The Confessions

by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

  If Christian morality had not existed, I think that she would have followed its principles, so completely did it coincide with her character. She did all that was prescribed; but she would have done it all the same if it had not been prescribed. In unimportant matters she loved to obey; and if she had not been allowed, or even required, to eat meat on fast days, she would have fasted in private and to please God, without paying the least regard to considerations of prudence. But her whole morality was subordinated to M. de Tavel’s principles; or rather she claimed to find nothing contradictory to it in them. She could have slept with twenty men every day with a clear conscience, and with no more scruple about it than desire. I know that plenty of religious people are no more scrupulous on this point, but the difference is that they are led away by their passions, and she only by her sophistry. During the most moving -1 could even say the most edifying – conversation she could allude to this subject without any change in her voice or manner, or any thought of being self-contradictory. She could even interrupt her talk, if need be, for the act itself, and then resume it with the same serenity as before: so absolute was her conviction that the whole question was no more than one of social convention which every intelligent person was at liberty to interpret, apply, or reject, without reference to anything else and without the least danger of offending God. Although I was certainly not of her opinion on this point, I confess that I had not the courage to dispute it, out of shame for the ungallant role I should have had to assume in order to do so. I might have tried to establish a rule for others, whilst trying to secure exemption for myself. But not only was her temperament a sufficient protection against the abuse of her principles, I knew also that she was not a woman to be deceived, and that to obtain an exemption for myself was to establish one for any man who might please her. I merely mention this in passing, along with the rest of her inconsistencies, although it had very little effect on her conduct – at that time none at all; but I have promised to give a faithful account of her principles, and I wish to keep my word. I will return now to myself.

  Finding in her all the principles I needed to fortify my soul against the terror of death and its aftermath, I drew with security on this source of confidence. I became more closely attached to her than ever before; and would gladly have handed my whole life over to her, now that I felt it about to leave me. From this redoubled attachment to her, from the conviction that I had not long to live and from my profound confidence in my future fate, arose an habitual state of tranquillity, of sensual enjoyment even, which in allaying all those passions that banish our hopes and fears to a distance, left me to the untroubled, unapprehensive enjoyment of the few days that remained to me. One thing contributed towards making them more pleasant; and that was my endeavour to foster her taste for the country by means of every amusement I could devise. By making her love her garden, her chicken-yard, her pigeons, and her cows, I came to grow fond of them all myself; and these little occupations, which filled my day without disturbing my tranquillity, were more valuable to me than the milk and all the other remedies which were to preserve my poor frame and restore it, in so far as that was possible.

  The grape harvest and the fruit gathering amused us for the rest of that year, and made us grow fonder and fonder of country life among the good people by whom we were surrounded. We were very sorry to see the approach of winter, and returned to the town as if into exile – especially I, who did not expect to see another spring, and thought that I was taking a final leave of Les Charmettes. I did not depart without kissing the earth and the trees, and turning back again and again as we went away. Having long ago given up my girl pupils and lost my taste for the amusements and society of the town, I saw no one except Mamma and M. Salomon, who had recently become her doctor and mine. He was a decent man, an intelligent man and a great Cartesian, who talked tolerably well about the workings of the world; in fact, his pleasant and instructive conversation did me more good than all his prescriptions. I have never been able to endure the silly nonsense with which ordinary conversation is padded out; but useful and serious talk has always given me great pleasure, and I have never refused to take part in it. I was very fond of M. Salomon’s; for I seemed in his company to be enjoying a foretaste of that higher knowledge which my soul would acquire, once free from its earthly trammels. My liking for him extended to the subjects he discussed, and I began to look for books which would help me to understand them better. Those which combined devotion and the sciences suited me best; especially those of the Oratory and Port-Royal,* which I began to read or rather to devour. One fell into my hands entitled Conversations on the Sciences by Father Lamy, which was a sort of introduction to the subjects treated in such books. I read it and re-read it a hundred times, and finally felt myself drawn little by little, despite my condition – or rather because of it – by some irresistible force towards study; and whilst I looked on every day as my last I studied as ardently as if I were likely to live for ever. They said that this did me harm. I think, myself, that it did me good, and good not only to my soul but to my body. For my reading, which was a passion with me, became so delightful to me that I thought no more of my ills and was much less afflicted by them. It is true, nevertheless, that nothing gave me real relief; but suffering no acute pain, I grew used to languishing, to not sleeping, to thinking instead of acting, and finally, to looking on the gradual and slow decay of my frame as an inevitable progress that could only be halted by death.

  These thoughts not only freed me from all the vain cares of life, but they delivered me from all those tiresome remedies which had been inflicted on me in spite of myself. Salomon was convinced that his drugs could not save me, and so spared me the unpleasantness of taking them, and was content to soothe poor Mamma’s grief by a few of those harmless prescriptions which give the sick man false hopes and maintain die doctor’s reputation. I gave up my strict diet; I began to drink wine again, and to resume the habits of a healthy man in so far as my strength would allow. I was moderate in everything, but abstained from nothing. I even went out and began to see my acquaintances again, particularly M. de Conzié, whose company greatly pleased me. In fact, whether because it seemed a fine thing to keep on learning to my last hour, or because some slight hope of life remained at the bottom of my heart, the expectation of death, far from diminishing my taste for study, seemed to stimulate it, and I hastened to collect a little knowledge for the next world, as if in the conviction that I should find no more there than I brought with me. I became very fond of M. Bouchard’s bookshop, which was frequented by certain men of letters; and when that spring drew near, which I had expected never to see again, I looked out a few books for Les Charmettes, in case I should be so lucky as to return there.

  I was so lucky, and I took every possible advantage of my good fortune. The joy with which I saw the first buds is beyond description. Watching the spring again was like a resurrection into paradise. No sooner did the snows begin to melt than we left our dungeon, and returned to Les Charmettes in time for the first notes of the nightingale. Trom that moment I no longer thought I was dying; and it is really most peculiar, but I have never had any serious illness in the country. I have often been in pain there, but never confined to my bed. Often I have said, when I have felt less well than usual, ‘When you see me at the point of death, carry me into the shade of an oak, and I promise you I shall recover.’

  Although I was weak I resumed my rural occupations, but to an extent proportionate to my strength. I was really upset not to be able to manage the garden on my own. But after digging half a dozen spadefuls of earth I was out of breath, dripping with sweat, and could do no more. When I stooped, my palpitations increased and the blood flew so violently to my head that I had to stand up again immediately. Being forced to confine myself to less exhausting jobs, I undertook, amongst other things, the care of the pigeon-house, of which I became so fond that I often spent several hours on end there without a moment of boredom. Pigeons are very shy and hard to tame; yet
I succeeded in inspiring mine with such confidence that they followed me everywhere and let me catch them whenever I wanted to. I could not come out into the garden or the yard without two or three immediately perching on my arms or my head; and finally, despite the joy I took in them, my followers became so tiresome to me that I was obliged to break them of their familiarity. I have always taken particular pleasure in taming animals, particularly timid and wild ones. I found it delightful to inspire them with a confidence which I have never abused; I wanted them to love me and yet be quite free.

  I have said that I brought some books; and of these I made use, though in a manner more exhausting than instructive. My illusions about the world caused me to think that in order to benefit by my reading I ought to possess all the knowledge the book presupposed. I was very far indeed from imagining that often the author did not possess it himself, but had extracted it from other books, as and when he needed it. This foolish conviction forced me to stop every moment, and to rush incessantly from one book to another; sometimes before coming to the tenth page of the one I was trying to read I should, by this extravagant method, have had to run through whole libraries. Nevertheless I stuck to it so persistently that I wasted infinite time, and my head became so confused that I could hardly see or take in anything. Luckily I saw that I was on a false track which was leading me into an immense labyrinth, and abandoned it before getting quite lost.

  If one has any taste for learning, however slight, the first thing one feels in applying oneself to it is the interconnexion of the sciences, which causes them to attract, help, and throw light one on another, so that none is independent of the rest. Although the human mind is too weak to grasp them all and must always select one as its prime interest, unless a man has some notion of the others he is often in the dark in his own. I felt that what I had undertaken was good and useful in itself, only that my method ought to be changed. For a start I took the Encyclopaedia and began dividing it according to subjects. But soon I saw that I had to do quite the opposite, to take each subject separately and pursue it on its own up to the point where they all joined. Thus I came back to the common synthesis, but I came back to it as a man who knows what he is doing. Now meditation supplied the place of knowledge, and a natural reflectiveness helped to guide me on the way. Whether I lived or died I had no time to lose. To know nothing at nearly twenty-five, and to wish to know everything, entailed making the very best use of my days. Not knowing at what point fate or death might put an end to my endeavours, I decided, come what might, to get some idea about every subject, for the purpose not only of discovering my natural abilities but of deciding which was the best brand of knowledge to pursue.

  In the execution of this plan I found another advantage which I had not expected: I made the best possible use of a great deal of time. I cannot have been born to study, for continuous application so wearies me that I am utterly unable to devote half an hour on end to a single subject, especially when following someone else’s train of thought; though sometimes I have been able to attend longer to my own, and even with a fair measure of success. When I have followed an author who requires concentrated reading for a few pages my mind forsakes him and loses itself in the clouds. If I persist I exhaust myself to no purpose; I become dazed and cease to see anything. But if I take different subjects in succession, even without any pause, one refreshes me from the fatigue of the other, and I feel no need for relaxation but follow them all with greater ease. I benefited by this observation in framing my plan of studies, and varied them in such a manner that I was busy all day and never tired. It is true that my duties in the garden and the house made useful diversions. But, as my eagerness grew, I soon found means of contriving more time for reading, and of doing two things at once, without noticing that both were done worse as a result.

  Although I am recounting all these trivial details which have such a charm for me, but which must often weary my reader, I am nevertheless exercising a certain restraint which he might hardly suspect if I did not take care to call his attention to it. Here, for instance, I remember with delight all the various attempts I made to apportion my time in such a way as to derive the greatest possible pleasure and profit from it. And I can say that never in all my life was I so seldom idle or bored as at this period when I was living in retirement and in continuous ill-health. Two or three months were thus employed in testing the bent of my mind and in enjoying the charm of life, at the loveliest season of the year and in a spot which that season made delightful. But not only did I enjoy the charm of life, the value of which I felt so deeply, but also the charm of unrestrained and sweet society – if such a name should be given to a union so perfect – and of the wonderful knowledge I was setting out to acquire. For it seemed to me as if I already possessed it, or rather things were still better than that since the pleasure of learning played a great part in my happiness.

  I must pass over these experiments, which were all delights to me but which are too simple to be capable of description. Indeed, true happiness is quite indescribable; it can only be felt, and the stronger the feeling the less it can be described, because it is not the result of a collection of facts but a permanent state. I often repeat myself, but I should do so still more were I to revert to this same subject as often as it comes into my mind. When finally my most variable way of life assumed some uniformity, my day was divided in more or less this fashion.

  I got up every morning before sunrise and climbed through a near-by orchard on to a road above the vineyard which ran along the hill as far as Chambéry. As I walked up there I said my prayers, which did not consist merely of a vain motion of the lips but of a sincere raising of the heart towards the Creator of that beauteous Nature whose charms lay beneath my eyes. I have never liked to pray in a room; walls and all the little works of man come between myself and God. I love to contemplate Him in His works, while my heart uplifts itself to Him. I venture to say that my prayers were pure, and for that reason deserved to be heard. For myself and for her whom I always remembered in them, I asked no more than an innocent and peaceful life, free from all wickedness, grief, and distressing want, and that we should die the death of the just, and share their fate in the hereafter. For the rest my worship consisted rather of wonder and contemplation than of petitionary prayer. For I knew that the best means of obtaining from the Dispenser of all benefits those benefits that are necessary to us was to deserve them and not ask for them. I returned by a fairly roundabout way, contemplating as I walked, with both interest and pleasure, the country scene all around me, the only one of which the eye and the heart never tire. From a distance I looked to see if it was day yet with Mamma, and if her shutters were open I started with joy and ran to her. If they were shut I went into the garden and amused myself till she woke up, by going over what I had learnt the evening before or by gardening. The shutters opened, and I went to kiss her in bed, often still half asleep; and that kiss, as pure as it was tender, derived a charm from its very innocence that is never present in the delights of the senses.

  We usually breakfasted on white coffee, and had more leisure then than at any other hour of the day. We would sit and chat at our ease, generally spending rather long at the table, and from that time I have had a great liking for breakfast, infinitely preferring the fashion in England and Switzerland, where breakfast is really a meal attended by all the family, to the French custom whereby everyone breakfasts alone in his room, or more often does not breakfast at all. After an hour or two of chat, I went to my books until dinner. I began with some philosophical work such as the Logic of Port-Royal, Locke’s Essay, Malebranche, Leibnitz, or Descartes. I soon observed that all these authors were almost perpetually at variance with one another, and I conceived the fanciful notion of reconciling them, which cost me much labour and waste of time. I muddled my head, and made not the least progress. Finally I gave up this plan, and adopted an infinitely better one, to which I attribute all the progress that I may have made, notwithstanding my lack of talents – fo
r there is no doubt that I never possessed much capacity for study. As I read each author, I made a rule of adopting and following all his ideas without adding on any of my own or of anyone else’s, and without ever arguing with him. ‘Let us begin’, I said to myself, ‘by collecting a store of ideas, true and false but all of them clear, until my mind is sufficiently equipped to be able to compare them and choose between them.’ This method is not without its drawbacks, I know; but it helped in attaining my object of self-tuition. After I had spent some years never thinking independently, but always following the thoughts of others, unreflectively, so to speak, and almost without reasoning, I found myself equipped with a great enough fund of learning to be self-sufficient and to think without the help of another. Then when travelling and business made it impossible for me to consult books I amused myself by going over and comparing what I had read, by weighing everything on the scales of reason, and by sometimes passing judgement on my masters. I did not find that my critical faculty had lost its vigour through my having begun to use it so late; and when I published my own ideas I was not accused of being a servile disciple, or of swearing in verba magistri.*

  I went on from there to elementary geometry, beyond which I never advanced, but persistently tried to conquer my wretched memory by retracing my steps countless times, and by incessantly going over the same ground. I did not like Euclid, who is more concerned with a series of proofs than with a chain of ideas; I preferred the geometry of Father Lamy, who from that time became one of my favourite authors, and whose works I still re-read with pleasure. When I was more advanced I took up Father Reynaud’s Science of Calculation, and then his Analysis Demonstrated, which I only managed to skim. I have never been sufficiently advanced really to understand the application of algebra to geometry. I disliked that way of working without seeing what one is doing; solving a geometrical problem by equations seemed to me like playing a tune by turning a handle. The first time I found by calculation that the square of a binomial figure was composed of the square of each of its parts added to twice the product of one by the other, despite the fact that my multiplication was right I was unable to trust it until I had drawn the figure on paper. It was not that I had not a great liking for algebra, considered as an abstract subject; but when it was applied to the measuring of space, I wanted to see the operation in graphic form; otherwise I could not understand it at all.