dinner was excellent, mine rather worse than indifferent. He gave me an invitation to dine with him, which I accepted without much ceremony. Drinking and chatting soon rendered us familiar, and by the end of the repast, we had all the disposition in the world to become inseparable companions. He informed me he was a Greek prelate, and Archimandrite of Jerusalem, that he had undertaken to make a gathering in Europe for the re-establishment of the Holy Sepulchre, and showed me some very fine patents from the Tsarina, the Emperor, and several other sovereigns. He was tolerably content with what he had collected hitherto, though he had experienced inconceivable difficulties in Germany. For not understanding a word of German, Latin, or French, he had been obliged to have recourse to his Greek, or Turkish, or lingua franca, which did not procure him much in the country he was travelling through. His proposal, therefore, to me, was that I should accompany him in the quality of secretary and interpreter. In spite of my violet-coloured coat, which accorded well enough with the proposed employment, he guessed from my meager appearance that I should easily be gained, and he was not mistaken. The bargain was soon made. I demanded nothing, and he promised liberally. Thus, without any security or knowledge of the person I was about to serve, I gave myself up entirely to his conduct, and the next day behold me on an expedition to Jerusalem. End of Section 14. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey. Section 15 of Confessions, Vol. 3 and 4. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions, Vol. 3 and 4 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 15. We began our expedition unsuccessfully by the canton of Freiburg. Episcopal dignity would not suffer him to play the beggar, or solicit help from private individuals, but we presented his commission to the Senate, who gave him a trifling sum. From thence we went to Bern, where we lodged at the Falcon, then a good inn, and frequented by respectable company, the public table being well supplied and numerously attended. I had fared indifferently so long, that I was glad to make myself a mens, therefore took care to profit by the present occasion. My Lord, the Archimandrite, was himself an excellent companion, loved good cheer, was gay, spoke well for those who understood him, and knew perfectly well how to make the most of his Grecian erudition. One day, at dessert while cracking nuts, he cut his finger pretty deeply, and as it bled, freely showed it to the company, saying with a laugh, At Bern I was not useless to him, nor was my performance so bad as I had feared. I certainly spoke better and with more confidence than I could have done for myself. Matters were not conducted here with the same simplicity as at Freiburg. Long and frequent conferences were necessary with the Premiers of the State, and the examination of his titles was not the work of a day. At length, everything being adjusted, he was admitted to an audience by the Senate. I entered with him as interpreter, and was ordered to speak. I expected nothing less, for it never entered my mind that after such long and frequent conferences with the members, it was necessary to address the Assembly collectively, as if nothing had been said. Judge my embarrassment, a man so bashful to speak not only in public, but before the whole of the Senate of Bern, to speak impromptu, without a single moment for recollection. It was enough to annihilate me. I was not even intimidated. I described distinctly and clearly the commission of the Archimandrite, extolled the piety of those princes who had contributed, and to heighten that of their excellencies by emulation, added that less could not be expected from their well-known munificence. Then endeavouring to prove that this good work was equally interesting to all Christians, without distinction of sect, and concluded by promising the benediction of heaven to all those who took part in it. I will not say that my discourse was the cause of our success, but it was certainly well received, and on our quitting the Archimandrite was gratified by a very gentile present, to which some very handsome compliments were added on the understanding of his secretary. These I had the agreeable office of interpreting, but could not take courage to render them literally. This was the only time in my life that I spoke in public, and before a sovereign, and the only time perhaps that I spoke boldly and well. What difference in the disposition of the same person? Three years ago, having been to see my old friend Monsieur Roguin at Iverdon, I received a deputation to thank me for some books I had presented to the library of that city. The Swiss are great speakers. These gentlemen accordingly made me a long harangue, which I thought myself obliged in honour to answer. But so embarrassed myself in the attempt that my head became confused, I stopped short, and was laughed at. Though naturally timid, I have sometimes acted with confidence in my youth, but never in my advanced age. The more I have seen of the world, the less I have been able to adopt its manners. On leaving Bern, we went to Soller, the Archimandrite designing to re-enter Germany, and returned through Hungary or Poland to his own country. This would have been a prodigious tour, but as the contents of his purse rather increased than diminished during his journey, he was in no haste to return. For me, who was almost as much pleased on horseback as on foot, I would have desired no better than to have travelled thus during my whole life, but it was preordained that my journey should soon end. The first thing we did after our arrival at Soller was to pay our respects to the French ambassador there. Unfortunately for my bishop, this chanced to be the Marquis de Bonac, who had been ambassador at the port, and was acquainted with every particular relative to the Holy Sepulchre. The Archimandrite had an audience that lasted about a quarter of an hour, to which I was not admitted, as the ambassador spoke French and Italian at least as well as myself. On my Grecian's retiring, I was prepared to follow him, but was detained. It was now my turn. Having called myself a Parisian, as such I was under the jurisdiction of his Excellency. He therefore asked me who I was, exhorting me to tell the truth. This I promised to do, but entreated a private audience, which was immediately granted. The ambassador took me to his closet and shut the door. There, throwing myself at his feet, I kept my word, nor should I have said less had I promised nothing, for a continual wish to unbuzzle myself puts my heart perpetually upon my lips. After having disclosed myself without reserve to the musician Lutte, there was no occasion to attempt acting the mysterious with the Marquis de Bonac, who was so well pleased with my little history, and the ingenuousness with which I had related it, that he led me to the ambassador's dress, and presented me with an abridgment of my recital. Madame de Bonac received me kindly, saying I must not be suffered to follow that Greek monk. It was accordingly resolved that I should remain at their hotel till something better could be done for me. I wished to bid adieu to my poor Archimandrite, for whom I had conceived an attachment, but was not permitted. They sent him word that I was to be detained there, and in quarter of an hour after, I saw my little bundle arrive. Monsieur de la Martinière, secretary of the embassy, had in a manner the care of me, while following him to the chamber appropriated to my use. He said, this apartment was occupied under the cons de Luc by a celebrated man of the same name as yourself. It is in your power to succeed him in every respect, and cause it to be said hereafter. Who saw the first? Who saw the second? This similarity, which I did not then expect, would have been less flattering to my wishes. Could I have foreseen at what price I should one day purchase the distinction? What Monsieur de la Martinière had said excited my curiosity. I read the works of the person whose chamber I occupied, and on the strength of the compliment that had been paid me, imagining I had a taste for poetry, made my first essay in a cantata in praise of Madame de Bonac. This inclination was not permanent, though from time to time I have composed tolerable verses. I think it is a good exercise to teach elegant turns of expression, and to write well in prose, but could never find attractions enough in French poetry to give entirely in to it. Monsieur de la Martinière wished to see my style, and asked me to write the detail I had before made the ambassadeur. Accordingly, I wrote him a long letter, which I have since been informed was preserved by Monsieur de Marianne, who had long been attached to the Marquis de Bonac, and has since succeeded Monsieur de la Martinière as secretary to the Embassy of Monsieur de Courteilles. The experience I began to acquire tended to moderate my romantic projects. For example, I did not fall in love with Madame de Bonac, but also felt I did not stand much chance of succeeding in the service of her husband. Monsieur de la Martinière was already in the only place that could have satisfied my ambition, and Monsieur de Marianne in expectancy. Thus my utmost hopes could only aspire to the office of under-secretary, which did not infinitely tempt me. This was the reason that when consulted on the situation I should like to be placed in, I expressed a great desire to go to Paris. The ambassadeur readily gave in to the idea, which at least tended to disembarrass him of me. Monsieur de Marveilleux, interpreting secretary to the Embassy, said that his friend, Monsieur Godard, a Swiss colonel in the service of France, wanted a person to be with his nephew, who had entered very young into the service, and made no doubt that I should suit him. On this idea, so lightly formed, my departure was determined, and I, who saw a long journey to perform with Paris at the end of it, was enraptured with the project. They gave me several letters, a hundred livre, to defray the expenses of my journey, accompanied with some good advice, and thus equipped I departed. I was a fortnight making the journey, which I may reckon among the happiest days of my life. I was young, in perfect health, with plenty of money, and the most brilliant hopes. Add to this I was on foot, and alone. It may appear strange I should mention the latter circumstance as advantageous, if my peculiarity of temper is not already familiar to the reader. I was continually occupied with a variety of pleasing chimeras, and never did the warmth of my imagination produce more magnificent ones. When offered an empty place in a carriage, or any person accosted me on the road, how vexed was I to see that fortune overthrown, whose edifice, while walking, I had taken such pains to rear. For once my ideas were all martial. I was going to live with a military man, nay, to become one, for it was concluded I should begin with being a cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals, with a fine white feather nodding on my hat, and my heart was inflamed by the noble idea. I had some smattering of geometry and fortification. My uncle was an engineer. I was in a manner a soldier by inheritance. My short sight indeed presented some little obstacle, but did not by any means discourage me, as I reckoned to supply that defect by coolness and intrepidity. I had read, too, that Marshal Schoenberg was remarkably short-sighted, and why might not Marshal Housseau be the same? My imagination was so warm by these follies, but it presented nothing but troops, ramparts, gabions, batteries, and myself in the midst of fire and smoke, an eyeglass in hand commanding with the utmost tranquillity. Notwithstanding, when the country presented a delightful prospect, when I saw charming groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight made me sigh with regret, and feel, in the midst of all this glory, that my heart was not formed for such havoc. And soon, without knowing how, I found my thoughts wandering among my dear sheepfolds, renouncing forever the labour of Mars. Fessions, volumes 3 and 4, by Jean-Jacques Housseau. Anonymously translated. Section 16. How much did Paris disappoint the idea I had formed of it? The exterior decorations I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets, the symmetry and regularity of the houses contributed to this disappointment, since I concluded that Paris must be infinitely superior. I had figured to myself a splendid city, beautiful as large, of the most commanding aspect, whose streets were ranges of magnificent palaces, composed of marble and gold. On entering the faux-bourc Saint-Marceau, I saw nothing but dirty, stinking streets, filthy black houses, an air of slovenliness and poverty, beggars, carters, butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats. This struck me so forcibly that all I have seen since of real magnificence in Paris could never erase this first impression, which has ever given me a particular disgust to residing in that capital. And I may say the whole time I remained there afterwards was employed in seeking resources which might enable me to live at a distance from it. This is the consequence of too lively imagination, which exaggerates even beyond the voice of fame and ever expects more than is told. I have heard Paris so flatteringly described, that I pictured it like the ancient Babylon, which perhaps had I seen I might have found equally faulty, and unlike that idea the account had conveyed. The same thing happened at the opera-house to which I hastened the day after my arrival. I was sensible of the same deficiency at Versailles, and some time after on viewing the sea. I am convinced this would ever be the consequence of a too flattering description of any object, for it is impossible for man, and difficult even for nature herself, to surpass the riches of my imagination. By the reception I met with from all those to whom my letters were addressed, I thought my fortune was certainly made. The person who received me the least kindly was Monsieur de Surbeck, to whom I had the warmest recommendation. He had retired from the service, and lived philosophically at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times without his offering me even a glass of water. I was better received by Madame de Merveilleux, sister-in-law to the interpreter, and by his nephew, who was an officer in the Guards. The mother and son not only received me kindly, but offered me the use of their table, which favour I frequently accepted during my stay at Paris. Madame de Merveilleux appeared to have been handsome. Her hair was of a fine black, which according to the old mode she wore curled on the temples. She still retained what do not perish with a set of features, the beauties of an amiable mind. She appeared satisfied with mine, and did all she could to render me service. But no one seconded her endeavours, and I was presently undeceived in the great interest they had seemed to take in my affairs. I must, however, do the French nation the justice to say they do not so exhaust themselves with protestations, as some have represented, and that those they make are usually sincere. But they have a manner of appearing interested in your affairs, which is more deceiving than words. The gross compliments of the Swiss can only impose upon fools. The manners of the French are more seducing, and at the same time so simple that you are persuaded they do not express all they mean to do for you, in order that you may be the more agreeably surprised. I will say more. They are not false in their protestations, being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent, and even whatever may be said to the contrary, more sincere than any other nation. But they are too flighty. In effect they feel the sentiments they profess for you, but that sentiment flies off as instantaneously as it was formed. In speaking to you their whole attention is employed on you alone, when absent you are forgotten. Nothing is permanent in their hearts, all is the work of the moment. Thus I was greatly flattered, but received little service. Colonel Godard, for whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious old wretch, who on seeing my distress, though he was immensely rich, wished to have my services for nothing, meaning to place me with his nephew rather as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented that as I was to be continually engaged with him, I should be excused from duty and might live on my cadets' allowance, that is to say, on the pay of a soldier. Hardly would he consent to give me a uniform, thinking the clothing of the army might serve. Madame de Merveilleur, provoked at his proposals, persuaded me not to accept them. Her son was of the same opinion. Something else was to be thought on. But no situation was procured. Meantime I began to be necessitated, for the hundred leave with which I had commenced my journey could not last much longer. Happily I received a small remittance from the ambassador, which was very serviceable, nor do I think he would have abandoned me had I possessed more patience. But languishing, waiting, soliciting, are to me impossible. I was disheartened, displeased, and thus all my brilliant expectations came once more to nothing. I had not, all this time, forgotten my dear Madame de Varence, but how was I to find her? Where should I seek her? Madame de Merveilleur, who knew my story, assisted me in the search, but for a long time unavailingly. At length she informed me that Madame de Varence had set out from Paris about two months before. But it was not known whether for Savoy or Turin, and that some conjectured she was gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary to fix my determination to follow her, certain that wherever she might be I stood more chance of finding her at those places than I could possibly do at Paris. Before my departure I exercised my new poetical talent in an epistle to Colonel Godard. Who I ridiculed to the utmost of my abilities. I showed this scribble to Madame de Merveilleur, who instead of discouraging me, as she ought to have done, laughed heartily at my sarcasms, as well as her son, who I believed did not like Monsieur Godard. Indeed it must be confessed he was a man not calculated to obtain affection. I was tempted to send him my verses, and they encouraged me in it. Accordingly I made them up in a parcel directed to him, and there being no post then at Paris by which I could conveniently send this, I put it in my pocket, and sent it to him from Oseur as I passed through that place. I laugh, even yet sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy he made on reading this panegyric, where he was certainly drawn to the life. It began thus, This little piece which it is true was but indifferently written, did not want for salt, and announced a turn for satire. It is not withstanding the only satirical writing that ever came from my pen. I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage of such a talent. But I believe it may be judged from those controversies in which from time to time I have been engaged in my own defence, that had I been of a vindictive disposition, my adversaries would rarely have had the laughter on their side. What I most regret is not having kept a journal of my travels, being conscious that a number of interesting details have slipped my memory. For never did I exist so completely, never live so thoroughly, never was so much myself, if I dare use the expression, as in those journeys made on foot. Walking animates and enlivens my spirit. I can hardly think when in a state of inactivity, my body must be exercised to make my judgment active. The view of a fine country, a succession of agreeable prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and the health I gained by walking, the freedom of ins, and the distance from everything that can make me recollect the dependence of my situation, conspire to free my soul, and give boldness to my thoughts, throwing me in a manner into the immensity of beings, where I combine, choose, and appropriate them to my fancy, without constraint or fear. I dispose of all nature as I please. My heart wandering from object to object approximates and unites with those that please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes intoxicated with delicious sensations. If attempting to render these permanent, I am amused in describing to myself what glow of colouring, what energy of expression do I give them. It has been said that all these are to be found in my works, though written in the decline of life. Oh, had those of my early youth been seen, those made during my travels, composed but never written, why did I not write them, will be asked? And why should I have written them, I may answer. Why deprive myself of the actual charm of my enjoyments, to inform others what I enjoyed. What to me were readers, the public, or all the world, while I was mounting the Empyrean? Besides, did I carry pens, paper, and ink with me? Had I recollected all these, not a thought would have occurred worth preserving. I do not foresee when I shall have ideas. They come when they please, and not when I call for them. Either they avoid me altogether, or rushing in crowds, overwhelm me with their force and number. Ten volumes a day would not suffice, barely to enumerate my thoughts. How then should I find time to write them? In stopping I thought of nothing but a hearty dinner, on departing, of nothing but a charming walk. I felt that a new paradise awaited me at the door, and eagerly leaped forward to enjoy it. Never did I experience this so feelingly, as in the perambulation I am now describing. On coming to Paris I had confined myself to ideas which related to the situation I expected to occupy there. I had rushed into the career I was about to run, and should have completed it with tolerable ecla, but it was not that my heart adhered to. Some real beings obscured my imagined ones. Colonel Godard and his nephew could not keep pace with a hero of my disposition. Thank heaven, I was soon delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter at pleasure into the wilderness of Chimeras. For that alone remained before me, and I wandered in it so completely that I several times lost my way. But this was no misfortune. I would not have shortened it, for feeling with regret, as I approached Lyon, that I must again return to the material world. I should have been glad never to have arrived there. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions, volumes 3 and 4, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 17 One day, among others, having purposely gone out of my way, to take a nearer view of a spot that appeared delightful, I was so charmed with it, and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely lost myself. And after several hours useless walking, weary, fainting with hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant's hut, which had not indeed a very promising appearance, but was the only one I could discover near me. I thought it was here, as at Geneva, or in Switzerland, where the inhabitants, living at ease, have it in their power to exercise hospitality. I entreated the countrymen to give me some dinner, offering to pay for it. On which he presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse barley bread, saying it was all he had. I drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread, chaff and all. But it was not very restorative to a man sinking with fatigue. The countrymen, who watched me narrowly, judged the truth of my story by my appetite, and presently, after having said that he plainly saw I was an honest, good-natured young man, and did not come to betray him. Opened a little trap door by the side of his kitchen, went down, and returned a moment after, with a good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains of a well-flavoured ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced my heart more than all the rest. He then prepared a good thick omelette, and I made such a dinner as none but a walking traveller ever enjoyed. When I again offered to pay, his inquiritude and fears returned. He not only would have no money, but refused it with the most evident emotion. And what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine the motive of his fear. At length he pronounced tremblingly those terrible words, commissioners and seller rats, which he explained by giving me to understand that he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his bread on account of the tax imposed on it, adding he should be an undone man, if it was suspected he was not almost perishing with want. What he said to me on this subject, of which I had not the smallest idea, made an impression on my mind that can never be effaced, sowing seeds of that inextinguishable hatred which has since grown up in my heart against the vexations these unhappy people suffer, and against their oppressors. This man, though in easy circumstances, dare not eat the bread gained by the sweat of his brow, and could only escape destruction by exhibiting an outward appearance of misery. I left his cottage with as much indignation as concern, deploring the fate of those beautiful countries where nature has been prodigal of her gifts, only that they may become the prey of barbarous exacters. The incident which I have just related is the only one I have a distinct remembrance of during this journey. I recollect, indeed, that on approaching Lyon, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks of the Lyon. For among the romances I had read with my father, La Strait was not forgotten, and returned more frequently to my thoughts than any other. Stopping for some refreshment, while chatting with my hostess, I inquired the way to Fress, and was informed that country was an excellent place for mechanics, as there were many forges and much iron work done there. This eulogium instantly calmed my romantic curiosity, for I felt no inclination to seek Diana's and Sylvander's among a generation of blacksmiths. The good woman who encouraged me with this piece of information certainly thought I was a journeyman locksmith. I had some view in going to Lyon. On my arrival, I went to the Chassat to see Mademoiselle du Châtelet, a friend of Madame de Varance, for whom I had brought a letter when I came there with Monsieur Lumetre, so that it was an acquaintance already formed. Mademoiselle du Châtelet informed me her friend had passed through Lyon, but could not tell whether she had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her departure whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy. But if I chose, she would immediately write for information, and thought my best plan would be to remain at Lyon till she received it. I accepted this offer, but did not tell Mademoiselle du Châtelet how much I was pressed for an answer, and that my exhausted purse would not permit me to wait long. It was not an appearance of coolness that withheld me. On the contrary, I was very kindly received, treated on the footing of equality, and this took from me the resolution of explaining my circumstances, for I could not bear to descend from a companion to a miserable beggar. I seemed to have retained a very connecting remembrance of that part of my life contained in this book, yet I think I remember about the same period another journey to Lyon, the particulars of which I cannot recollect, where I found myself much straightened, and a confused remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not contribute to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many others, had I possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at every alehouse I came to, I might have fared better. But in that my incapacity equalled my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of both, it will be sufficient to say that though I have passed almost my whole life in in different circumstances, and frequently have been near wanting bread, I was never once asked for money by a creditor, without having it in my power to pay it instantly. I could never bear to contract clamorous debts, and have ever preferred suffering to owing. Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets may certainly be called suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyon, having preferred buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to bestowing them on a lodging. As I was convinced there was less danger of dying for want of sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing, while in this unhappy situation I took no care for the future, was neither uneasy nor melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to Mademoiselle Duchâtelet's letter, and lying in the open air, stretched on the earth or on a bench, slept as soundly as if reposing on a bed of roses. I remember particularly to have passed a most delightful night at some distance from the city, in a road which had the own nor sound. I cannot recollect which, on the one side, and a range of raised gardens with terraces on the other. It had been a very hot day. The evening was delightful. The dew moistened the fading grass. No wind was stirring. The air was fresh without chillness. The setting sun had tinged the clouds with a beautiful crimson, which was again reflected by the water. And the trees that bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who were continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so many delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them alone. Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it grew very late, without perceiving I was tired. At length, however, I discovered it, and threw myself on the step of a kind of niche or false door in the terrace wall. How charming was the couch! The trees formed a stately canopy. A nightingale sat directly over me, and with his soft notes lulled me to rest. How pleasing my repose! My awakening more so! On opening my eyes I saw the water, the verdure, and the admirable landscape before me. I arose, shook off the remains of drowsiness, and, finding I was hungry, retook the way to the city, resolving with inexpressible gaiety to spend the two pieces of six francs I had yet remaining in a good breakfast. I found myself so cheerful that I went all the way singing. I even remember I sang a cantata of Battistan's, called the Baths of Tomery, which I knew by heart. May a blessing light on the good Battistan, and his good cantata, which procured me a better breakfast than I had expected, and a still better dinner, which I did not expect at all. In the midst of my singing I heard someone behind me, and turning round perceived an antonine, who followed after, and seemed to listen with pleasure to my song. At length, accosting me, he asked if I understood music. I answered a little, but in a manner to have it understood I knew a great deal, and as he continued questioning of me, related a part of my story. He asked me if I had ever copied music. I replied often, which was true. I had learned most by copying. Well, continued he, come with me. I can employ you for a few days, during which time you shall want for nothing, provided you consent not to quit my run. I acquiesced very willingly, and followed him. This antonine was called Monsieur Rolichon. He loved music, understood it, and sang in some little concerts with his friends. Thus far all was innocent and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor, part of which he was obliged to conceal. He conducted me into a chamber where I found a great quantity of music. He gave me some to copy, particularly the cantata he had heard me singing, and which he was shortly to sing himself. I remained here three or four days, copying all the time I did not eat, for never in my life was I so hungry, or better fed. Monsieur Rolichon brought my provisions himself from the kitchen, and it appeared that these good priests lived well, at least if every one fared as I did. In my life I never took such pleasure in eating, and it must be owned, this good cheer came very opportunely, for I was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily as I at, which is saying a great deal. It is true I was not as correct as diligent. For some days after, meeting Monsieur Rolichon in the street, he informed me there were so many omissions, repetitions, and transpositions in the parts I had copied, that they could not be performed. It must be owned, that in choosing the profession of music, I hit on that I was least calculated for. Yet my voice was good, and I copied neatly. But the fatigue of long works bewilders me so much, that I spend more time in altering and scratching out than in pricking down. And if I do not employ the strictest attention in comparing the several parts, they are sure to fail in the execution. Thus, through endeavouring to do well, my performance was very faulty. For aiming at expedition, I did all amiss. This did not prevent Monsieur Rolichon from treating me well to the last, and giving me half a crown at my departure, which I certainly did not deserve, and which completely set me up. For a few days after, I received news from madame de Varence, who was at Chambéry, with money to defray the expenses of my journey to her, which I performed with rapture. Since then, my finances have frequently been very low, but never at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I mark this period with a heart fully alive to the bounty of Providence, as the last of my life, in which I sustained poverty and hunger. End of Section 17. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey. Section 18 of Confessions, Vol. 3 and 4. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. Confessions, Vol. 3 and 4 by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Anonymously translated. Section 18. I remained at Lyon seven or eight days to wait for some little commissions, with which madame de Varence had charged mademoiselle du Châtelet, who, during this interval, I visited more assiduously than before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and being no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or painful endeavours to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Châtelet was neither young nor handsome, but did not want for elegance. She was easy and obliging, while her understanding gave price to her familiarity. She had a taste for that kind of moral observation, which leads to the knowledge of mankind, and from her originated that study in myself. She was fond of the works of Lusage, particularly Gilles Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to my perusal. I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances which abounded with high-flown sentiments. Thus did I pass my time at the great of Mademoiselle du Châtelet, with as much profit as pleasure. It is certain that the interesting and sensible conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to form the understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy of books. I got acquainted at the Chassat with some other boarders and their friends, and among the rest, with a young person of fourteen, called Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at that time, though I was in love with her eight or nine years afterwards, and with great reason, for she was a most charming girl. I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madame de Varence, and this gave some respite to my chimeras. For finding happiness in real objects, I was the less inclined to seek it in non-entities. I had not only found her, but also, by her means, and near her, an agreeable situation. She having sent me word that she had procured one that would suit me, and by which I should not be obliged to quit her. I exhausted all my conjectures in guessing what this occupation could be, but I must have possessed the art of divination to have hit it on the right. I had money sufficient to make my journey agreeable. Mademoiselle du Châtelet persuaded me to hire a horse, but this I could not consent to, and I was certainly right, for by so doing I should have lost the pleasure of the last pedestrian expedition I ever made. For I cannot give that name to those excursions I have frequently taken about my own neighbourhood, while I lived at Moutier. It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high, as when my situation is least agreeable or cheerful. When everything smiles around me, I am least amused. My heart cannot confine itself to realities, cannot embellish, but must create. Real objects strike me as they really are. My imagination can only decorate ideal ones. If I would paint the spring, it must be in winter. If I describe a beautiful landscape, it must be while surrounded with walls. And I have said a hundred times that where I can find in the Bastille I could draw the most enchanting picture of liberty. On my departure from Lyon I saw nothing but an agreeable future. The content I now with reason enjoyed was as great as my discontent had been at leaving Paris. Notwithstanding, I had not during this journey any of those delightful reveries I then enjoyed. My mind was serene and that was all. I drew near the excellent friend I was going to see, my heart overflowing with tenderness, enjoying in advance, but without intoxication, the pleasure of living near her. I had always expected this, and it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime I was anxious about the employment Madame de Verras had procured me, as if that alone had been material. My ideas were calm and peaceable, not ravishing and celestial. Every object struck my sight in its natural form. I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked the trees, the houses, the springs, deliberated on the crossroads, was fearful of losing myself, yet did not do so. In a word I was no longer in the Empyrean, but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps at the end of my journey, never farther. I am in recounting my travels, as I was in making them, loath to arrive at the conclusion. My heart beat with joy as I approached my dear Madame de Verras, but I went no faster on that account. I love to walk at my ease and stop at leisure. A strolling life is necessary to me. Travelling on foot in a fine country, with fine weather, and having an agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the manner of living of all others most suited to my taste. It is already understood what I mean by a fine country. Never can a flat one, though ever so beautiful, appear such in my eyes. I must have torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb or descend, and rugged roads with precipices on either side to alarm me. I experienced this pleasure in its utmost extent, as I approached Champs-Bérée, not far from a mountain which is called Pâtes de l'échelle. Above the main road, which is hewn through the rock, a small river runs and rushes into fearful chasms, which it appears to have been millions of ages informing. The road has been hedged by a parapet to prevent accidents, which enabled me to contemplate the whole descent and gain vertigos at pleasure. For a great part of my amusement in these steep rocks is they cause a giddiness and swimming in my head, which I am particularly fond of, provided I am in safety. Leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained whole hours, catching from time to time a glance of the froth and blue water whose rushing caught my ear, mingled with the cries of ravens and other birds of prey that flew from rock to rock and bush to bush at six hundred feet below me. In places where the slope was tolerably regular, and clear enough from bushes to let stones roll freely, I went a considerable way to gather them, bringing those I could but just carry, which I piled on the parapet and then threw down one after the other, being transported at seeing them roll, rebound, and fly into a thousand pieces before they reached the bottom of the precipice. Near Chambéry I enjoyed an equally pleasing spectacle, though of a different kind, the road passing near the foot of the most charming cascade I ever saw. The water, which is very rapid, shoots from the top of an excessively steep mountain, falling at such a distance from its base that you may walk between the cascade and the rock without any inconvenience. But if not particularly careful, it is easy to be deceived as I was, for the water falling from such an immense height separates and descends in a rain as fine as dust, and on approaching too near this cloud, without perceiving it, you may be wet through in an instant. At length I arrived at Madame du Véran's. She was not alone, the intendant general was with her. Without speaking a word to me, she caught my hand, and presenting me to him with that natural grace, which charmed all hearts, said, This, sir, is the poor young man I mentioned. Dain to protect him as long as he deserves it, and I shall feel no concern for the remainder of his life. Then added, addressing herself to me, Child, you now belong to the king. Thank, monsieur, the intendant, who furnishes you with the means of existence. I stared without answering, without knowing what to think of all this. Rising ambition almost turned my head. I was already prepared to act the intendant myself. My fortune, however, was not so brilliant as I had imagined, but it was sufficient to maintain me, which, as I was situated, was a capital acquisition. I shall now explain the nature of my employment. King Victor Amade, judging from the event of preceding wars, and the situation of the ancient patrimony of his fathers, that he should no longer be able to maintain it, wished to drain it beforehand. Resolving therefore to tax the nobility, he ordered a general survey of the whole country, in order that it might be rendered more equal and productive. This scheme, which was begun under the father, was completed by the son. Two or three hundred men, part surveyors, who were called geometricians, and part writers, who were called secretaries, were employed in this work. Among those of the latter description, Madame de Varence had got me appointed. This post, without being very lucrative, furnished the means of living eligibility in that country. The misfortune was, this employment could not be of any great duration, but it put me in train to procure something better, as by this means she hoped to ensure the particular protection of the intendant, who might find me some more settled occupation before this was concluded. I entered on my new employment a few days after my arrival, and as there was no great difficulty in the business, soon understood it. Thus, after four or five years of unsettled life, folly and suffering, since my departure from Geneva, I began for the first time to gain my bread with credit. These long details of my early youth must have appeared trifling, and I am sorry for it. Though born a man, in a variety of instances I was long a child, and I am so yet in many particulars. I did not promise the public a great personage. I promised to describe myself as I am. And to know me in my advanced age, it was necessary to have known me in my youth. As in general, objects that are present make less impression on me than the bare remembrance of them, my ideas being all from recollection, the first trays which were engraven on my mind have distinctly remained. Those which have since been imprinted there have rather combined with the former than effaced them. There is a certain yet varied succession of affections and ideas which continue to regulate those that follow them, and this progression must be known in order to judge rightly of those they have influenced. I have studied to develop the first causes, the better to show the concatenation of effects. I would be able by some means to render my soul transparent to the eyes of the reader, and for this purpose endeavor to show it in every possible point of view, to give him every insight, and act in such a manner that not a motion should escape him, as by this means he may form a judgment of the principles that produce them. Did I take upon myself to decide and say to the reader, such is my character? He might think that if I did not endeavor to deceive him, I at least deceived myself. But in recounting simply all that has happened to me, all my actions, thoughts and feelings, I cannot lead him into an error, unless I do it willfully, which by this means I could not easily affect, since it is his province to compare the elements and judge of the being they compose. Thus the result must be his work, and if he is then deceived, the error will be his own. It is not sufficient for this purpose that my recital should be merely faithful. They must also be minute. It is not for me to judge of the importance of facts. I ought to declare them simply as they are, and leave the estimate that is to be formed of them to him. I have adhered to this principle hitherto, with the most scrupulous exactitude, and shall not depart from it in the continuation. But the impressions of age are less lively than those of youth. I began by delineating the latter. Should I recollect the rest with the same precision, the reader may perhaps become weary and impatient, but I shall not be dissatisfied with my labour. I have put one thing to apprehend in this undertaking. I do not dread saying too much, or advancing false cities, but I am fearful of not saying enough, or concealing truths.