As I left, I made an appointment for the next day. I did not keep her waiting. I found her in vestito di confidenza, in a more than seductive undress, which is unknown except in southern lands and which I will not amuse myself by describing, although I remember it only too well. I will merely say that her ruffles and bodice were edged with silk thread ornamented with rose-coloured tufts, and this seemed to me to enhance the beauty of her very fine skin. I saw afterwards that it was the fashion in Venice; and its effect is so charming that I am surprised this fashion has never spread to France. I had no idea of the sensual pleasures in store for me. I have spoken of Mme de Larnage with the rapture that her memory still sometimes arouses in me. But how old and plain and cold she was compared to my Giulietta. Do not attempt to imagine the charms and graces of that enchanting girl. You would not come near to the truth. Young virgins in the cloisters are not more fresh, seraglio beauties are not so sportive, the houris of paradise are less enticing. Never was such sweet pleasure offered to mortal heart and senses. Alas, had I only known how to enjoy it fully and completely for a single second! I savoured it, but without enchantment. I dulled all its delights. I killed them as if on purpose. No, Nature has not made me for sensual delight. She has put the hunger for it in my heart, but what might be ineffable pleasure turns to poison in my wretched head.
If there is one incident in my life which plainly reveals my character, it is the one I am now going to describe. By forcibly reminding myself at this moment of the purpose of my book, I shall have strength to despise the false modesty which might prevent my fulfilling it. Whoever you may be that wish to know a man, have the courage to read the next two or three pages and you will have complete knowledge of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
I entered a courtesan’s room as if it were the sanctuary of love and beauty; in her person I felt I saw the divinity. I could never have believed it possible to feel anything like the emotion she inspired in me, without my also feeling a respect and esteem for her. No sooner did I recognize from our first familiarities the value of her charms and caresses than, fearing to lose the fruit prematurely, I tried to make haste and pluck it. Suddenly, instead of the fire that devoured me, I felt a deathly cold flow through my veins; my legs trembled; I sat down on the point of fainting, and wept like a child.
Who could guess the cause of my tears, or the thoughts that went through my head at that moment? ‘This thing which is at my disposal’, I said to myself, ‘is Nature’s masterpiece and love’s. Its mind, its body, every part is perfect. She is not only charming and beautiful, but good also and generous. Great men and princes should be her slaves. Sceptres should lie at her feet. Yet here she is, a wretched street-walker, on sale to the world. The captain of a merchant ship can dispose of her. She comes and throws herself at my head, at mine although she knows I am a nobody, although my merits, which she cannot know, would be nothing in her eyes. There is something incomprehensible about this. Either my heart deceives me, deludes my senses and makes me the dupe of a worthless slut, or some secret flaw that I do not see destroys the value of her charms and makes her repulsive to those who should be quarrelling for possession of her.’ I began to seek for that flaw with a singular persistence, and it did not so much as occur to me that the pox might have something to do with it. The freshness of her flesh, the brightness of her colouring, the whiteness of her teeth, the sweetness of her breath, the air of cleanliness that pervaded her person, so completely banished that idea from my mind that, being still in doubt about my own health since my visit to the padoana, I even felt some qualms about my not being wholesome enough for her, and I am quite convinced that I was not deceived in my confidence.
These well-timed reflections moved me to the point of tears, and Giulictta, for whom this sight was certainly an unusual one in such a situation, was momentarily at a loss. But after walking round the room and passing in front of her glass, she understood – and my eyes confirmed her reason – that repulsion had nothing to do with my freakish behaviour. It was not difficult for her to dispel my melancholy and rid me of my slight sense of shame. But just as I was about to sink upon a breast which seemed about to suffer a man’s lips and hand for the first time, I perceived that she had a malformed nipple. I beat my brow, looked harder, and made certain that this nipple did not match die other. Then I started wondering about the reason for this malformation. I was struck by the thought that it resulted from some remarkable imperfection of Nature and, after turning this idea over in my head, I saw as clear as daylight that instead of the most charming creature I could possibly imagine I held in my arms some kind of monster, rejected by Nature, men, and love, teamed my stupidity so far as to speak to her about her malformed nipple. First she took the matter as a joke and said and did things in her skittish humour that were enough to make me die of love. But as I still felt some remnant of uneasiness, which I could not conceal from her, I finally saw her blush, adjust her clothes, and take her place at the window, without a word. I tried to sit down beside her. She moved and sat down on a couch, then got up next moment and walked about the room, fanning herself. Finally she said to me in a cold and scornful voice: ‘Gianetto, lascia le donne, e studia la matematica.’*
Before leaving, I asked her for another appointment next day, which she put off till the third day, adding with an ironical smile that I must need a rest. I spent the time rather uneasily, with my heart full of her charms and graces, conscious of my strange behaviour and regretting the ill-use I had made of those moments which it had only rested with me to transform into the sweetest in my life. I waited with the liveliest impatience for the moment when I could make good my loss. Nevertheless I could not help uneasily wondering how I could reconcile the perfections of this adorable girl with the unworthiness of her trade. I ran, I flew to her at the hour appointed. I do not know whether her passionate temperament would have been better satisfied by this visit. At least her pride would have been nattered. I looked forward to the delicious pleasure of showing her the manifold ways in which I could repair my mistakes. She spared me the ordeal. The gondolier, whom I had sent to her rooms on landing, brought me the news that she had left on the previous evening for Florence. If I had not felt whole-hearted love when she was in my arms, I felt it most cruelly when I lost her. My insane regret has never left me. Pleasant and charming though she was in my eyes, I could console myself for her loss. But what I have never been able to console myself for is, I confess, that she only carried away a scornful memory of me.
There are my two stories. The eighteen months which† I spent in Venice have left me nothing else to relate but a simple project at the most. Carrio, who was a lady’s man, grew weary of always going to women who belonged to others and took it into his head to have one of his own; and as we were inseparable he suggested to me an arrangement which is not rare in Venice, that we should keep one between us. I agreed. The next question was to find a safe one. He made such thorough investigations that he unearthed a little girl of eleven or twelve, whom her wretched mother wanted to sell. We went to see her together. My pity was stirred at the sight of this child. She was fair and as gentle as a lamb. One would never have supposed she was an Italian. Living is very cheap in Venice. We gave the mother some money, and made arrangements for the daughter’s keep. She had a fine voice and, to provide her with a means of livelihood, we gave her a spinet and paid for a singing master. All this cost us barely two sequins a month each, and saved us more in other expenses, but as we had to wait till she was mature, we had to sow a great deal before we could reap. However we were content to go and spend our evenings there and chatter and play most innocently with the child, and perhaps we got more agreeable amusement than if we had possessed her; so true is it that what really attaches us to a woman is not so much sensual enjoyment as a certain pleasure in living beside her. Insensibly my heart grew fond of little Anzoletta, but with a paternal affection in which my senses played so little part that as it increased the possibility of sensuality entering into my feelings for h
er steadily diminished – I felt that I should be as horrified at approaching this child, once she was old enough, as at committing the crime of incest. I saw the good Carrio’s feelings, unknown to himself, taking the same form. We were procuring for ourselves, unthinkingly, pleasures no less charming but quite different from those we had first contemplated; and I am certain that, however beautiful that poor child might have become, far from being the corrupters of her innocence we should have been its guardians. My disaster, which came shortly afterwards, did not leave me time to play a part in this good work, and I can only take credit in this matter for the inclinations of my heart. Let us return to my journey.
My first plan on leaving M. de Montaigu was to retire to Geneva, and wait there till a happier fate should remove the obstacles and permit me to rejoin my poor Mamma. But the stir caused by our quarrel and his stupidity in writing about it to the Court made me decide to go to Paris myself, to give an account of my own conduct, and complain of that madman’s behaviour. From Venice I communicated this decision to M. Du Theil, who was temporarily in charge of foreign affairs after M. Amelot’s death. I left at the same time as my letter, and took the road through Bergamo, Como, and Domodossola, crossing the Simplon. At Sion, M. de Chaignon, the French chargé d’affaires, showed me great kindness, and at Geneva M. de La Closure did the same. I renewed acquaintance with M. de Gauffecourt, from whom I had some money to receive. I had passed through Nyon without seeing my father, not that it did not cost me some pangs, but I could not make up my mind to show myself to my stepmother after my disaster, for I was certain that she would condemn me unheard. Duvillard, the bookseller, an old friend of my father’s, reproached me severely for this wickedness. I explained the reason to him and, to repair it without running the risk of seeing my stepmother, I hired a carriage in which we went to Nyon together and put up at the inn. Duvillard went to find my poor father, who came running to embrace me. We supped together, and after spending an evening which warmed my heart I returned to Geneva next morning with Duvillard, to whom I have always felt grateful for the kindness he did me on that occasion.
My shortest way was not through Lyons. But I wanted to pass through that city in order to look into a very low trick of M. de Montaigu’s. I had sent to Paris for a little case containing a gold-embroidered waistcoat, some pairs of ruffles, and six pairs of white silk stockings: that was all. At his own suggestion I put this little case, or rather this box, with his baggage. On the apothecary’s bill which he insisted on giving me in payment of my salary, and which he had written with his own hand, he had stated that this box, which he called a bale, weighed eleven hundredweight, and he had charged me carriage on it at an enormous rate. Thanks to M. Boy de La Tour, to whom I was introduced by his uncle M. Roguin, it was verified from the customs registers at Lyons and Marseilles that the said bundle weighed no more than forty-five pounds, and that the carriage had been charged at this weight. I attached this authorized extract to M. de Montaigu’s bill and, armed with these documents and several others equally damning, I went to Paris, most impatient to make use of them. In all my long journey I had some little adventures, at Como, in the Valais, and elsewhere. I saw several sights, among others the Borromean Islands, which deserve description; but time presses. I am surrounded by spies and forced to perform hastily and badly a task which requires the leisure and tranquillity which I lack. If ever Providence casts eyes upon me, and at last grants me a less disturbed life, I will devote my days to recasting this work, if I can, or at least to adding a supplement, which I feel it greatly needs.*
The report of my story had preceded me, and when I arrived I found that everyone in public offices and in society was scandalized at the ambassador’s mad behaviour. Nevertheless, despite the public outcry in Venice and the irrefutable proofs that I produced, I could not obtain justice. In fact, far from getting satisfaction or reparation, I was left at the ambassador’s mercy for my salary, and this for the sole reason that, not being a Frenchman, I had no right to French protection, and the matter was therefore a private one between myself and him. Everyone agreed with me that I had been insulted and injured, and was most unfortunate; that the ambassador was crazy, cruel, and iniquitous, and that the whole affair would disgrace him for ever. But then he was the ambassador, and I was only the secretary. The laws of society, or what was so called, decreed that I should obtain no justice, and I obtained none. I imagined that if I complained and treated the fool publicly as he deserved I should finally be told to be quiet; and that was what I was waiting for, since I was firmly resolved not to obey until I had obtained a decision. But at that time there was no Minister of Foreign Affairs. They let me protest; they encouraged me, and joined in the chorus. But things remained in that state until I finally grew tired of always being right but never getting justice, became disheartened, and let the matter drop.
The only person who received me coldly was the one from whom I should least have expected such an injustice, Mme de Beuzenval. With her head full of prerogatives of rank and nobility, she could never imagine that an ambassador might be wrong and his secretary right. The reception she gave me was coloured by this prejudice; and I was so hurt that after leaving her house I wrote her one of the strongest and sharpest letters I can ever have written. I never went there again. Father Castel gave me a better welcome, but through his Jesuit smoothness I could see him very faithfully following one of the great maxims of the Society, that of always sacrificing the weaker to the stronger. My firm belief in the justice of my cause, and my national pride did not allow me to endure this partiality with patience. I gave up my visits to Father Castel, and consequently to the Jesuits, for I knew no one else there. Besides, the tyrannical and intriguing spirit of his colleagues, which was a great contrast to Father Hemet’s cordiality, gave me such a distaste for their company that I have never met one of them since that time, except for Father Berthier, whom I met two or three times at the Dupins’ house, where he was working extremely hard with that gentleman on a refutation of Montesquieu.
Let us conclude, once and for all, what remains for me to say about M. de Montaigu. I had told him during our dispute that what he needed was not a secretary but a lawyer’s clerk. He followed my advice and, indeed, engaged as my successor an actual lawyer who in under a year robbed him of twenty or thirty thousand livres. He dismissed him and had him imprisoned; he dismissed his gentlemen in disgrace, which provoked a scandal; he had all manner of quarrels, received insults that a valet would not have stomached, and at last, after a succession of follies, got himself recalled, and retired to his cabbages. Among the reprimands that he received from Court, his quarrel with me was apparently not forgotten. Shortly after his return, at any rate, he sent his steward to settle my account and give me some money. I was extremely short of it at the time; my Venetian debts – debts of honour if ever there were any – weighed on my spirits. I seized the chance that offered itself of discharging them, as well as Gianetto Nani’s bill, and accepted what he offered. I paid all my debts, and was left without a penny, as before, but relieved of a burden which had been unbearable. After that time I did not hear any other mention of M. de Montaigu until his death, of which I learnt from the newspaper. May God grant the poor man peace! He was as fitted to be an ambassador as I, in my youth, had been to be an attorney. Nevertheless, it had been in his power to acquit himself honourably with the aid of my services, and to ensure my rapid advancement in the profession for which Count de Gouvon had intended me in my youth, and in which I had in later life, by my own unaided efforts, made myself capable of taking a position.
The Confessions Page 39