Two days after our arrival at Lyons, as we were passing down a little street not far from our inn, Le Maître was overtaken by one of his fits, which was so violent that it quite terrified me. I shouted out, called for help, gave the name of his inn and begged that he should be carried there. Then, whilst the crowd gathered and pressed round him, where he had fallen insensible and foaming in the middle of the street, the poor man was abandoned by the sole friend upon whom he might have counted. I seized a moment when no one was looking, dodged round the street corner and disappeared. Heaven be praised that I have finished this third disgraceful confession! If I had many more like it to make, I should abandon this work that I have begun.
Of all that I have related so far some record has remained in one or another of the places where I have lived. But what I have to tell in the book that follows is almost entirely unknown. These are the wildest extravagances of my life, and it is lucky that they ended in no worse a way than they did. But my head was tuned to the pitch of a strange instrument, and was out of its proper key. It recovered of itself, and then I gave up my follies, or rather I committed others more in keeping with my nature. This period of my youth is the one about which my ideas are the most confused. Hardly anything happened that sufficiently stirred my feelings for me to preserve a lively recollection of it; and it will be strange if, amongst so many comings and goings, amongst so many successive moves, I do not make some confusions of time and place. I am writing entirely from memory, without notes or materials to recall things to my mind. There are some events in my life that are as vivid as if they had just occurred. But there are gaps and blanks that I cannot fill except by means of a narrative as muddled as the memory I preserve of the events. I may therefore have made mistakes at times, and I may still make some over trifles, till I come to the days when I have more certain information concerning myself. But over anything that is really relevant to the subject I am certain of being exact and faithful, as I shall always endeavour to be in everything. That is something that can be counted on.
As soon as I had left M. le Maître my mind was made up, and I set off back to Annecy. Owing to the purpose and secrecy of our departure I had been greatly concerned for the success of our escape. This interest had occupied me entirely, and for some days diverted me from those thoughts which called me home. But once our safety left me calmer my dominant feeling recovered its hold. Nothing flattered me, nothing tempted me, I had no desire for anything except to return to Mamma. The faithful tenderness of my devotion to her had rid my head of all imaginative plans and all the follies of ambition. I could see no other happiness now except that of living beside her, and I did not go a step without feeling that I was moving away from that happiness. I went back to her therefore as soon as it was possible. So speedy was my return and so distracted were my thoughts that though I remember all my other journeys with so much pleasure I have not the least recollection of this one, except of my departure from Lyons and my arrival at Annecy. I leave it to be imagined whether this last event ever could have escaped my memory. When I arrived I found Mme de Warens gone; she had left for Paris.
I have never learnt the real secret of that journey.* She would have told it to me, I am sure, if I had pressed her. But no man was ever less curious than I about his friends’ secrets. My heart, being solely taken up with the present, is entirely filled with it and, except for past pleasures, which will henceforth be my only enjoyment, I have never a corner empty for that which is no more. All that I could guess from the little she told me is that in the revolution caused by the King of Sardinia’s abdication† she was afraid of being forgotten and, with the assistance of the intriguing M. d’Aubonne, decided to look for a similar position with the French Court,‡ which she has often told me she would have preferred, since the press of important business prevents one from being so disagreeably and closely watched in Paris. If that is the truth, it is most surprising that she did not receive an unpleasant reception on her return and that she continued to draw her pension without any interruption. Many people have supposed that she was entrusted with some secret commission, either by the bishop, who had business at that time with the French Court and was obliged to go there himself, or by someone even more powerful, who knew how to ensure her a favourable reception on her return. One thing is certain, if that is the case; such an ambassadress was no bad choice. For she was still young and beautiful, and had all the talents needed to gain the advantage in any negotiations.
BOOK FOUR
1731–1732 I came and found her gone. Judge of my surprise and my grief. Not till then did my regret at my cowardly abandonment of M. le Maître begin to make itself felt. It became even keener when I learnt of the misfortune that had befallen him. His box of music, which contained his whole fortune, his precious box which had cost us such trouble to save, had been seized on his arrival in Lyons at the instance of Count Dortan, whom the Chapter had informed by letter of its furtive removal. In vain had Le Maître claimed his property, his means of livelihood, the labour of his whole life. The ownership of that box was at least a matter to be disputed at court; but there was no trial. The matter was decided on the spot by the law of the stronger, and so poor Le Maître lost the fruit of his talents, the work of his youth, and the resource of his old age.
The blow I received lacked nothing to render it overwhelming. But I was of an age when great griefs have little hold, and I soon invented consolations for myself. I reckoned shortly to have news of Mme de Warens, although I did not know her address, and she did not know that I had returned; and as for my desertion of M. le Maître, all things considered, I did not find it blameworthy. I had been useful to him in his escape, and that was the only service incumbent upon me. If I had stayed with him in France I should not have cured him of his complaint. I should not have saved his box. All I should have done would have been to double his expenses without being of any service to him. That is how I saw matters then; I see them differently to-day. It is not when one has just performed a wicked action that it tortures one. It is when one remembers it long afterwards; for the memory of it never disappears.
The only way in which I could get news of Mamma was to wait. For where could I look for her in Paris, and where find money for the journey? Nowhere was I more certain sooner or later to learn of her whereabouts than at Annecy. So I stayed there. But I behaved pretty badly. I did not call on the Bishop, who had looked after me, and might do so again. I had no longer my mistress to speak for me and I was afraid of being reprimanded for our flight. Still less did I go to the seminary; M. Gros was no longer there. I saw no one of my acquaintance. I should very much have liked to call on the Intendant’s wife, but I had not the courage. I did much worse than this. I sought out M. Venture, to whom I had not even given a thought since my departure, despite my infatuation. I found him sparkling and fêted by the whole of Annecy; the ladies fought for him. His success completely turned my head. I saw no one at all except M. Venture, and he almost made me forget Mme de Warens. In order to have greater opportunities to profit from his example, I proposed to him that I should share his lodgings. He was living with a shoemaker, a pleasant clownish individual who, in his dialect, never called his wife anything but sloven, a name she sufficiently deserved. He had quarrels with her, which Venture was at some pains to prolong under the pretence of trying to make them up. In his cold voice and with his Provençal accent he made remarks that had the utmost effect; the scenes there were enough to make one laugh aloud. In this way the mornings went by almost unnoticed; at two o’clock or three we had something to eat. Then Venture went out to visit his friends, with whom he had supper, and I went off to walk alone, meditating upon his great virtues, admiring and envying his rare talents, and cursing my unlucky star for not summoning me to a happy life like his. Oh, how little I knew myself! My own life would have been a hundred times more attractive if I had been less stupid, and if I had known better how to enjoy it.
Mme de Warens had taken no one with her but Anet; she ha
d left her maid Merceret, of whom I have already spoken, behind. I found her still occupying her mistress’s room. Mlle Merceret was a little older than I, not a pretty girl but pleasant enough, a good creature from Fribourg with no malice about her, and in whom I never discovered any worse failing than being at times somewhat argumentative with her mistress. I went to see her often; she was an old acquaintance, and the sight of her reminded me of one still dearer to me, for whose sake I loved her. She had several. women friends, among them a Mlle Giraud, a Genevese, who, for my sins, took it into her head to fancy me. She was always pressing Merceret to bring me to see her, and I let myself be brought, because I was rather fond of Merceret, and because there were other young people there whom I enjoyed meeting. As for Mlle Giraud, who tried all sorts of ways of attracting me, nothing could have increased the aversion I felt for her. When she thrust her dry snout into my face, all dirty with snuff, I could scarcely refrain from spitting. But I kept my patience. Besides I enjoyed myself very much among all those girls; and either in order to make up to Mlle Giraud, or for my own sake, they all vied with one another in their attentions to me. I saw nothing but friendship in all this. I have thought since that it only depended on me to find something more in it. But that never occurred to me; I never gave the subject a thought.
Besides, seamstresses, chambermaids, and shop girls hardly tempted me; I needed young ladies. Everyone has his fancies, and that has always been mine; it is a point on which my ideas differ from Hòrace’s. However it is certainly not pride of rank or position that attracts me. It is a better preserved complexion, lovelier hands, greater elegance in jewellery, an air of cleanliness and refinement about a woman’s whole person, better taste in her way of dressing and expressing herself, a finer and better made gown, a neater pair of shoes, ribbons, lace, better done hair. I should always prefer the less pretty woman of two if she had more of all that. I find this prejudice most absurd myself; but my heart dictates it, in spite of me.
Well, these advantages offered themselves once more, and it only depended on me to take advantage of them. How I love, from time to time, to come upon the pleasant moments of my youth! They were so sweet! They have been so brief, so rare, and I have enjoyed them at such slight cost! Ah, their mere memory still gives my heart a pure delight, which I need in order to restore my courage and to sustain the tedium of my remaining years.
The dawn seemed so beautiful to me one morning that I hastily dressed and hurried out into the country to see the sunrise. I relished this pleasure with all its charms; it was in the week after St John’s Day.* The earth, in all its adornment, was thick with grasses and flowers; the nightingales, whose song was almost over, seemed to delight in warbling the louder; all the birds were paying their concerted farewells to Spring, and greeting the birth of a fine summer day, one of those lovely days that one sees no more at my age, and that have never been seen in the melancholy land† where I am now living.
I had, without perceiving it, gone some distance from the town, the heat was increasing, and I was walking in the shade, in a valley, along a stream. I heard the sound of horses behind me, and the voices of girls, who seemed in difficulties, but were laughing heartily about them all the same. I turned round; I was called by my name. I went up and met two young persons of my acquaintance, Mlle de Graffenried and Mlle Galley, who, not being good horsewomen, were unable to make their mounts cross the stream. Mlle de Graffenried was a most charming young lady from Berne, who had been expelled from her country for some juvenile folly and had followed the example of Mme de Warens, at whose house I had sometimes seen her. But having, unlike Mamma, received no pension, she had been only too glad to attach herself to Mlle Galley, who had conceived a friendship for her and persuaded her mother to let her stay as her companion until she could be somehow provided for. Mlle Galley was a year younger than her friend, and even prettier. There was something more delicate, something more refined about her. Her figure was very small but at the same time very well developed – the stage at which a girl is at her loveliest. These two had a great affection for one another, and they were both so good by nature that their friendship was certain to be of long duration unless some lover came to interrupt it. They told me that they were going to Toune,* an old castle belonging to Mme Galley, and begged for my help in getting their horses across, since they could not manage it themselves. I wanted to use the whip. But they were afraid that I might be kicked and they might be thrown. So I tried another method. I took Mlle Galley’s horse by the bridle and, pulling it after me, crossed the stream with the water halfway up my legs. The other horse made no difficulty about following. This done, I was on the point of taking leave of the ladies, and going off like a fool. They exchanged a few whispered words, however, and Mlle de Graffnried said to me: ‘Oh no, not at all. You can’t run away from us like that. You have got wet in our service, and we are in conscience bound to see that you get dry. You must come with us, if you please. You are our prisoner, under arrest.’ My heart beat; I looked at Mlle Galley. ‘Yes, yes,’ she put in, laughing at my look of fright. ‘Prisoner of war. Get up on the crupper behind her. We mean to render a good account of you.’ ‘But, Mademoiselle, I have not the honour of your mother’s acquaintance. What will she say when she sees me?’ ‘Her mother,’ replied Mlle de Graffnried, ‘is not at Toune. We are on our own, and we are returning this evening. You will come back with us?’
No electric spark could be quicker than the effect her words had upon me. As I leapt on Mlle de Graffenried’s horse I was trembling with joy. And when I had to put my arms around her to keep on, my heart beat so fast that she noticed it and told me that hers was beating too out of fear of falling off. This, considering my position, was almost an invitation to verify the fact. But I did not dare, and all through the journey my two arms were like a belt around her, a very tight one it is true, but they did not stray for a moment. Some women who read this may feel like boxing my ears – and they would not be wrong.
The gaiety of the trip and the girls’ chatter made me so talkative that right up till evening, all the time we were together, we were never quiet for a second. They had put me so completely at my ease that my tongue spoke as much as my eyes, though it did not say the same things. Only at occasional moments, when I was alone with one or the other of them, did the conversation become a little embarrassed. But the missing one came back so quickly as to leave no time for us to examine the reason for our discomfort.
When we reached Toune and I was thoroughly dried, we had lunch. Then it was necessary to proceed to the important matter of preparing dinner. The two young ladies left their cooking from time to time to kiss the farmer’s children; and as the poor scullion watched them he champed at his bit. Provisions had been sent from the town, and there were all the ingredients for a very good dinner, dainties especially. But unfortunately the wine had been forgotten. This omission was not surprising, for these girls hardly drank any. But I was annoyed, for I had somewhat counted on its aid to embolden me. They were annoyed also, perhaps for the same reason, though I do not think so. Their bright and charming high spirits were innocence itself. And, besides, what use could I be to them, they being two? They sent all round the neighbourhood to look for some wine, but none was found, the peasants of this canton being both sober and poor. When they expressed their regret, I told them not to be too concerned, for they had no need to get wine in order to intoxicate me. That was the only compliment I had the courage to pay them all day. But I think the minxes saw well enough that it was not an empty one.
We dined in the farm, the two friends sitting on benches on either side of the long table and their guest between them on a three-legged stool. What a dinner! What a most charming memory! Why, when one can enjoy such pure and genuine pleasures so cheaply, must one try to find others? Never could a supper at any little place in Paris compare with that meal. I do not mean only for its gaiety and its charm and joy; I mean also for its sensuous pleasure.
After our dinner we made an eco
nomy. Instead of taking the coffee which remained over from lunch we kept it for the afternoon to drink with the cream and cakes they had brought; and to keep up our appetites we went into the orchard to finish our dessert with cherries. I climbed a tree and threw them down bunches; and they returned me the stones up through the branches. Once Mlle Galley presented such a mark with her apron held out and her head back, and I aimed so well, that I dropped a bunch into her bosom. How we laughed! ‘Why are not my lips cherries?’ I said to myself. ‘How gladly would I throw them there, for both of them, if they were!’
Thus we spent the day amusing ourselves at absolute liberty, but always with the utmost propriety. Not a single doubtful word, not a single risky joke; and we did not impose this restraint on ourselves in any way. It was there of its own accord. We took the tone our hearts dictated. My modesty – some might say my foolishness – was so intense, indeed, that the greatest freedom I allowed myself was once to kiss Mlle Galley’s hand. It is true that the circumstances lent importance to this slight favour. We were alone. I found it difficult to breathe; her eyes were cast down and my mouth, instead of finding words, preferred to fasten on her hand, which she softly withdrew after receiving my kiss, at the same time giving me a look that showed no annoyance. I do not know what I might have said to her. But her friend came in, and at that moment seemed to me quite ugly.
Finally they remembered that they must not wait till night to return to the town. We had only just time enough to get back by day-light, and we hurriedly set off riding as we had come. If I had dared, I would have altered the arrangement, for Mlle Galley’s glance had sharply stirred my feelings. But I dared not say anything, and it was not for her to make the. suggestion. On our way we said it was a pity the day was over. But far from complaining that it had been short we declared that we had found the secret of making it long, thanks to all the amusements we had been able to fill it with.
The Confessions Page 17