The Confessions

by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

  More than thirty years later, when I had just published my Letters from the Mountain,* M. Fréron somehow or other managed to unearth this testimony, and made use of it in his paper. It was a fortunate discovery, I must admit, and its relevance was most amusing, even to me.

  I was destined to be rejected by every profession. Although M. Gâtier gave the least unfavourable account of my progress that he possibly could, it was obvious that my results were disproportionate to my efforts, and that did not serve to encourage me in my further studies. The bishop and the superior, therefore, lost interest in me, and I was returned to Mme de Warens as a creature not even fit to be trained as a priest. I was a nice enough lad otherwise, they said, and had no vices; which was her reason for not abandoning me even in the face of so many discouraging judgements against me.

  I brought home her music book in triumph, having made such good use of it. That air from ‘Alphaeus and Arethusa’ was almost all I had learnt at the seminary. My marked taste for this art gave her the idea of making me a musician. The opportunity was favourable. There was music at her house at least once a week, and the choirmaster of the cathedral, who conducted these little concerts, came to see her very often. He was a Parisian by the name of M. le Maître, a good composer, very brisk and gay, still young, quite handsome, not very intelligent, but on the whole a very good fellow. Mamma introduced me to him; I took a liking to him, and he did not dislike me. There was some discussion about my board, and an arrangement was made. In short I moved to his house, and there I spent the winter, all the more pleasantly since it was only twenty yards away from Mamma’s, and we were with her in a minute. Very often we both went to supper with her.

  It will readily be imagined that life at the choirmaster’s, where all was song and gaiety, in the company of the musicians and the choirboys, pleased me far better than my existence in the seminary with the Lazarist fathers. But my new life, though freer, was no less orderly and regular. I was born to love independence, but never to abuse it. For six whole months I never went out once – except to go to Mamma’s or to church – and I was not even tempted to do so. This period is one of those in which I enjoyed the greatest calm, and which I have remembered ever since with the utmost pleasure. Of the various situations in which I have found myself some have been marked by such a feeling of well-being that when I remember them I am as much moved as if I were in them still. Not only do I recall times and places and persons but all the objects surrounding them, the temperature of the air, the smells and colours, and a certain local impression only to be felt there, the sharp recollection of which carries me back there again. For instance, all the tunes they practised at the choirmaster’s; all those they sung in the choir; the canons’ fine and imposing robes; the priests chasubles; the cantors’ mitres, the musicians’ faces; one old lame carpenter who played the bass-viol; a fair little priest who played the violin; the ragged cassock which M. le Maître threw over his lay clothes, having first unbuckled his sword, and the grand, fine surplice which hid his rags when he was going into the choir; the pride with which I went, with my little flageolet in my hand, to take my place with the orchestra in the gallery and play a little solo piece that M. le Maître had composed especially for me; the good dinner which awaited me afterwards, and the good appetite we brought to it: all these things, sharply outlined in my memory, have charmed me countless times in retrospect, as much and even more than they did in reality. I have always retained a warm affection for a certain setting of the ‘Conditor Alme Siderum’ in common time, because one Advent Sunday, before daybreak, I heard them from my bed singing that hymn on the steps of the cathedral, according to the custom of that church. Mlle de Merceret, Mamma’s chambermaid, knew a little music; and I shall never forget a little Afferte motet which M. le Maître made me sing with her and to which her mistress listened with such pleasure. But everything, down to the good maid Perrine who was so nice and whom the choirboys so tormented, everything that I remember about those innocent and happy times comes back to me often now, to delight and sadden me.

  I had been living at Annecy for almost a year without incurring the slightest reproach; everyone was pleased with me. I had committed no follies since leaving Turin, nor did I commit any so long as I was under Mamma’s eye. She guided me, and she always guided me well. My attachment to her had become my sole passion; and what proves that it was no infatuation is that my heart gave shape to my understanding. It is true that one single feeling, absorbing – as it were – all my faculties, put me out of the condition in which I could learn anything, even music, although I made every effort. It was no fault of mine. The will was there, completely, and the application too. But I was distracted; I dreamed and sighed. What could I do about it? Nothing that depended on me was holding up my progress; but all I needed in order to commit fresh follies was that some subject should arise to inspire them. The subject presented itself. Chance arranged the circumstances and, as will be seen in the sequel, my natural perversity turned them to its advantage.

  One evening in February, when it was very cold and we were all sitting around the fire, we heard a knock at the front door. Perrine took her lantern, went down to open it, and returned with a young man, who came upstairs and introduced himself with an easy air, paying M. le Maître a short and neatly turned compliment. He described himself as a French musician forced by the poor state of his finances to deputize at church services in order to pay his way. At the words ‘French musician’ the good M. le Maître’s heart gave a bound; he was passionately attached to his country and his profession. He welcomed the young traveller, and offered him hospitality, of which he seemed to stand in great need and which he accepted without much ceremony. I examined him as he warmed himself and chatted, whilst waiting for supper. He was short in stature, but broad-shouldered, and he had something misshapen about his figure though no real deformity. He was, so to speak, a hunchback without a hump, but I think that he limped slightly. His black coat was worn out rather by use than by age, and was falling to pieces; his shirt was of very fine linen but extremely dirty; he wore beautiful fringed ruffles, gaiters into either of which he could have put both his legs and, to protect himself from the snow, a little hat fit only to be carried under the arm. About this comical attire there was, nevertheless, an air of nobility, which his bearing did not belie. His expression had both intelligence and charm in it; he spoke easily and well, though his language was rather too free. Everything about him suggested a young rake who had received some education, and did not go begging like any other beggar but out of some freak of his own. He told us that his name was Venture de Villeneuve, that he came from Paris, that he had lost his way; and forgetting for a moment his role of musician, he added that he was travelling to Grenoble to see a relative of his in the courts.

  Over supper the talk was of music; and he spoke well on the subject. He knew all the great performers, all the famous works, all the actors, all the actresses, all the pretty ladies, and all the great gentlemen. He seemed familiar with everything that was alluded to. But directly a subject was mentioned he interrupted the conversation with some broad joke, which made everyone laugh and forget what had been said. It was Saturday, and next day there would be music in the cathedral. M. le Maître suggested that he should sing. ‘With the greatest of pleasure.’ Being asked what part he sang, he said ‘Alto’, and changed the conversation. Before he went into church he was offered his part to look through, but he did not cast a glance at it. This piece of swagger surprised Le Maître. ‘You’ll see,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘he doesn’t know a note of music.’ ‘I’m afraid you are right,’ I replied. I followed them in great perturbation. As they began my heart beat most violently, for I was greatly interested in him.

  I had soon reason to be reassured. He sang his two recitatives without a fault and in the best of imaginable taste. What is more, he had a very pleasing voice. Hardly ever have I had so pleasant a surprise. After mass, M. Venture was overwhelmed with compliments by the canons and th
e players, to which he replied by more buffoonery but with perfect grace. M. le Maître embraced him heartily, and I did the same. He saw how pleased I was, and this seemed to give him pleasure.

  The reader will agree, no doubt, that after falling for M. Bâcle who, when all is said and done, was no more than an oaf, I was quite capable of becoming infatuated with M. Venture, who had education, talents, wit, and worldly experience, and who might be called a charming rake. That is what happened to me and what, I think, would have happened to any other young man in my place and all the more easily, since anyone else would have had a better nose than mine for recognizing merit, and have been even more liable to be fascinated by it. For M. Venture indisputably had merit, and he had in addition a virtue rare at his age, that of not being over eager to display his accomplishments. It is true that he boasted of many things that he knew nothing of. But about those which he did know, and these were fairly numerous, he said nothing at all. He waited for an opportunity of showing them off and availed himself of it when it came with a lack of eagerness which made the very greatest impression. As he stopped after each subject and did not broach another, no one could tell when he had shown off all he knew. Witty, droll, indefatigable, and seductive in conversation, always smiling and never laughing, he said the coarsest things in the most elegant tone, so that they passed without objection. Even the most modest of women were astonished at what they endured from him. It was no good their thinking that they ought to be annoyed, it was more than they could manage. But he had no use for any but loose women. I do not think that he was made for success with the ladies, but rather to bring immense entertainment to the company of those who were. With such pleasing accomplishments, in a country where they are recognized and loved, it would have been strange if he had remained for long confined to the sphere of a musician.

  My liking for M. Venture, for which I had more reasonable grounds than for my friendship for M. Bâcle, was also, although warmer and more lasting, less extravagant in its effects. I enjoyed seeing him and listening to him. Everything he did seemed to me charming, everything he said seemed to me an oracle. But my infatuation did not go so far that I could not part with him. I had close at hand a good safeguard against that excess. Moreover, though I found his precepts excellent for him, I was conscious that they did not apply to me; I required another sort of pleasure, of which he had no idea, and of which I did not even dare speak to him, being quite certain that he would make fun of me. However, I should have been glad to bring my attachment to him into alliance with my dominating passion. I spoke of him ecstatically to Mamma, and Le Maître too was loud in his praises. So she agreed that he should be introduced to her. But their interview was not at all a success. He found her affected, she found him a rake and was alarmed to think that I had made so undesirable an acquaintance. Not only, therefore, did she forbid me to bring him again, but so graphically did she describe the dangers I was running in that young man’s company that I became a little more reserved in my relations with him; and most fortunately for my ideas and my morals we were soon separated.

  M. le Maître had a musician’s tastes; he was fond of wine. At table, nevertheless, he was temperate, but when working in his room he could not help drinking. His maid-servant knew him so well that as soon as he prepared his paper in order to compose and took up his cello, his jug and his glass appeared instantly, and this jug was refilled from time to time. Without ever being absolutely drunk he was nearly always in liquor; and indeed it was a pity, for fundamentally he was a good lad and so gay that Mamma always called him the kitten. Unfortunately he was fond of his art, worked hard, and drank in proportion. This affected his health, and finally his temper; he was sometimes suspicious and easily offended. Incapable of rudeness and incapable of slighting anyone, he never uttered a harsh word even to his choirboys; but neither was anyone allowed to slight him, which was only fair. The trouble was that he had not the intelligence to distinguish shades of voice or character, and often took offence about nothing.

  The ancient Chapter of Geneva, to which so many princes and bishops once considered it an honour to belong, has in its exile lost its former splendour, though it has retained its pride. In order to be admitted it is still necessary to be a nobleman or a doctor of the Sorbonne; and if there is one quality of which it is pardonable to boast next after that of personal merit, it is that which is derived from birth. Priests in general, moreover, usually treat any laymen in their service in a fairly high-handed way; and that is how the canons often treated poor Le Maître. The precentor especially, the Abbé de Vidonne, who was a very courteous man in other respects, though too full of his own nobility, did not always show him the respect that his talents deserved; and Le Maître did not bear these indignities willingly. In Passion Week that year they had a more serious quarrel than usual at a regulation dinner given by the bishop to the canons, to which Le Maître was always invited. The precentor showed him some discourtesy, and followed it with harsh words that Le Maître could not swallow. So he immediately made up his mind to depart next night; and nothing could dissuade him, though when he went to say goodbye to Mme de Warens she tried her hardest to calm him down. He could not resist the pleasure of avenging himself upon his tyrants by leaving them in the lurch in Easter Week, the time when they had most need of him. But what concerned him most was his music, which he wanted to take with him. This was not easy, for it filled a fairly large box, which was quite heavy and could not be carried under the arm.

  Mamma did what I should have done in her place, and what I should still do now. After considerable and fruitless efforts to hold him back, she saw that he had made up his mind to depart, whatever happened, and so, resigning herself, gave him what help she could. I will go so far as to say that this was her duty. Le Maître had, in a sense, dedicated himself to her service; whether it was a matter of his art or of obliging her in other ways, he was entirely at her disposition; and the devotion with which he obeyed her doubled the value of his attentions. It was merely a matter of repaying a friend at a critical moment, for all he had done for her on occasions over the last three or four years. But she had a heart which had no need to think of a service as an obligation in order to perform it. She sent for me and ordered me to go with M. le Maître at least as far as Lyons, and to stay with him for so long as he had need of me. She has since confessed to me that the wish to separate me from Venture had been an important factor in this decision. She consulted Claude Anet, her faithful servant, about the transport of the box. His opinion was that if we hired a beast of burden at Annecy we should inevitably be discovered. What we must do, as soon as it was dark, was to carry the box for a certain distance, and then hire a donkey in some village to carry it as far as Seyssel, where we should be on French territory and no longer running any risk. Following his advice, we set out at seven o’clock that same evening, and Mamma, on the pretext of paying my expenses, supplemented the small purse of her poor kitten by a sum which cannot have been useless to him. Claude Anet, the gardener, and I carried the box as best we could to the first village, where we were relieved by a donkey; and that same night we reached Seyssel.

  I think I have already observed that there are times when I am so unlike myself that I might be taken for someone else of an entirely opposite character. Now we shall have an example. M. Reydelet, the priest at Seyssel, was a canon of St Peter’s, and consequently acquainted with M. le Maître. He was therefore one of the men from whom it was most necessary for him to hide. My advice, on the contrary, was that we should go and call on him and, offering some excuse or another, ask him for a night’s lodgings, as if we were there with the sanction of the Chapter. So we went boldly to M. Reydelet, who received us very kindly. Le Maître told him that he was going to Belley, at the bishop’s request, to direct the Easter music there, and that he reckoned to be back in a few days. And to support his lie I strung together a hundred more, so naturally that M. Reydelet thought me a charming lad, took a fancy to me and made much of me. We were well fe
asted, and given good beds. M. Reydelet could not be too kind to us and we separated as the best friends in the world, promising to stop longer on our return journey. We could scarcely wait till we were alone before we burst out laughing, and I confess that I laugh still at the mere thought of it. For no one could conceive of a more sustained or successful practical joke. It would have entertained us for the whole of our journey if M. le Maître, who drank incessantly and rambled in his speech, had not been taken two or three times with fits, to which he was subject and which were very like epilepsy. This put me into the most alarming quandaries, and soon I was thinking of any possible way of escape.

  We went to Belley to spend Easter, as we had told M. Reydelet we should, and although we were not expected we were received by the choirmaster and gladly welcomed by all. M. le Maître was respected as a musician, and he deserved to be. The Belley choirmaster did himself credit by producing his best works, in an endeavour to win the praise of such a fine judge. For Le Maître was not only a man of discrimination, he was fair-minded also, not at all envious, and no flatterer. He was so much the superior of all those country choirmasters, and they were so conscious of the fact themselves, that they looked on him rather as their chief than as their colleague.

  After spending four or five days most agreeably at Belley, we departed and continued on our way without any accident except those I have just spoken of. When we reached Lyons we put up at Notre-Dame de Pitié; and while we waited for the box which, thanks to another lie, our good patron M. Reydelet had helped us to get on to a Rhône boat, M. le Maître went to see some acquaintances, among them Father Caton, a Franciscan, of whom more hereafter, and Abbé Dortan, Count de Lyon. Both received him kindly, but they betrayed him, as we shall see in a moment; he exhausted his good luck at M. Reydelet’s.