The Confessions

by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

  I left them at almost the same spot where they had picked me up. How sorry we were to part! With what pleasure did we plan to meet again! Twelve hours spent together were as good as centuries of intimacy. The sweet memory of that day cost those charming girls nothing. The tender union which had prevailed between us three was quite as good as any livelier pleasures, and could not have subsisted alongside them. We loved one another without secrecy or shame, and were ready to go on loving one another like that for ever. Innocence has its own delights which are as sweet as the other kind, since they have no intervals but continue unbroken. For my part, I know that the memory of a day as lovely as that touches me more, charms me more, and recurs to my heart more often than does the thought of any delights I have tasted in all my life. I did not exactly know what I wanted from those two charming girls, but they both attracted me exceedingly. I do not say that if I had been master of the situation, my heart would not have been divided. I felt a slight preference. I should have been delighted to have Mlle de Graffnried for my mistress. But, could I have chosen, I should have preferred her as an intimate friend. However that may be, I felt as I left them that I could not live without them both. Who could have told that I should never see them again in all my life, and that there was the end of our ephemeral love?

  Anyone reading this will not fail to laugh at my amorous adventures, and observe that after lengthy preliminaries the most advanced of them concluded with a kiss of the hand. Make no mistake, my readers. I probably had more pleasure from this affair which ended with a kiss of the hand than you will ever have from yours which, at the very least, begin there.

  Venture, who had gone to bed very late the night before, returned shortly after me. On that occasion I had not the same pleasure in seeing him as usual, and I took care not to tell him how I had spent the day. The young ladies had spoken of him rather contemptuously, and had seemed to me displeased to learn I was in such bad hands. This did him harm in my eyes. Besides, anything that took my mind from them could not fail to be disagreeable. However, he soon brought me back to himself, and to myself, by talking to me of my situation. It was too critical to last long. Although I spent exceedingly little, my small purse was on the point of exhaustion. I had no resources. No news of Mamma. I did not know what to do, and I felt a cruel pang at my heart on seeing Mlle Galley’s friend reduced to charity.

  Venture said that he had spoken of me to the King’s Justice,* and would take me to dine with him the next day; that he was a man in the position to assist me through his friends and, anyhow, a good acquaintance to make, an intelligent and learned person and very good company, who had talent himself and appreciated it in others. Then mixing, as usual, the utmost frivolities with matters of great importance, he showed me a pretty rhyme, fresh from Paris and set to an air from one of Mouret’s operas which was then being played. This rhyme had so pleased M. Simon – which was the King’s Justice’s name – that he intended to compose another in reply and to the same air. He had also asked Venture to compose one, and Venture had the mad idea of making me compose yet a third, in order, as he said, that rhymes might be seen arriving the next day like the sedan-chairs in Scarron’s Roman comique.

  That night, being unable to sleep, I made the best rhyme I could. As the first verses I had ever made they were passable; better even, or at least composed in better taste, than they would have been the evening before, since the subject turned on a tender situation, to which my heart was now attuned. When I showed my rhymes to Venture in the morning he declared them neat and put them in his pocket, without telling me whether he had composed his. We went to dine at M. Simon’s, and he welcomed us. The conversation was pleasant, as it could not fail to be between two intelligent men who had made use of their reading. For my part, I played my role, I listened and kept quiet. Neither of them mentioned the rhyme, and I did not either. So far as I know, mine was never discussed.

  M. Simon appeared pleased with my bearing, which was about all he saw of me at that interview. He had seen me several times before at Mme de Warens’s, without paying any great attention to me. So it is from that dinner that I can date my acquaintance with him, which was of no assistance to me in the matter for which I had made it, but from which I subsequently derived other advantages which cause me to remember him with pleasure.

  I should be wrong to omit a description of his appearance. For, considering his capacities as a magistrate and the wit upon which he prided himself, no one could form the least idea of it were I to pass it over. My Lord Justice Simon was positively under three feet high. His legs were straight, thin, and even rather long, and they would have made him taller if they had been upright. But they were set at an angle like an extended pair of compasses. His body was not only short but thin, and inconceivably small in every respect. He must have looked like a grasshopper when he was naked. His head was of natural size, with well-formed features, a distinguished expression, and rather fine eyes. It looked like a false head set on a stump. He might have spared himself any outlay in adornment, for his great wit clothed him from head to foot. He had two entirely different voices, which continually alternated in his conversation, making a contrast that was quite pleasant at first, but soon became most disagreeable. One was grave and sonorous; it was, if I may say so, the voice of his head. The other – clear, sharp, and piercing – was the voice of his body. When he listened to himself carefully, pronounced very deliberately and husbanded his breath, he could speak all the time with his deep voice. But if he got in the least excited and a livelier accent crept in, he sounded like someone whistling through a key, and had the utmost difficulty in recovering his bass.

  With the appearance I have described, which is by no means over-drawn, M. Simon was well-mannered, a great payer of compliments, and almost dandyish in the attention he paid to his dress. As he desired to make the best of himself, he liked giving his morning audiences in bed. For no one seeing a fine head on the pillow was likely to imagine that there was nothing more. This sometimes gave rise to scenes which I am sure all Annecy remembers to this day.

  One morning when he was waiting for litigants in – or rather upon – his bed, in a beautiful night cap of finest white linen decorated with two great knobs of rose-coloured ribbon, a peasant arrived and knocked at the door. The servant had gone out. My Lord Justice, hearing the knocks repeated, called ‘Come in.’ But his cry was a little too loud, and so came out in his shrill tone. The man entered and looked round to see where this woman’s voice came from and, seeing a woman’s mob cap and top-knot in the bed, was on the point of retiring, making profound apologies to the supposed lady. M. Simon became angry, which made him even shriller. The peasant, confirmed in his belief and thinking himself insulted, replied with abuse, remarking that here seemingly was nothing but a prostitute, and that the King’s Justice did not set much of an example in his own house. The King’s Justice was furious and, having no other weapon but his chamber-pot, was about to throw it at the poor man’s head when his housekeeper came in.

  This little dwarf, so ill-used by Nature in the matter of his body, had received compensation on the mental side. He had a naturally pretty wit and had been at pains to improve it. Although by all accounts he was a very fair lawyer, he had no love for his profession. He had devoted himself to literature with some success. He had acquired in particular that brilliant superficiality, that polish that lends grace to all relationships, even to those with women. He knew by heart all sorts of little stories and sayings by famous persons, and possessed the art of making the most of them, relating dramatically and with an air of secrecy, as if they had happened only the day before, incidents which were quite sixty years old. He understood music, and sang pleasantly in his manly voice; in fact he had many pretty accomplishments for a magistrate. By dint of flattering the ladies of Annecy, he had made himself the fashion with them; they kept him dancing attendance like a little monkey. He even pretended to have made his conquests, and that amused them greatly. A certain Mme d’Épagny said
that in his case the supreme favour was to kiss a woman on the knee.

  As he was familiar with fine literature and enjoyed talking about it, his conversation was not only entertaining but instructive. Subsequently, when I had acquired a taste for reading, I cultivated his acquaintance and gained great advantage from it. I sometimes went to see him from Chambéry, where I then was. He praised and encouraged my industry, and gave me good advice about my reading, by which I have often profited. Unfortunately in that puny body there dwelt a most sensitive soul. Some years later he had some unpleasant experience or other which grieved him deeply, and of which he died. It was sad, for he was certainly a good little man. One began by laughing at him, but ended by loving him. Although his life was only very slightly linked with mine, yet I received some useful lessons from him; and so I thought I might, out of gratitude, here dedicate a little memorial to him.

  As soon as I was free I ran to Mlle Galley’s street, fondly expecting to see someone go in or come out, or at least open a window. Nothing; not so much as a cat appeared; and all the time I was there the house remained as closed as if it had been uninhabited. The street was narrow and deserted; a man loitering would be noticed. From time to time someone passed – entering or leaving some neighbouring place. I was greatly embarrassed by my looks. I thought people would guess why I was there, and the idea was a torture to me. For I have always put the honour and quiet of those who were dear to me before my own pleasures.

  Finally, wearied of playing the Spanish lover and having no guitar, I decided to go and write to Mlle de Graffenried. I should have preferred to write to her friend. But I did not dare, and it was proper to begin with the one to whom I owed the other’s acquaintance, and with whom I was the more intimate. When my letter was written I took it to Mlle Giraud, according to my arrangement with the young ladies when we parted. It was they who had suggested this expedient. Mlle Giraud was an upholstress, and since she worked sometimes at Mme Galley’s she had the entry to the house. The messenger did not seem to me too well chosen, however. But I was afraid that if I were to make difficulties on this score, they would propose no one else. Besides, I dared not say that she was trying to work on her own account. I felt humiliated that she should dare to think of herself as of the same sex, in my eyes, as those young ladies. But, to be brief, I preferred her agency to none, and took my chance.

  At my first word Mlle Giraud guessed my secret; it was not difficult. If a letter to be delivered to some young ladies did not speak for itself, my stupid and embarrassed expression would have given me away of itself. It can be imagined that this commission gave her no great pleasure to perform. She accepted it all the same, and carried it out faithfully. I ran to her house next morning and found my answer. How I hurried to be outside to read and kiss it at my leisure! That requires no telling. But what is more interesting is Mlle Giraud’s behaviour, in which I found more refinement and reserve than I should have expected of her. Sensible enough to see that at the age of thirty-seven, with her pop-eyes, her snuff-stained nose, her shrill voice, and her discoloured skin, she stood no chance against two young ladies with all their graces and in the fine flower of their beauty, she decided neither to assist them nor to give them away, and preferred to lose me herself rather than get me for them.

  1732 Mlle Merceret, having received no news of her mistress, had been thinking for some time of returning to Fribourg. Mlle Giraud finally made up her mind for her. She went further; she convinced her that it would be right for someone to take her back to her father, and she proposed me. The little Merceret, who did not dislike me either, thought this idea a very good one. They discussed it with me the same day as a matter already settled; and as I found nothing displeasing about this way of being arranged for, I agreed, regarding the journey as the matter of a week at most. Mlle Giraud, who thought otherwise, arranged everything. I had to confess the state of my finances. Provision was made for me. Merceret undertook to pay my expenses; and in order to retrench on the one hand what it would cost her on the other, it was decided, at my entreaty, that her little luggage should be sent ahead, and that we should go on foot by small stages. And so we did.

  I am sorry to show so many girls in love with me. But as I have no reason to boast of any advantages I derived from these affairs, I think that I can tell the truth without scruple. Merceret, being younger and less brazen than Mlle Giraud, never made me such lively advances. But she imitated my accent and my intonations, repeated my expressions, and paid me all the attention that I should have paid her. She always took care, since she was very timid, that we should sleep in the same room, an arrangement that rarely stops at that point in the case of a lad of twenty and a girl of twenty-five on a journey.

  It did stop there on that occasion. Such was my simplicity that, Although Merceret was not disagreeable to me, not only did the slightest temptation to gallantry not enter my head, but I did not so much as think of anything of the kind; and even if the idea had come to me I should have been too stupid to know how to take advantage of it. I could not imagine how a girl and a young man could ever manage to sleep together. I believed that such a frightening familiarity would require ages of preparation. If the poor Merceret expected some compensation for the money she was paying out for me, she was deceived. We arrived at Fribourg exactly as we had left Annecy.

  I passed through Geneva without going to see anyone, but I almost felt faint as I crossed the bridges. Never have I seen the walls of that happy city, never have I entered it, without feeling a certain sinking of the heart, the product of an excess of emotion. The noble ideal of liberty exalted my spirit, while at the same time the thought of equality, unity, and gentleness of manners moved me to tears, and inspired me with a keen regret that I had lost all those blessings. How wrong I was, and yet how natural was my mistake! I imagined that I saw all this in my native land, because I carried it in my own heart

  We had to pass through Nyon. Pass through without seeing my good father! If I had had the courage to do that I should have died afterwards of sorrow. I left Merceret at the inn and took the chance of going to see him. Oh, how wrong I had been to be afraid of him! When I came his heart gave way to the paternal feelings that filled it.* What tears we shed as we embraced! He thought at first that I had returned to him. I told him my story, and what I was resolved to do. He opposed my plans, but feebly. He explained the danger I was exposing myself to, and said that the briefest follies were the best. For the rest, he felt not the least temptation to hold me back by force, and in that I think he was right. But certainly he did not do all that he might have done to bring me back, perhaps because he himself considered that after taking the step I had taken I ought not to retract from it, or perhaps because he was at a loss to know what he could do with me at my age. I have learned since that he had formed a most unfair opinion of my travelling companion, and one very far from the truth, though natural enough. My stepmother, a good creature though a little smooth, made a pretence of wanting to keep me for supper. I did not accept, but said that I counted on stopping with them longer on my return, and I left my little bundle in their care, having had it sent on by the boat and finding it a nuisance. Next day I set out early in the morning, very glad that I had seen my father and had the courage to do my duty.

  We arrived safely at Fribourg. Towards the end of our journey Mlle Merceret’s attentions grew some what less. After our arrival she treated me with nothing but coldness, and her father, who was not rolling in riches, did not give me a very good welcome either. So I put up at the inn. When I went to see them next day they offered me dinner, and I accepted. We parted dry-eyed. I returned that evening to my beer-shop, and I set out two days after I had arrived, without much idea where I intended to go.

  Here is another moment in my life when Providence offered me exactly what I needed in order to spend my days in happiness. Merceret was a very decent girl, not brilliant, not beautiful, but by no means plain either; not too lively, and very sensible except for occasional little tempers
, which passed off in tears and never had any stormy results. She had a real affection for me, and I should have had no difficulty in marrying her and following her father’s occupation.* My taste for music would have made me fond of it. I should have established myself at Fribourg, a little town which was not pretty, but inhabited by good people. I should no doubt have missed some great pleasures, but I should have lived in peace to my last hour. There was nothing to hesitate over in such a bargain, as I should know better than anyone else.

  I returned not to Nyon but to Lausanne. I wanted to feast my eyes on that lovely lake, which one sees there at its widest. Most of the secret motives which have guided my decisions have been equally flimsy. Distant prospects have rarely strength enough to make me act. The uncertainty of the future has always made me look on longdistance projects as lures for fools. I indulge in hopes like anyone else, so long as it costs me nothing to keep them alive. But if they involve time and trouble I am done with them. The smallest little pleasure that appears within my grasp tempts me more than the joys of paradise, except, however, such pleasures as are followed by pain, and they do not tempt me at all. For I only like unadulterated joys, and those one never has when one knows that one is laying up a store of repentance for oneself.

  I was in sore need of arriving at some place or other, the nearer the better. For, having lost my way, I found myself at Moudon one evening where I spent the little I had left, except for ten kreutzers, which went next day on my dinner; and when I arrived the next evening at a village near Lausanne I went into the inn without a penny to pay for my bed or any idea what to do. I was extremely hungry. So I put a good face on the matter and called for supper, as if I had the money to pay for it. Then I went up to bed without a thought, and slept peacefully; and when I had breakfasted next morning and reckoned up with the landlord, I offered to leave him my coat as a pledge for the seven batz which was the amount of my bill. The good fellow refused, saying that, Heaven be praised, he had never stripped anyone, and that he did not intend to begin now for seven batz. He told me to keep my coat and pay him when I could. I was touched by his kindness, but less touched than I should have been, and less so than I have been since when I have thought of this incident again. It was not long before I sent him his money by a trustworthy man, together with my thanks. But fifteen years later, passing through Lausanne on my way back from Italy I found with genuine regret that I had forgotten the name of the inn and the landlord. I should have gone to see him. It would have been a real pleasure to me to remind him of his good deed, and to show him that his kindness had not been misplaced. Services no doubt more important, but rendered with greater ostentation, have seemed to me less worthy of gratitude than that honest man’s simple and unpretentious humanity.