I have said somewhere* that nothing must be granted to the senses when they have to be refused anything. In order to see how false this maxim proved in the case of Mme d’Houdetot, and how justified she was in counting on herself, I should have to enter into the details of our long and frequent conversations, and follow them in all their excitement through the four months we spent together in an intimacy almost unparalleled between friends of opposite sexes, restrained within the limits which we never overstepped. Ah, if I had waited so long before knowing true love, now my heart and my senses paid the arrears in full! What must be the raptures one feels with a loved one who returns one’s love, if an unrequited love can inspire so much as it does!
But I am wrong to speak of an unrequited love, for mine was in a sense returned. There was equal love on both sides, though it was never mutual. We were both intoxicated with love – hers for her lover, and mine for her; our sighs and our delicious tears mingled together. We confided tenderly in one another, and our feelings were so closely in tune that it was impossible for them not to have united in something. Yet even when our intoxication was at its most dangerous height she never forgot herself for a moment. As for myself, I protest, I swear, that if ever I was betrayed by my senses and tried to make her unfaithful, I never truly desired it. The vehemence of my passion of itself kept, it within bounds. The duty of self-denial had exalted my soul. The light of every virtue adorned in my eyes the idol of my heart; to have soiled that divine image would have been to destroy it. I might have been able to commit the crime; a hundred times it has been committed in my heart. But to dishonour my Sophie! Could that ever be possible! No, no! I told her a hundred times that, if it had been in my power to gratify myself, if she had put herself at my mercy of her own free will, except in a few short moments of madness I should have refused to purchase my own happiness at such a price. I loved her too well to wish to possess her.
It is almost three miles from the Hermitage to Eaubonne, and on my frequent visits I sometimes spent the night there. One evening when we supped together alone we went for a walk in the garden in the loveliest moonlight. At the bottom of the garden was a largish wood through which we went to find a pretty plantation adorned with a newly made cascade for which I had given her the idea. Immortal memory of innocence and bliss! It was in that wood, sitting with her on a grass bank beneath an acacia in full flower, that I found a language really able to express the emotions of my heart. It was the first and only time in my life, but I was sublime, if such a word can describe all the sympathy and seductive charm that the most tender and ardent love can breathe into the heart of a man. What intoxicating tears I shed at her knees! What tears I drew from her in spite of herself! Finally, in her involuntary excitement she cried: ‘Never was there a man so charming, never a lover who loved like you. But your friend Saint-Lambert is listening to us, and my heart could not love twice.’ I sighed and was silent. I embraced her. What an embrace! But that was all. She had been living alone for six months, that is to say away from her lover and her husband; for three months I had been seeing her almost every day. Love was always the third party when we were together. We had supped together, we were alone in a wood in the moonlight; and after two hours of the most animated and affectionate conversation she left that wood – and her friend’s arms – in the middle of the night, as guiltless, as pure in body and heart, as when she had entered it. Reader, consider all the circumstances, I shall add nothing more.
But let no one imagine that here my senses left me undisturbed, as they did with Thérèse and with Mamma. As I have already said, this time it was love, love with all its strength and all its violence. I will not describe the agitation, the tremblings, the palpitations, the convulsive movements, or the faintings of the heart which I continually experienced’; the effect her image had on my heart is sufficient evidence. I have said that it was some distance from the Hermitage to Eaubonne; I went by the hills of Andilly, which are delightful; and as I walked I dreamt of her I was about to see, of the affectionate welcome she would give me, and of the kiss, that fatal kiss, even before I received it. It so fired my blood that my head was dizzy, my eyes were dazzled and blind, and my trembling knees could no longer support me. I had to stop and sit down; my whole bodily mechanism was in utter disorder; I was on the point of fainting. Aware of my danger I tried as I set out again to distract myself and think of something else. But before I had gone twenty yards the same thoughts and everything that followed upon them assailed me once more, and I could not shake them off. Whatever efforts I made, I do not think that I ever succeeded in making this journey alone without suffering. I arrived at Eaubonne weak, exhausted, worn out, and scarcely able to hold myself up. The moment I saw her, everything was right again; in her company I felt only the irksomeness of an inexhaustible and always useless vigour. There was on my road, within sight of Eaubonne, a pleasant terrace called Mount Olympus, to which she would sometimes come to meet me. I would arrive first, and had to wait for her. But how painful that waiting was! As a distraction I tried to write with a pencil notes which should have been written with the finest drops of my blood. But I never succeeded in finishing one that was legible. When she discovered one in the niche which we had agreed upon, all that she learned from it was the pitiable state of mind in which it had been written. This state and, what was worse, its continuance over three months of ceaseless stimulation and privation threw me into an exhaustion from which I did not recover for several years, and finally brought on a rupture that I shall carry with me to the grave. Such was the sole amorous gratification of a man whose temperament was at the same time the most inflammable and the most timid that Nature can ever have created. Such were the last happy days that were dealt out to me upon earth, and now begins the long tissue of my life’s misfortunes, in which, as will be seen, there have been few interruptions.
Throughout the course of my life, as has been seen, my heart has been as transparent as crystal, and incapable of concealing for so much as a moment the least lively feeling which has taken refuge in it. Judge whether it was possible for me to hide my love for Mme d’Houdetot for long. Our intimacy was clear to all eyes; we made no secret or mystery of it. It was not of a nature to require any. Mme d’Houdetot felt the most tender friendship for me, and did not blame herself for it in the least; and I felt an esteem for her, the true justification for which no one knew better than I. She by her frankness, her carelessness, and her lack of precaution, and I by my honesty, my clumsiness, my pride, my impatience, and impetuosity, exposed ourselves in our delusive security to far greater danger of attack than we should have done if we had been guilty. We went together to La Chevrette, we often met there, and sometimes even by appointment. We lived there in our usual way, taking walks every day together and talking of our affections and our duties, of our friend and of our innocent schemes, all this in the park adjoining Mme d’Épinay’s apartments, and beneath her windows, from which she watched us incessantly and, fancying that we were defying her, feasted her eyes and glutted her heart with rage and indignation.
Women have all the arts of concealing their anger, especially when it is strong. Mme d’Épinay, a violent but deliberate woman, possesses this power to an eminent degree. She pretended to see nothing, to suspect nothing; and while she redoubled her cares and attentions to me, and almost made me advances, she overwhelmed her sister-in-law with premeditated rudeness, treating her with a contempt which she seemingly wished me to imitate. Naturally she did not succeed in this, but I was on the rack. Torn by conflicting feelings, and at the same time touched by her kindnesses, I could hardly contain my anger when I saw her being so rude to Mme d’Houdetot. That lady, in her angelic sweetness, bore all this without complaint, and even without feeling any resentment. She was, moreover, often so absent-minded and always so insensible to such things that half the time she noticed nothing.
I was so taken up with my passion that I had no eyes for anything but Sophie (which was one of Mme d’Houdetot’s names), an
d did not so much as notice that I had become the talk of the whole house and all who came there. Baron d’Holbach who, so far as I know, had never visited La Chevrette before, was one of these. If I had been as mistrustful as I have since become, I should very much have suspected Mme d’Épinay of having arranged this visit, in order to give him the amusement and gratification of seeing ‘the citizen’ in love. But at that time I was so dull that I did not so much as see what was glaringly plain to everyone else. All my stupidity, however, did not prevent me from noticing that the Baron looked more pleased and jovial than usual. Instead of frowning at me, as was his habit, he discharged a volley of witticisms in my direction, which I did not understand at all. I stared at him and said not a word; Mme d’Épinay held her sides with laughter, and I could not imagine what had come over them. As things had not yet gone beyond a joke, the best thing I could have done, if only I had seen it, would have been to join in the amusement. But, in fact, behind the Baron’s high-spirited mockery was to be seen a spiteful pleasure which shone in his eyes and which would, perhaps, have alarmed me if I had noticed it as clearly then as I have remembered it in retrospect.
One day when I went to see Mme d’Houdetot at Eaubonne, on her return from one of her trips to Paris, I found her sad and saw that she had been crying. I was compelled to control myself since Mme de Blainville, her husband’s sister, was there. But as soon as I could find an opportunity I told her of my concern. ‘Ah,’ she replied with a sigh, ‘I am very much afraid that your foolishness may cost me my peace of mind. Saint-Lambert has been informed, and wrongly informed. He is fair to me, but he is annoyed; and what is worse, he has not told me all. Fortunately I have kept nothing about our friendship concealed from him. It was formed under his auspices. My letters were full of you, just as my heart was. The only thing that I have kept from him is your crazy love, of which I hoped to cure you. He does not mention it, but I can see that he thinks me criminally to blame for it. Someone has done us an ill turn, and me a wrong. But no matter. Either we must break altogether, or you must behave in a proper way. I do not want to have anything more to hide from my lover.’
This was the first moment when I experienced the shame of seeing myself humiliated by the knowledge that I was to blame, in the eyes of a young woman whose reproaches I knew to be just, and towards whom I should have acted as a mentor. The annoyance that I felt with myself might perhaps have been enough to conquer my weakness, if the tender compassion inspired by my victim had not further melted my heart. Alas, would it have been possible to steel myself at that moment when my heart was drowning in tears that welled up on every side? My tenderness soon changed to anger against the vile informers who had seen nothing but evil in a blameworthy but involuntary emotion, and had not been able to believe, or even imagine, the true sincerity of heart which atoned for it. We were not left long in doubt as to the hand that had dealt the blow.
We both knew that Mme d’Épinay was in correspondence with Saint-Lambert. This was not the first storm that she had raised for Mme d’Houdetot; she had made countless attempts to detach him from her, and the success of some of them made Mme d’Houdetot tremble for the future. Moreover, Grimm who had, I think, followed M. de Castries to the army was in Westphalia, where Saint-Lambert was; and they sometimes saw one another. Grimm had made several advances to Mme d’Houdetot, which had been unsuccessful. In great annoyance, he had then entirely ceased visiting her. One can imagine how coolly Grimm, with his well-known modesty, accepted the idea that she preferred a man older than himself whom, now that he was on terms with the great, he referred to as no more than his protégé.
My suspicions against Mine d’Épinay became certainties when I learnt what had happened in my own house. When I was at La Chevrette, Thérèse often came there, either to bring me letters, or to perform certain services for me which my ill-health rendered necessary. Mme d’Épinay had asked her whether Mme d’Houdetot and I corresponded. On her replying that we did, she pressed Thérèse to hand her Mme d’Houdetot’s letters, promising to seal them up again so well that nothing would be noticed. Without showing how scandalized she was by this proposal, and without even informing me, Thérèse merely took the precaution of concealing the letters she brought me more carefully; a very fortunate measure, for Mme d’Épinay had her watched when she came, waited for her in the passage, and even carried her boldness so far on several occasions as to feel in her tucker. She went further; she invited herself one day, with M. Margency, to dine at the Hermitage for the first time since I had lived there, and seized the moment when I was out walking with Margency to go into my study with Thérèse and her mother and beg them to show her Mme d’Houdetot’s letters. If the mother had known where they were, the letters would have been handed over. But luckily only her daughter knew, and she denied that I had kept any of them. The lie was undeniably an honourable, loyal, and generous act, whereas the truth would have been nothing but a breach of faith. Seeing that she could not tempt her, Mme d’Épinay tried hard to rouse her jealousy, and reproached her for her easy temper and her blindness. ‘How can you help seeing’, she said, ‘that their connexion is a guilty one? If despite everything that hits you in the eye you are in need of further proofs, there is a ready means of obtaining them, in which you can help. You say that he tears Mme d’Houdetot’s letters up as soon as he has read them. Well, carefully collect the pieces and give them to me. I will put them together, I promise you that.’ Such were the lessons that my friend gave to my mistress.
Thérèse was so discreet as to keep all these attempts from me for a considerable time. But when she saw my puzzlement, she felt obliged to tell me everything, so that I should know whom I was dealing with and take measures to protect myself against the treachery which was being planned against me. My indignation and fury are beyond description. Instead of dissembling with Mme d’Épinay, after her own fashion, and resorting to counterplots, I yielded unreservedly to the impetuosity of my nature and, with my usual heedlessness, burst out quite openly. My lack of discretion can be judged by the following letters which sufficiently show the procedure of both parties on this occasion.
Letter from Mme d’Épinay
(Packet A, No. 44)
Why do I never see you, my dear friend? I am worried about you. You promised me faithfully that you would not move except to come here and to return to the Hermitage. On that understanding I have left you quite free. But no, a whole week has gone by. If I had not been told that you are in good health I should suppose that you are ill. I expected you yesterday or the day before, but I looked for you in vain. Oh dear, what can be the matter with you? You have no business in hand, and you can have no troubles. For if you had I flatter myself that you would have come straight away to confide in me. Can it be that you are ill? Relieve me of my fears, and speedily I beg of you. Adieu, my good friend; and may my adieu bring me a good-morning from you.
Reply
Wednesday morning
I can tell you nothing yet. I am waiting till I am better informed, which I shall be sooner or later. In the meantime rest assured that persecuted innocence will find a defender zealous enough to make its slanderers repent, whoever they may be.
Second Letter from the same
(Packet A, No. 45)
I must say that your letter alarms me. What can it possibly mean? I have read it over more than two dozen times. Really I cannot understand a word of it. I can only see that you are tortured and uneasy, and that you are waiting till you are no longer so before telling me about it. My dear friend, were those the terms of our agreement? What has become of our friendship, of our mutual confidence? How have I come to lose it? Are you annoyed with me or on my behalf? Whatever it is, come this evening, I implore you. Remember that you promised me, not a week ago, not to keep anything back, but to tell me about things immediately. My dear friend, I rely upon our trust in one another…. I have just read your letter again. I cannot understand it any better, but it makes me tremble. You seem to be cruelly upset. I wis
h I could calm you. But I have no idea what has alarmed you. 1 do not know what to say except that I shall be just as unhappy as you till I have seen you. If you are not here this evening at six I shall set out for the Hermitage to-morrow, whatever the weather and whatever my state of health; for I cannot possibly endure this suspense. Good-bye, my dear, good friend. At whatever risk, I will venture to ask you, whether I have any need to or not, to try and take care of yourself and stop the growth of your uneasiness, a state which is always fostered by solitude. A fly becomes a monster; I have often had such experiences.
Reply
Wednesday evening
I cannot come to see you, nor receive you here, so long as my present uneasiness continues. The mutual trust you speak of exists no longer, and you will not find it easy to restore it. At present I see in your anxiety nothing but the desire to extract from another person’s confessions something that will suit your purposes. And my heart, which is prompt to unburden itself to another which is open to receive it, is closed to trickery and sharp practice. In the difficulty you have in understanding my letter I recognize your usual cleverness. Do you think that I am such a fool as to believe that you have not really understood it? No, but I know how to overcome your subtlety by frankness. I will explain myself more clearly, in order that you may understand me still less.
Two lovers are dear to me, who are firmly united and worthy of each other’s love. I expect that you will not know whom I mean unless I give you their names. I assume that there has been some attempt to part them, and that I have been used to make one of them jealous. Not a very clever choice to make, but it seemed to suit certain evil designs; and of these designs I suspect you. I hope that this is becoming clearer.
The Confessions Page 54