THE CONFESSSIONS

BOOK IV

[1731-1732]

  LET any one judge my surprise and grief at not finding her on my
arrival. I now felt regret at having abandoned M. le Maitre, and my
uneasiness increased when I learned the misfortunes that had
befallen him. His box of music, containing all his fortune, that
precious box, preserved with so much care and fatigue, had been seized
on at Lyons by means of Count Dortan, who had received information
from the Chapter of our having absconded with it. In vain did Le
Maitre reclaim his property, his means of existence, the labor of
his life; his right to the music in question was at least subject to
litigation, but even that liberty was not allowed him, the affair
being instantly decided on the principle of superior strength. Thus
poor Le Maitre lost the fruit of his talents, the labor of his
youth, and principal dependence for the support of old age.
  Nothing was wanting to render the news I had received truly
afflicting, but I was at an age when even the greatest calamities
are to be sustained; accordingly I soon found consolation. I
expected shortly to hear news of Madam de Warrens, though I was
ignorant of the address, and she knew nothing of my return. As to my
desertion of Le Maitre (all things considered) I did not find it so
very culpable. I had been serviceable to him in his retreat; it was
not in my power to give him any further assistance. Had I remained
with him in France it would not have cured his complaint. I could
not have saved his music, and should only have doubled his expense: in
this point of view I then saw my conduct; I see it otherwise now. It
frequently happens that a villainous action does not torment us at the
instant we commit it, but on recollection, and sometimes even after
a number of years have elapsed, for the remembrance of crimes is not
to be extinguished.
  The only means I had to obtain news of Madam de Warrens was to
remain at Annecy. Where should I seek her at Paris? or how bear the
expense of such a journey? Sooner or later, there was no place where I
could be so certain to hear of her as that I was now at; this
consideration determined me to remain there, though my conduct was but
indifferent. I did not go to the bishop, who had already befriended
me, and might continue to do so: my patroness was not present, and I
feared his reprimands on the subject of our flight; neither did I go
to the seminary; M. Gros was no longer there; in short, I went to none
of my acquaintance. I would gladly have visited the intendant's
lady, but did not dare; I did worse, I sought out M. Venture, whom
(notwithstanding my enthusiasm) I had never thought of since my
departure. I found him quite gay, in high spirits, and the universal
favorite of the ladies of Annecy.
  This success completed my infatuation; I saw nothing but M. Venture;
he almost made me forget even Madam de Warrens. That I might profit
more at ease by his instructions and example, I proposed to share
his lodging, to which he readily consented. It was at a shoemaker's; a
pleasant, jovial fellow, who, in his country dialect, called his
wife nothing but trollop; an appellation which she certainly
merited. Venture took care to augment their differences, though
under an appearance of doing the direct contrary, throwing out in a
distant manner, and provincial accent, hints that produced the
utmost effect, and furnished such scenes as were sufficient to make
any one die with laughter. Thus the mornings passed without our
thinking of them; at two or three o'clock we took some refreshment.
Venture then went to his various engagements, where he supped, while I
walked alone, meditating on his great merit, coveting and admiring his
rare talents, and cursing my own unlucky stars, that did not call me
to so happy a life. How little did I then know of myself! mine had
been a hundred times more delightful, had I not been such a fool, or
known better how to enjoy it.
  Madam de Warrens had taken no one with her but Anet: Merceret, her
chambermaid, whom I have before mentioned, still remained in the
house. Merceret was something older than myself, not pretty, but
tolerably agreeable; good-natured, free from malice, having no fault
to my knowledge but being a little refractory with her mistress. I
often went to see her; she was an old acquaintance, who recalled to my
remembrance one more beloved, and this made her dear to me. She had
several friends, and among others one Mademoiselle Giraud, a Genevese,
who, for the punishment of my sins, took it in her head to have an
inclination for me, always pressing Merceret, when she returned her
visits, to bring me with her. As I liked Merceret, I felt no
disinclination to accompany her; besides, I met there with other young
people whose company pleased me. For Mademoiselle Giraud, who
offered every kind of enticement, nothing could increase the
aversion I had for her. When she drew near me, with her dried black
snout, smeared with Spanish snuff, it was with the utmost difficulty
that I could refrain from expressing my distaste; but, being pleased
with her visitors, I took patience. Among these were two girls who
(either to pay their court to Mademoiselle Giraud or myself) paid me
every possible attention. I conceived this to be only friendship;
but have since thought it depended only on myself to have discovered
something more, though I did not even think of it at the time.
  There was another reason for my stupidity. Seamstresses,
chambermaids, or milliners, never tempted me; I sighed for ladies!
Every one has his peculiar taste, this has ever been mine; being in
this particular of a different opinion from Horace. Yet it is not
vanity of riches or rank that attracts me; it is a well-preserved
complexion, fine hands, elegance of ornaments, an air of delicacy
and neatness throughout the whole person: more in taste, in the manner
of expressing themselves, a finer or better made gown, a well-turned
ankle, small foot, ribbons, lace, and well-dressed hair: I even prefer
those who have less natural beauty, provided they are elegantly
decorated. I freely confess this preference is very ridiculous; yet my
heart gives in to it spite of my understanding. Well, even this
advantage presented itself, and it only depended on my own
resolution to have seized the opportunity.
  How do I love, from time to time, to return to those moments of my
youth, which were so charmingly delightful; so short, so scarce, and
enjoyed at so cheap a rate!- how fondly do I wish to dwell on them!
Even yet the remembrance of these scenes warms my heart with a
chaste rapture, which appears necessary to reanimate my drooping
courage, and enable me to sustain the weariness of my latter days.
  The appearance of Aurora seemed so delightful one morning that,
putting on my clothes, I hastened into the country, to see the
rising of the sun. I enjoyed that pleasure in its utmost extent; it
was one week after midsummer; the earth was covered with verdure and
flowers, the nightingales, whose soft warblings were almost concluded,
seemed to vie with each other, and in concert with birds of various
kinds to bid adieu to spring, and hail the approach of a beautiful
summer's day: one of those lovely days that are no longer to be
enjoyed at my age, and which have never been seen on the melancholy
soil I now inhabit.
  I had rambled insensibly, to a considerable distance the town- the
heat augmented- I was walking in the shade along a valley, by the side
of a brook, I heard behind me the step of horses, and the voice of
some females who, though they seemed embarrassed, did not laugh the
less heartily on that account. I turn round, hear myself called by
name, and approaching, find two young people of my acquaintance,
excellent horsewomen, could not make their horses cross the rivulet.
having been sent from that country for some youthful folly, had
imitated Madam de Warrens, at whose house I had sometimes seen her;
but not having, like her, a pension, she had been fortunate in this
attachment to Mademoiselle Galley, who had prevailed on her mother
to engage her young friend as a companion, till she could be otherwise
provided for. Mademoiselle Galley was one year younger than her
friend, handsomer, more delicate, more ingenious, and, to complete
all, extremely well made. They loved each other tenderly, and the good
disposition of both could not fail to render their union durable, if
some lover did not derange it. They informed me they were going to
Toune, an old castle belonging to Madam Galley, and implored my
assistance to make their horses cross the stream, not being able to
compass it themselves. I would have given each a cut or two with the
whip, but they feared I might be kicked, and themselves thrown; I
therefore had recourse to another expedient, I took hold of
Mademoiselle Galley's horse and led him through the brook, the water
reaching half-way up my legs. The other followed without any
difficulty. This done, I would have paid my compliments to the ladies,
and walked off like a great booby as I was, but after whispering
escape thus; you have got wet in our service, and we ought in
conscience to take care and dry you. If you please you must go with
us, you are now our prisoner." My heart began to beat- I looked at
Mademoiselle Galley- "Yes, yes," added she, laughing at my fearful
look, "our prisoner of war; come, get up behind her, we shall give a
good account of you." "But, mademoiselle," continued I, "I have not
the honor to be acquainted with your mother; what will she say on my
Toune, we are alone, we shall return at night, and you shall come
back with us."
  The stroke of electricity has not a more instantaneous effect than
trembled with joy, and when it became necessary to clasp her in
order to hold myself on, my heart beat so violently that she perceived
it, and told me hers beat also from a fear of falling. In my present
posture, I might naturally have considered this an invitation to
satisfy myself of the truth of her assertion, yet I did not dare,
and during the whole way my arms served as a girdle (a very close one.
I must confess), without being a moment displaced. Some women that may
read this would be for giving me a box on the ear, and, truly, I
deserved it.
  The gayety of the journey, and the chat of these girls, so enlivened
me, that during the whole time we passed together we never ceased
talking a moment. They had set me so thoroughly at ease, that my
tongue spoke as fast as my eyes, though not exactly the same things.
Some minutes, indeed, when I was left alone with either, the
conversation became a little embarrassed, but neither of them was
absent long enough to allow time for explaining the cause.
  Arrived at Toune, and myself well dried, we breakfasted together;
after which it was necessary to settle the important business of
preparing dinner. The young ladies cooked, kissing from time to time
the farmer's children, while the poor scullion looked on grumbling.
Provisions had been sent for from town, and there was everything
necessary for a good dinner, but unhappily they had forgotten wine;
this forgetfulness was by no means astonishing in girls who seldom
drank any, but I was sorry for the omission, as I had reckoned on
its help, thinking it might add to my confidence. They were sorry
likewise, and perhaps from the same motive; though I had no reason
to say this, for their lively and charming gayety was innocence
itself; besides, there were two of them, what could they expect from
me? They went everywhere about the neighborhood to seek for wine,
but none could be procured, so pure and sober are the peasants in
those parts. As they were expressing their concern, I begged them
not to give themselves any uneasiness on my account, for while with
them I had no occasion for wine to intoxicate me. This was the only
gallantry I ventured at during the whole of the day, and I believe the
sly rogues saw well enough that I said nothing but the truth.
  We dined in the kitchen: the two friends were seated on the benches,
one on each side the long table, and their guest at the end, between
them, on a three-legged stool. What a dinner! how charming the
remembrance! While we can enjoy, at so small an expense, such pure,
such true delights, why should we be solicitous for others? Never
did those petite soupers, so celebrated in Paris, equal this; I do not
only say for real pleasure and gayety, but even for sensuality.
  After dinner, we were economical; instead of drinking the coffee
we had reserved at breakfast, we kept it for an afternoon collation,
with cream, and some cakes they had brought with them. To keep our
appetites in play, we went into the orchard, meaning to finish our
dessert with cherries. I got into a tree, throwing them down
bunches, from which they returned the stones through the branches. One
time, Mademoiselle Galley, holding out her apron, and drawing back her
head, stood so fair, and I took such good aim, that I dropped a
bunch into her bosom. On her laughing, I said to myself, "Why are
not my lips cherries? how gladly would I throw them there likewise!"
  Thus the day passed with the greatest freedom, yet with the utmost
decency; not a single equivocal word, not one attempt at
double-meaning pleasantry; yet this delicacy was not affected, we only
performed the parts our hearts dictated; in short, my modesty, some
will say my folly, was such that the greatest familiarity that escaped
me was once kissing the hand of Mademoiselle Galley; it is true, the
attending circumstances helped to stamp a value on this trifling
favor; we were alone, I was embarrassed, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and my lips, instead of uttering words, were pressed on her
hand, which she drew gently back after the salute, without any
appearance of displeasure. I know not what I should have said to
her, but her friend entered, and at that moment I thought her ugly.
  At length, they bethought themselves, that they must return to
town before night; even now we had but just time to reach it by
daylight; and we hastened our departure in the same order we came. Had
I pleased myself, I should certainly have reversed this order, for the
glance of Mademoiselle Galley had reached my heart, but I dared not
mention it, and the proposal could not reasonably come from her. On
the way, we expressed our sorrow that the day was over, but far from
complaining of the shortness of its duration, we were conscious of
having prolonged it by every possible amusement.
  I quitted them in nearly the same spot where I had taken them up.
With what regret did we part! With what pleasure did we form
projects to renew our meeting! Delightful hours, which we passed
innocently together, ye were worth ages of familiarity! The sweet
remembrance of this day cost those amiable girls nothing; the tender
union which reigned among us equaled more lively pleasure, with
which it could not have existed. We loved each other without shame
or mystery, and wished to continue our reciprocal affection. There
is a species of enjoyment connected with innocence of manners which is
superior to any other, because it has no interval; for myself, the
remembrance of such a day touches me nearer, delights me more, and
returns with greater rapture to my heart, than any other pleasures I
ever tasted. I hardly knew what I wished with those charming girls.
I do not say, that had the arrangement been in my power, I should have
divided my heart between them; I certainly felt some degree of
preference: though I should have been happy to have had Mademoiselle
better as a confidante; be that as it may, I felt on leaving them as
though I could not live without either. Who would have thought that
I should never see them more; and that here our ephemeral amours
must end?
  Those who read this will not fail to laugh at my gallantries, and
remark, that after very promising preliminaries, my most forward
adventures concluded by a kiss of the hand: yet be not mistaken,
reader, in your estimate of my enjoyments; I have, perhaps, tasted
more real pleasure in my amours, which concluded by a kiss of the
hand, than you will ever have in yours, which, at least, begin there.
  Venture, who had gone to bed late the night before, came in soon
after me. I did not now see him with my usual satisfaction, and took
care not to inform him how I had passed the day. The ladies had spoken
of him slightingly, and appeared discontented at finding me in such
bad hands; this hurt him in my esteem; besides, whatever diverted my
ideas from them was at this time disagreeable. However, he soon
brought me back to him and myself, by speaking of the situation of
my affairs, which was too critical to last; for, though I spent very
little, my slender finances were almost exhausted. I was without
resource; no news of Madam de Warrens; not knowing what would become
of me, and feeling a cruel pang at heart to see the friend of
Mademoiselle Galley reduced to beggary.
  I now learned from Venture that he had spoken of me to the Judge
Major, and would take me next day to dine with him; that he was a
man who by means of his friends might render me essential service.
In other respects he was a desirable acquaintance, being a man of
wit and letters, of agreeable conversation, one who possessed
talents and loved them in others. After this discourse (mingling the
most serious concerns with the most trifling frivolity) he showed me a
pretty couplet, which came from Paris, on an air in one of Mouret's
operas, which was then playing. Monsieur Simon (the judge major) was
so pleased with this couplet, that he determined to make another in
answer to it, on the same air. He had desired Venture to write one,
and he wished me to make a third, that, as he expressed it, they might
see couplets start up next day like incidents in a comic romance.
  In the night (not being able to sleep) I composed a couplet, as my
first essay in poetry. It was passable; better, or at least composed
with more taste, than it would have been the preceding night, the
subject being tenderness, to which my heart was now entirely disposed.
In the morning I showed my performance to Venture, who, being
pleased with the couplet, put it in his pocket, without informing me
whether he had made his. We dined with M. Simon, who treated us very
politely. The conversation was agreeable; indeed it could not be
otherwise between two men of natural good sense, improved by
reading. For me, I acted my proper part, which was to listen without
attempting to join in the conversation. Neither of them mentioned
the couplet, nor do I know that it ever passed for mine.
  M. Simon appeared satisfied with my behavior; indeed, it was
almost all he saw of me in this interview. We had often met at Madam
de Warrens', but he had never paid much attention to me; it is from
this dinner, therefore, that I date our acquaintance, which, though of
no use in regard to the object I then had in view, was afterwards
productive of advantages which make me recollect it with pleasure.
  I should be wrong not to give some account of his person, since from
his office of magistrate, and the reputation of wit on which he piqued
himself, no idea could be formed of it. The judge major, Simon,
certainly was not two feet high; his legs spare, straight, and
tolerably long, would have added something to his stature had they
been vertical, but they stood in the direction of an open pair of
compasses. His body was not only short, but thin, being in every
respect of most inconceivable smallness- when naked he must have
appeared like a grasshopper. His head was of the common size, to which
appertained a well-formed face, a noble look, and tolerably fine eyes;
in short, it appeared a borrowed head, stuck on a miserable stump.
He might very well have dispensed with dress, for his large wig
alone covered him from head to foot.
  He had two voices, perfectly different, which intermingled
perpetually in his conversation, forming at first a diverting, but
afterwards a very disagreeable contrast. One grave and sonorous,
was, if I may hazard the expression, the voice of his head: the other,
clear, sharp, and piercing, the voice of his body. When he paid
particular attention, and spoke leisurely, so as to preserve his
breath, he could continue his deep tone; but if he was the least
animated, or attempted a lively accent, his voice sounded like the
whistling of a key, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he
could return to the bass.
  With the figure I have just described, and which is by no means
overcharged, M. Simon was gallant, ever entertaining the ladies with
soft tales, and carrying the decoration of his person even to foppery.
Willing to make use of every advantage he, during the morning, gave
audience in bed, for when a handsome head was discovered on the pillow
no one could have imagined what belonged to it. This circumstance gave
birth to scenes, which I am certain are yet remembered by all Annecy.
  One morning, when he expected to give audience in bed, or rather
on the bed, having on a handsome night-cap ornamented with
rose-colored ribbon, a countryman arriving knocked at the door; the
maid happened to be out; the judge, therefore, hearing the knock
repeated, cried "Come in," and, as he spoke rather loud, it was in his
shrill tone. The man entered, looked about, endeavoring to discover
whence the female voice proceeded, and at length seeing a handsome
head-dress set off with ribbons, was about to leave the room, making
the supposed lady a hundred apologies. M. Simon, in a rage, screamed
the more; and the countryman, yet more confirmed in his opinion,
conceiving himself to be insulted, began railing in his turn, saying
that, "Apparently, she was nothing better than a common street-walker,
and that the judge major should be ashamed of setting such ill
examples." The enraged magistrate, having no other weapon than the
jorden under his bed, was just going to throw it at the poor
fellow's head as his servant returned.
  This dwarf, ill-used by nature as to his person, was recompensed
by possessing an understanding naturally agreeable, and which he had
been careful to cultivate. Though he was esteemed a good lawyer, he
did not like his profession, delighting more in the finer parts of
literature, which he studied with success: above all, he possessed
that superficial brilliancy, the art of pleasing in conversation, even
with the ladies. He knew by heart a number of little stories, which he
perfectly well knew how to make the most of; relating with an air of
secrecy, and as an anecdote of yesterday, what happened sixty years
before. He understood music, and could sing agreeably; in short, for a
magistrate, he had many pleasing talents. By flattering the ladies
of Annecy, he became fashionable among them, appearing continually
in their train. He even pretended to favors, at which they were much
amused. A Madam D'Epigny used to say "The greatest favor he could
aspire to, was to kiss a lady on her knees."
  As he was well read, and spoke fluently, his conversation was both
amusing and instructive. When I afterwards took a taste for study, I
cultivated his acquaintance, and found my account in it: when at
Chambery, I frequently went from thence to see him. His praises
increased my emulation, to which he added some good advice
respecting the prosecution of my studies, which I found useful.
Unhappily, this weakly body contained a very feeling soul. Some
years after, he was chagrined by I know not what unlucky affair, but
it cost him his life. This was really unfortunate, for he was a good
little man, whom at a first acquaintance one laughed at, but
afterwards loved. Though our situations in life were very little
connected with each other, as I received some useful lessons from him,
I thought gratitude demanded that I should dedicate a few sentences to
his memory.
  As soon as I found myself at liberty, I ran into the street where
Mademoiselle Galley lived, flattering myself that I should see some
one go in or out, or at least open a window, but I was mistaken, not
even a cat appeared, the house remaining as close all the time as if
it had been uninhabited. The street was small and lonely, any one
loitering about was, consequently, more likely to be noticed; from
time to time people passed in and out of the neighborhood; I was
much embarrassed, thinking my person might be known, and the cause
that brought me there conjectured; this idea tortured me, for I have
ever preferred the honor and happiness of those I love to my own
pleasures.
  At length, weary of playing the Spanish lover, and having no guitar,
I determined to write to Mademoiselle de Graffenried. I should have
preferred writing to her friend, but did not dare take that liberty,
as it appeared more proper to begin with her to whom I owed the
acquaintance, and with whom I was most familiar. Having written my
letter, I took it to Mademoiselle Giraud, as the young ladies had
agreed at parting, they having furnished me with this expedient.
Mademoiselle Giraud was a quilter, and sometimes worked at Madam
Galley's, which procured her free admission to the house. I must
confess, I was not thoroughly satisfied with this messenger, but was
cautious of starting difficulties, fearing that if I objected to her
no other might be named, and it was impossible to intimate that she
had an inclination to me herself. I even felt humiliated that she
should think I could imagine her of the same sex as those young
ladies: in a word, I accepted her agency rather than none, and availed
myself of it at all events.
  At the very first word, Giraud discovered me. I must own this was
not a difficult matter, for if sending a letter to young girls had not
spoken sufficiently plain, my foolish embarrassed air would have
betrayed me. It will easily be supposed that the employment gave her
little satisfaction, she undertook it, however, and performed it
faithfully. The next morning I ran to her house and found an answer
ready for me. How did I hurry away that I might have an opportunity to
read and kiss it alone! though this need not be told, but the plan
adopted by Mademoiselle Giraud (and in which I found more delicacy and
moderation than I had expected) should. She had sense enough to
conclude, that her thirty-seven years, hare's eyes, daubed nose,
shrill voice, and black skin, stood no chance against two elegant
young girls, in all the height and bloom of beauty; she resolved,
therefore, neither to betray nor assist them, choosing rather to
lose me entirely than entertain me for them.
  As Merceret had not heard from her mistress for some time, she
thought of returning to Fribourg, and the persuasions of Giraud
determined her; nay more, she intimated it was proper some one
should conduct her to her father's, and proposed me. As I happened
to be agreeable to little Merceret, she approved the idea, and the
same day they mentioned it to me as a fixed point. Finding nothing
displeasing in the manner they had disposed of me, I consented,
thinking it could not be above a week's journey at most; but Giraud,
who had arranged the whole affair, thought otherwise. It was necessary
to avow the state of my finances, and the conclusion was, that
Merceret should defray my expenses; but to retrench on one hand what
was expended on the older, I advised that her little baggage should be
sent on before, and that we should proceed by easy journeys on foot.
  I am sorry to have so many girls in love with me, but as there is
nothing to be very vain of in the success of these amours, I think I
may tell the truth without scruple. Merceret, younger and less
artful than Giraud, never made me so many advances, but she imitated
my manners, my actions repeated my words, and showed me all those
little attentions I ought to have had for her. Being very timorous,
she took great care that we should both sleep in the same chamber; a
circumstance that usually produces some consequences between a lad
of twenty and a girl of twenty-five.
  For once, however, it went no further; my simplicity being such,
that though Merceret was by no means a disagreeable girl, an idea of
gallantry never entered my head, and even if it had, I was too great a
novice to have profited by it. I could not imagine how two young
persons could bring themselves to sleep together, thinking that such
familiarity must require an age of preparation. If poor Merceret
paid my expenses in hopes of any return, she was terribly cheated, for
we arrived at Fribourg exactly as we had quitted Annecy.
  I passed through Geneva without visiting any one. While going over
the bridges, I found myself so affected that I could scarcely proceed.
Never could I see the walls of that city, never could I enter it,
without feeling my heart sink from excess of tenderness, at the same
time that the image of liberty elevated my soul. The ideas of
equality, union, and gentleness of manners, touched me even to
tears, and inspired me with a lively regret at having forfeited all
these advantages. What an error was I in! but yet how natural! I
imagined I saw all this in my native country, because I bore it in
my heart.
  It was necessary to pass through Nion: could I do this without
seeing my good father? Had I resolved on doing so, I must afterwards
have died with regret. I left Merceret at the inn, and ventured to his
house. How wrong was I to fear him! On seeing me, his soul gave way to
the parental tenderness with which it was filled. What tears were
mingled with our embraces! He thought I was returned to him: I related
my history, and informed him of my resolution. He opposed it feebly,
mentioning the dangers to which I exposed myself, and telling me the
shortest follies were best, but did not attempt to keep me by force,
in which particular I think he acted right; but it is certain he did
not do everything in his power to retain me, even by fair means.
Whether after the step I had taken, he thought I ought not to
return, or was puzzled at my age to know what to do with me- I have
since found that he conceived a very unjust opinion of my traveling
companion. My step-mother, a good woman, a little coaxingly put on
an appearance of wishing me to stay and sup; I did not, however,
comply, but told them I proposed remaining longer with them on my
return; leaving as a deposit my little packet, that had come by water,
and would have been an incumbrance, had I taken it with me. I
continued my journey the next morning, well satisfied that I had
seen my father, and had taken courage to do my duty.
  We arrived without any accident at Fribourg. Towards the
conclusion of the journey, the politeness of Mademoiselle Merceret
rather diminished, and, after our arrival, she treated me even with
coldness. Her father, who was not in the best circumstances, did not
show me much attention, and I was obliged to lodge at an ale-house.
I went to see them the next morning, and received an invitation to
dine there, which I accepted. We separated without tears at night; I
returned to my paltry lodging, and departed the second day after my
arrival, almost without knowing whither to go to.
  This was a circumstance of my life in which Providence offered me
precisely what was necessary to make my days pass happily. Merceret
was a good girl, neither witty, handsome, nor ugly; not very lively,
but tolerably rational, except while under the influence of some
little humors, which usually evaporated in tears, without any
violent outbreak of temper. She had a real inclination for me; I might
have married her without difficulty, and followed her father's
business. My taste for music would have made me love her; I should
have settled at Fribourg, a small town, not pretty, but inhabited by
very worthy people- I should certainly have missed great pleasures,
but should have lived in peace to my last hour, and I must know best
what I should have gained by such a step.
  I did not return to Nion, but to Lausanne, wishing to gratify myself
with a view of that beautiful lake which is seen there in its utmost
extent. The greater part of my secret motives have not been so
reasonable. Distant expectation has rarely strength enough to
influence my actions; the uncertainty of the future ever making me
regard projects whose execution requires a length of time as deceitful
lures. I give in to visionary scenes of hope as well as others,
provided they cost nothing, but if attended with any trouble, I have
done with them. The smallest, the most trifling pleasure that is
conveniently within my reach, tempts me more than all the joys of
paradise. I must except, however, those pleasures which are
necessarily followed by pain; I only love those enjoyments which are
unadulterated, which can never be the case where we are conscious they
must be followed by repentance.
  It was necessary I should arrive at some place, and the nearest
was best; for having lost my way on the road, I found myself in the
evening at Moudon, where I spent all that remained of my little
stock except ten creuzers, which served to purchase my next day's
dinner. Arriving in the evening at Lausanne, I went into an ale-house,
without a penny in my pocket to pay for my lodging, or knowing what
would become of me. I found myself extremely hungry- setting,
therefore, a good face on the matter, I ordered supper, made my
meal, went to bed without thought and slept with great composure. In
the morning, having breakfasted and reckoned with my host, I offered
to leave my waistcoat in pledge for seven batz, which was the amount
of my expenses. The honest man refused this, saying, thank Heaven,
he had never stripped any one, and would not now begin for seven batz;
adding I should keep my waistcoat and pay him when I could. I was
affected with this unexpected kindness, but felt it less than I
ought to have done, or have since experienced on the remembrance of
it. I did not fail sending him his money, with thanks, by one I
could depend on. Fifteen years after, passing Lausanne, on my return
from Italy, I felt a sensible regret at having forgotten the name of
the landlord and house. I wished to see him, and should have felt real
pleasure in recalling to his memory that worthy action. Services,
which doubtless have been much more important, but rendered with
ostentation, have not appeared to me so worthy of gratitude as the
simple unaffected humanity of this honest man.
  As I approached Lausanne, I thought of my distress, and the means of
extricating myself, without appearing in want to my step-mother. I
compared myself, in this walking pilgrimage, to my friend Venture,
on his arrival at Annecy, and was so warmed with the ideal that
without recollecting that I had neither his gentility nor his talents,
I determined to act the part of little Venture at Lausanne, to teach
music, which I did not understand, and say I came from Paris, where
I had never been.
  In consequence of this noble project (as there was no company
where I could introduce myself without expense, and not choosing to
venture among professional people), I inquired for some little inn,
where I could lodge cheap, and was directed to one named Perrotet, who
took in boarders. This Perrotet, who was one of the best men in the
world, received me very kindly, and after having heard my feigned
story and profession, promised to speak of me, and endeavored to
procure me scholars, saying he could not expect any money till I had
earned it. His price for board, though moderate in itself, was a great
deal to me; he advised me, therefore, to begin with half board,
which consisted of good soup only for dinner, but a plentiful supper
at night. I closed with this proposition, and the poor Perrotet
trusted me with great cheerfulness, sparing, meantime, no trouble to
be useful to me.
  Having found so many good people in my youth, why do I find so few
in my age? Is their race extinct? No; but I do not seek them in the
same situation I did formerly, among the commonalty, where violent
passions predominate only at intervals, and where nature speaks her
genuine sentiments. In more elevated stations they are entirely
smothered, and under the mask of sentiment, only interest or vanity is
heard.
  Having written to my father from Lausanne, he sent my packet and
some excellent advice, of which I should have profited better. I
have already observed that I have moments of inconceivable delirium,
in which I am entirely out of myself. The adventure I am about to
relate is an instance of this: to comprehend how completely my brain
was turned, and to what degree I had Venturised (if I may be allowed
the expression), the many extravagancies I ran into at the same time
should be considered. Behold me, then, a singing master, without
knowing how to note a common song; for if the five or six months
passed with Le Maitre had improved me, they could not be supposed
sufficient to qualify me for such an undertaking; besides, being
taught by a master was enough (as I have before observed) to make me
learn ill. Being a Parisian from Geneva, and a Catholic in a
Protestant country, I thought I should change my name with my an y
religion and country. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve. I
changed, by anagram, the name Rousseau into that of Vaussore,
calling myself Monsieur Vaussore de Villeneuve. Venture was a good
composer, though he had not said so; without knowing anything of the
art, I boasted of my skill to every one. This was not all: being
presented to Monsieur de Freytorens, professor of law, who loved
music, and who gave concerts at his house, nothing would do but I must
give him a proof of my talents, and accordingly I set about
composing a piece for his concerts, as boldly as if I had really
understood the science. I tacked a pretty minuet to the end of it,
that was played about the streets, and which many may remember from
these words, so well known at that time:

                Quelle caprice!
                Quelle injustice!
                Quoi! ta Clarice
                Trahiriait tes feux! etc.

Venture had taught me this air with the bass, set to other words, by
the help of which I had retained it: thus at the end of my
composition, I put this minuet and his bass, suppressing the words,
and uttering it for my own as confidently as if I had been speaking to
the inhabitants of the moon. They assemble to perform my piece; I
explain to each the movement, taste of execution, and references to
his part- I was fully occupied. They were five or six minutes
preparing, which were for me so many ages: at length, everything is
adjusted, myself in a conspicuous situation, a fine roll of paper in
my hand, gravely preparing to beat time. I gave four or five strokes
with my paper, attending with "Attention!" they begin- No, never since
French operas existed was there such a confused discord! The musicians
could not keep from laughing; the audience opened their eyes wide
and would like to shut their ears, but that was impossible. The
musicians made merry and scraped their violins enough to burst your
eardrums. I had the constancy to go through the performance, but large
drops of perspiration were standing on my forehead, and it was only
shame that prevented me from running away. I heard the assistants
whisper to each other or rather to me: "It is pretty hard to stand!"
Poor Jean-Jacques, in this cruel moment you little thought, that one
day, in the presence of the King of France and his whole court, your
sounds should produce murmurs of surprise and applaud, and that lovely
women in the boxes should tell each other in a whisper: "What charming
music! What beautiful sounds!"
  Next day, one of the musicians, named Lutold, came to see me and was
kind enough to congratulate me on my success. The profound
conviction of my folly, shame, regret, and the state of despair to
which I was reduced, with the impossibility of concealing the cruel
agitation of my heart, made me open it to him; giving, therefore, a,
loose to my tears, not content with owning my ignorance, I told all,
conjuring him to secrecy; he kept his word, as every one will suppose.
The same evening, all Lausanne knew who I was, but what is remarkable,
no one seemed to know, not even the good Perrotet, who
(notwithstanding what had happened) continued to lodge and board me.
  I led a melancholy life here; the consequences of such an essay
had not rendered Lausanne a very agreeable residence. Scholars did not
present themselves in crowds, not a single female, and no person of
the city. I had only two or three great dunces, as stupid as I was
ignorant, who fatigued me to death, and in my hands were not likely to
edify much.
  At length, I was sent for to a house, where a little serpent of a
girl amused herself by showing me a parcel of music that I could not
read a note of, and which she had the malice to sing before her
master, to teach him how it should be executed; for I was so unable to
read an air at first sight, that in the charming concert I have just
described, I could not possibly follow the execution a moment, or know
whether they played truly what lay before them, and I myself had
composed.
  In the midst of so many humiliating circumstances, I had the
pleasing consolation, from time to time, of receiving letters from
my two charming friends. I have ever found the utmost consolatory
virtue in the fair; when in disgrace, nothing softens my affliction
more than to be sensible that an amiable woman is interested for me.
This correspondence ceased soon after, and was never renewed: indeed
it was my own fault, for in changing situations I neglected sending my
address, and forced by necessity to think perpetually of myself, I
soon forgot them.
  It is a long time since I mentioned Madam de Warrens, but it
should not be supposed I had forgotten her; never was she a moment
absent from my thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her, not merely
because she was necessary to my subsistence, but because she was
infinitely more necessary to my heart. My attachment to her (though
lively and tender, as it really was) did not prevent my loving others,
but then it was not in the same manner. All equally claimed my
tenderness for their charms, but it was those charms alone I loved, my
passion would not have survived them, while Madam de Warrens might
have become old or ugly without my loving her the less tenderly. My
heart had entirely transmitted to herself the homage it first paid
to her beauty, and whatever change she might experience, while she
remained herself, my sentiments could not change. I was sensible how
much gratitude I owed to her, but in truth, I never thought of it, and
whether she served me or not, it would ever have been the same
thing. I loved her neither from duty, interest, nor convenience; I
loved her because I was born to love her. During my attachment to
another, I own this affection was in some measure deranged; I did
not think so frequently of her, but still with the same pleasure,
and never, in love or otherwise, did I think of her without feeling
that I could expect no true happiness in life while in a state of
separation.
  Though in so long a time I had received no news from Madam de
Warrens, I never imagined I had entirely lost her, or that she could
have forgotten me. I said to myself, she will know sooner or later
that I am wandering about, and will find some means to inform me of
her situation: I am certain I shall find her. In the meantime, it
was a pleasure to live in her native country, to walk in the streets
where she had walked, and before the houses that she had lived in; yet
all this was the work of conjecture, for one of my foolish
peculiarities was, not daring to inquire after her, or even
pronounce her name without the most absolute necessity. It seemed in
speaking of her that I declared all I felt, that my lips revealed
the secrets of my heart, and in some degree injured the object of my
affection. I believe fear was likewise mingled with this idea; I
dreaded to hear ill of her. Her management had been much spoken of,
and some little of her conduct in other respects; fearing,
therefore, that something might be said which I did not wish to
hear, I preferred being silent on the subject.
  As my scholars did not take up much of my time, and the town where
she was born was not above four leagues from Lausanne, I made it a
walk of three or four days; during which time a most pleasant
emotion never left me. A view of the Lake of Geneva and its
admirable banks, had ever, in my idea, a particular attraction which I
cannot describe; not arising merely from the beauty of the prospect,
but something else, I know not why, more interesting, which affects
and softens me. Every time I have approached the Vaudois country I
have experienced an impression composed of the remembrance of Madam de
Warrens, who was born there; of my father, who lived there; of Miss
Vulson, who had been my first love, and of several pleasant journeys I
had made there in my childhood, mingled with some nameless charm, more
powerfully attractive than all the rest. When that ardent desire for a
life of happiness and tranquility (which ever follows me, and for
which I was born) inflames my mind, 'tis ever to the country of
Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains, that imagination
leads me. An orchard on the banks of that lake, and no other, is
absolutely necessary; a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow, and a
little boat; nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth without
these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity with which I have
several times gone into that country for the sole purpose of seeking
this imaginary happiness when I was ever surprised to find the
inhabitants, particularly the women, of a quite different
disposition to what I sought. How strange did this appear to me! The
country and people who inhabit it, were never, in my idea, formed
for each other.
  Walking along these beautiful banks, on my way to Vevay, I gave
myself up to the soft melancholy; my heart rushed with ardor into a
thousand innocent felicities; melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept
like a child. How often, stopping to weep more at my ease, and
seated on a large stone, did I amuse myself with seeing my tears
drop into the water.
  On my arrival at Vevay, I lodged at the Key, and during the two days
I remained there, without any acquaintance, conceived a love for
that city, which has followed me through all my travels, and was
finally the cause that I fixed on this spot, in the novel I afterwards
wrote, for the residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to any
one who has taste and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the surrounding
country, examine the prospects, go on the lake and then say, whether
nature has not designed this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St.
Preux; but do not seek them there. I now return to my story.
  Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or
scruple the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was
fine, I went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues distant
from Lausanne, and generally in company with other Catholics,
particularly a Parisian embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten.
Not such a Parisian as myself, but a real native of Paris, an
arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest as a peasant. He loved his
country so well, that he would not doubt my being his countrymen,
for fear he should not have so much occasion to speak of it. The
lieutenant-governor, M. de Crouzas, had a gardener, who was likewise
from Paris, but not so complaisant; he thought the glory of his
country concerned, when any one claimed that honor who was not
really entitled to it; he put questions to me, therefore, with an
air and tone, as if certain to detect me in a falsehood, and once,
smiling malignantly, asked what was remarkable in the Marcheneuf? It
may be supposed I asked the question; but I have since passed twenty
years at Paris, and certainly know that city, yet was the same
question repeated at this day, I should be equally embarrassed to
answer it, and from this embarrassment it might be concluded I had
never been there: thus, even when we meet with truths, we are
subject to build our opinions on circumstances, which may easily
deceive us.
  I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne, that were worth
recollecting, nor can I say exactly how long I remained there; I
only know that not finding sufficient to subsist on, I went from
thence to Neufchatel, where I passed the winter. Here I succeeded
better, I got some scholars, and saved enough to pay my good friend
Perrotet, who had faithfully sent my baggage, though at that time I
was considerably in his debt.
  By continuing to teach music, I insensibly gained some knowledge
of it. The life I led was sufficiently agreeable, and any reasonable
man might have been satisfied, but my unsettled heart demanded
something more. On Sundays, or whenever I had leisure, I wandered,
sighing and thoughtful, about the adjoining woods, and when once out
of the city never returned before night. One day, being at Boudry, I
went to dine at a public-house, where I saw a man with a long beard,
dressed in a violet-colored Grecian habit, with a fur cap, and whose
air and manner were rather noble. This person found some difficulty in
making himself understood, speaking only an unintelligible jargon,
which bore more resemblance to Italian than any other language. I
understood almost all he said, and I was the only person present who
could do so, for he was obliged to make his request known to the
landlord and others about him by signs. On my speaking a few words
in Italian, which he perfectly understood, he got up and embraced me
with rapture; a connection was soon formed, and from that moment, I
became his interpreter. His dinner was excellent, mine rather worse
than indifferent; he gave me an invitation to dine with him, which I
accepted without much ceremony. Drinking and chatting soon rendered us
familiar, and by the end of the repast we had all the disposition in
the world to become inseparable companions. He informed me he was a
Greek prelate, and Archimandrite of Jerusalem; that he had
undertaken to make a gathering in Europe for the reestablishment of
the Holy Sepulcher, and showed me some very fine patents from the
czarina, the emperor, and several other sovereigns. He was tolerably
content with what he had collected hitherto, though he had experienced
inconceivable difficulties in Germany; for not understanding a word of
German, Latin, or French, he had been obliged to have recourse to
his Greek, Turkish, and the Lingua Franca, which did not procure him
much in the country he was traveling through; his proposal, therefore,
to me was, that I should accompany him in the quality of secretary and
interpreter. In spite of my violet-colored coat, which accorded well
enough with the proposed employment, he guessed from my meager
appearance, that I should easily be gained; and he was not mistaken.
The bargain was soon made, I demanded nothing, and he promised
liberally; thus, without any security or knowledge of the person I was
about to serve, I gave myself up entirely to his conduct, and the next
day behold me on an expedition to Jerusalem.
  We began our expedition unsuccessfully by the canton of Fribourg.
Episcopal dignity would not suffer him to play the beggar, or
solicit help from private individuals; but we presented his commission
to the Senate, who gave him a trifling sum. From thence we went to
Berne, where we lodged at the Falcon, then a good inn, and
frequented by respectable company; the public table being well
supplied and numerously attended. I had fared indifferently so long,
that I was glad to make myself amends, therefore took care to profit
by the present occasion. My lord, the Archimandrite, was himself an
excellent companion, loved good cheer, was gay, spoke well for those
who understood him, and knew perfectly well how to make the most of
his Grecian erudition. One day, at dessert, while cracking nuts, he
cut his finger pretty deeply, and as it bled freely showed it to the
company, saying with a laugh, "Mirate, signori; questo e sangue
Pelasgo."
  At Berne, I was not useless to him, nor was my performance so bad as
I had feared: I certainly spoke better and with more confidence than I
could have done for myself. Matters were not conducted here with the
same simplicity as at Fribourg; long and frequent conferences were
necessary with the Premiers of the State, and the examination of his
titles was not the work of a day; at length, everything being
adjusted, he was admitted to an audience by the Senate; I entered with
him as interpreter, and was ordered to speak. I expected nothing less,
for it never entered my mind, that after such long and frequent
conferences with the members, it was necessary to address the assembly
collectively, as if nothing had been said. Judge my embarrassment!-
a man so bashful to speak, not only in public, but before the whole of
the Senate of Berne! to speak impromptu, without a single moment for
recollection; it was enough to annihilate me- I was not even
intimidated. I described distinctly and clearly the commission of
the Archimandrite; extolled the piety of those princes who had
contributed, and to heighten that of their excellencies by
emulation, added that less could not be expected from their well-known
munificence; then, endeavored to prove that this good work was equally
interesting to all Christians, without distinction of sect; and
concluded by promising the benediction of Heaven to all those who took
part in it. I will not say that my discourse was the cause of our
success, but it was certainly well received; and on our quitting the
Archimandrite was gratified by a very genteel present, to which some
very handsome compliments were added on the understanding of his
secretary; these I had the agreeable office of interpreting, but could
not take courage to render them literally.
  This was the only time in my life that I spoke in public, and before
a sovereign; and the only time, perhaps, that I spoke boldly and well.
What difference in the disposition of the same person. Three years
ago, having been to see my old friend, M. Roguin, at Yverdon, I
received a deputation to thank me for some books I had presented to
the library of that city; the Swiss are great speakers; these
gentlemen, accordingly, made me a long harangue, which I thought
myself obliged in honor to answer, but so embarrassed myself in the
attempt, that my head became confused, I stopped short, and was
laughed at. Though naturally timid, I have sometimes acted with
confidence in my youth, but never in my advanced age: the more I
have seen of the world the less I have been able to adopt its manners.
  On leaving Berne, we went to Soleure; the Archimandrite designing to
reenter Germany, and return through Hungary or Poland to his own
country. This would have been a prodigious tour; but as the contents
of his purse rather increased than diminished during his journey, he
was in no haste to return. For me, who was almost as much pleased on
horseback as on foot, I would have desired no better than to have
traveled thus during my whole life; but it was preordained that my
journey should soon end.
  The first thing we did after our arrival at Soleure, was to pay
our respects to the French ambassador there. Unfortunately for my
bishop, this chanced to be the Marquis de Bonac, who had been
ambassador at the Porte, and consequently was acquainted with every
particular relative to the Holy Sepulcher. The Archimandrite had an
audience that lasted about a quarter of an hour, to which I was not
admitted, as the ambassador spoke the Lingua Franca and Italian at
least as well as myself. On my Grecian's retiring, I was prepared to
follow him, but was detained; it was now my turn. Having called myself
a Parisian, as such, I was under the jurisdiction of his excellency:
he therefore asked me who I was? exhorting me to tell the truth;
this I promised to do, but entreated a private audience, which was
immediately granted. The ambassador took me to his closet, and shut
the door; there, throwing myself at his feet, I kept my word, nor
should I have said less, had I promised nothing, for a continual
wish to unbosom myself, puts my heart perpetually upon my lips.
After having disclosed myself without reserve to the musician
Lutold, there was no occasion to attempt acting the mysterious with
the Marquis de Bonac, who was so well pleased with my little
history, and the ingenuousness with which I had related it, that he
led me to the ambassadress, and presented me, with an abridgment of my
recital. Madam de Bonac received me kindly, saying, I must not be
suffered to follow that Greek monk. It was accordingly resolved that I
should remain at their hotel till something better could be done for
me. I wished to bid adieu to my poor Archimandrite, for whom I had
conceived an attachment, but was not permitted: they sent him word
that I was to be detained there, and in quarter of an hour after, I
saw my little bundle arrive. M. de la Martiniere, secretary to the
embassy, had in a manner the care of me; while following him to the
chamber appropriated to my use, he said, "This apartment was
occupied under the Count de Luc, by a celebrated man of the same
name as yourself; it is in your power to succeed him in every respect,
and cause it to be said hereafter, Rousseau the First, Rousseau the
Second." This similarity, which I did not then expect, would have been
less flattering to my wishes could I have foreseen at what price I
should one day purchase the distinction.
  What M. de la Martiniere had said excited my curiosity; I read the
works of the person whose chamber I occupied, and on the strength of
the compliment that had been paid me (imagining I had a taste for
poetry) made my first essay in a cantata in praise of Madam de
Bonac. This inclination was not permanent, though from time to time
I have composed tolerable verses. I think it is a good exercise to
teach elegant turns of expression, and to write well in prose, but
could never find attractions enough in French poetry to give
entirely into it.
  M. de la Martiniere wished to see my style, and asked me to write
the detail I had before made the ambassador; accordingly I wrote him a
long letter, which I have since been informed was preserved by M. de
Marianne, who had been long attached to the Marquis de Bonac, and
has since succeeded M. de la Martiniere as secretary to the embassy of
M. de Courteillies.
  The experience I began to acquire tended to moderate my romantic
projects: for example, I did not fall in love with Madam de Bonac, but
also felt I did not stand much chance of succeeding in the service
of her husband. M. de la Martiniere was already in the only place that
could have satisfied my ambition, and M. de Marianne in expectancy:
thus my utmost hopes could only aspire to the office of under
secretary, which did not infinitely tempt me; this was the reason that
when consulted on the situation I should like to be placed in, I
expressed a great desire to go to Paris. The ambassador readily gave
in to the idea, which at least tended to disembarrass him of me. M. de
Merveilleux interpreting secretary to the embassy, said, that his
friend, M. Godard, a Swiss colonel, in the service of France, wanted a
person to be with his nephew, who had entered very young into the
service, and made no doubt that I should suit him. On this idea, so
lightly formed, my departure was determined; and I, who saw a long
journey to perform, with Paris at the end of it, was enraptured with
the project. They gave me several letters, a hundred livres to
defray the expenses of my journey, accompanied with some good
advice, and thus equipped I departed.
  I was a fortnight making this journey, which I may reckon among
the happiest days of my life. I was young, in perfect health, with
plenty of money, and the most brilliant hopes: add to this, I was on
foot, and alone. It may appear strange I should mention the latter
circumstance as advantageous, if my peculiarity of temper is not
already familiar to the reader. I was continually occupied with a
variety of pleasing chimeras, and never did the warmth of my
imagination produce more magnificent ones. When offered an empty place
in a carriage, or any person accosted me on the road, how vexed was
I to see that fortune overthrown, whose edifice, while walking, I
had taker, such pains to rear.
  For once, my ideas were all martial: I was going to live with a
military man; nay, to become one, for it was concluded I should
begin with being a cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals,
with a fine white feather nodding on my hat, and my heart was inflamed
by the noble idea. I had some smattering of geometry and
fortification; my uncle was an engineer; I was in a manner a soldier
by inheritance. My short sight, indeed, presented some little
obstacle, but did not by any means discourage me, as I reckoned to
supply that defect by coolness and intrepidity. I had read, too,
that Marshal Schomberg was remarkably short-sighted, and why might not
Marshal Rousseau be the same? My imagination was so warm by these
follies, that it presented nothing but troops, ramparts, gabions,
batteries, and myself in the midst of fire and smoke, an eye-glass
in hand, commanding with the utmost tranquility. Notwithstanding, when
the country presented a delightful prospect, when I saw charming
groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight made me sigh with regret,
and feel, in the midst of all this glory. that my heart was not formed
for such havoc; and soon without knowing how, I found my thoughts
wandering among my dear sheepfolds, renouncing forever the labors of
Mars.
  How much did Paris disappoint the idea I had formed of it! The
exterior decorations I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets,
the symmetry and regularity of the houses, contributed to this
disappointment, since I concluded that Paris must be infinitely
superior. I had figured to myself a splendid city, beautiful as large,
of the most commanding aspect, whose streets were ranges of
magnificent palaces, composed of marble and gold. On entering the
faubourg St. Marceau, I saw nothing but dirty stinking streets, filthy
black houses, an air of slovenliness and poverty, beggars, carters,
butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats. This struck me so
forcibly, that all I have since seen of real magnificence in Paris
could never erase this first impression, which has ever given me a
particular disgust to residing in that capital; and I may say, the
whole time I remained there afterwards was employed in seeking
resources which might enable me to live at a distance from it. This is
the consequence of too lively imagination, which exaggerates even
beyond the voice of fame, and ever expects more than is told. I had
heard Paris so flatteringly described, that I pictured it like the
ancient Babylon, which, perhaps, had I seen, I might have found
equally faulty, and unlike that idea the account had conveyed. The
same thing happened at the Opera-house, to which I hastened the day
after my arrival! I was sensible of the same deficiency at Versailles!
and some time after on viewing the sea. I am convinced this would ever
be the consequence of a too flattering description of any object;
for it is impossible for man, and difficult even for nature herself,
to surpass the riches of my imagination.
  By the reception I met with from all those to whom my letters were
addressed, I thought my fortune was certainly made. The person who
received me the least kindly was M. de Surbeck, to whom I had the
warmest recommendation. He had retired from the service, and lived
philosophically at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times
without his offering me even a glass of water. I was better received
by Madam de Merveilleux, sister-in-law to the interpreter, and by
his nephew, who was an officer in the guards. The mother and son not
only received me kindly, but offered me the use of their table,
which favor I frequently accepted during my stay at Paris.
  Madam de Merveilleux appeared to have been handsome; her hair was of
a fine black, which, according to the old mode, she wore curled on the
temples. She still retained (what do not perish with a set of
features) the beauties of an amiable mind. She appeared satisfied with
mine, and did all she could to render me service; but no one
seconded her endeavors, and I was presently undeceived in the great
interest they had seemed to take in my affairs. I must, however, do
the French nation the justice to say, they do not so exhaust
themselves with protestations, as some have represented, and that
those they make are usually sincere; but they have a manner of
appearing interested in your affairs, which is more deceiving than
words. The gross compliments of the Swiss can only impose upon
fools; the manners of the French are more seducing, and at the same
time so simple, that you are persuaded they do not express all they
mean to do for you, in order that you may be the more agreeably
surprised. I will say more; they are not false in their protestations,
being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent, and even
(whatever may be said to the country) more sincere than any other
nation; but they are too flighty: in effect they feel the sentiments
they profess for you, but that sentiment flies off as
instantaneously as it was formed. In speaking to you, their whole
attention is employed on you alone, when absent you are forgotten.
Nothing is permanent in their hearts, all is the work of the moment.
  Thus I was greatly flattered, but received little service. Colonel
Godard, for whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious
old wretch, who, on seeing my distress (though he was immensely rich),
wished to have my services for nothing, meaning to place me with his
nephew, rather as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented
that as I was to be continually engaged with him, I should be
excused from duty, and might live on my cadet's allowance; that is
to say, on the pay of a soldier: hardly would he consent to give me
a uniform, thinking the clothing of the army might serve. Madam de
Merveilleux, provoked at his proposals, persuaded me not to accept
them; her son was of the same opinion; something else was to be
thought on, but no situation was procured. Meantime, I began to be
necessitated; for the hundred livres with which I had commenced my
journey could not last much longer; happily, I received a small
remittance from the ambassador, which was very serviceable, nor do I
think he would have abandoned me had I possessed more patience; but
languishing, waiting, soliciting, are to me impossible: I was
disheartened, displeased, and thus all my brilliant expectations
came once more to nothing. I had not all this time forgotten my dear
Madam de Warrens, but how was I to find her? Where should I seek her?-
Madam de Merveilleux, who knew my story, assisted me in the search,
but for a long time unavailingly; at length, she informed me that
Madam de Warrens had set out from Paris about two months before, but
it was not known whether for Savoy or Turin, and that some conjectured
she had gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary to fix my
determination to follow her, certain that wherever she might be, I
stood more chance of finding her at those places than I could possibly
do at Paris.
  Before my departure, I exercised my new poetical talent in an
epistle to Colonel Godard, whom I ridiculed to the utmost of my
abilities. I showed this scribble to Madam de Merveilleux, who,
instead of discouraging me, as she ought to have done, laughed
heartily at my sarcasms, as well as her son, who, I believe, did not
like M. Godard; indeed, it must be confessed, he was a man not
calculated to obtain affection. I was tempted to send him my verses,
and they encouraged me in it; accordingly I made them up in a parcel
directed to him, and there being no post then at Paris by which I
could conveniently send this, I put it in my pocket, and sent it to
him from Auxerre, as I passed through that place. I laugh, even yet,
sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy he made on reading this
panegyric, where he was certainly drawn to the life; it began thus:

            Tu croyois, vieux penard, qu'une folle manie
            D'elever ton neveu m'inspirerait l'envie.

  This little piece, which, it is true, was but indifferently written,
did not want for salt, and announced a turn for satire; it is,
notwithstanding, the only satirical writing that ever came from my
pen. I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage of such
a talent; but I believe it may be judged from those controversies,
in which from time to time I have been engaged in my own defense, that
had I been of a vindictive disposition, my adversaries would rarely
have had the laughter on their side.
  What I most regret, is not having kept a journal of my travels,
being conscious that a number of interesting details have slipped my
memory; for never did I exist so completely, never live so thoroughly,
never was so much myself, if I dare use the expression, as in those
journeys made on foot. Walking animates and enlivens my spirits; I can
hardly think when in a state of inactivity; my body must be
exercised to make my judgment active. The view of a fine country, a
succession of agreeable prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and
the health I gain by walking; the freedom of inns, and the distance
from everything that can make me recollect the dependence of my
situation, conspire to free my soul, and give boldness to my thoughts,
throwing me, in a manner, into the immensity of beings, where I
combine, choose, and appropriate them to my fancy, without
constraint or fear. I dispose of all nature as I please; my heart
wandering from object to object, approximates and unites with those
that please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes
intoxicated with delicious sensations. If, attempting to render
these permanent, I am amused in describing to myself, what glow of
coloring, what energy of expression, do I give them!- It has been
said, that all these are to be found in my works, though written in
the decline of life. Oh! had those of my early youth been seen,
those made during my travels, composed, but never written!- Why did
I not write them? will be asked; and why should I have written them? I
may answer. Why deprive myself of the actual charm of my enjoyments to
inform others what I enjoyed? What to me were readers, the public,
or all the world, while I was mounting the empyrean. Besides, did I
carry pens, paper, and ink with me? Had I recollected all not a
thought would have occurred worth preserving. I do not foresee when
I shall have ideas; they come when they please, and not when I call
for them; either they avoid me altogether, or rushing in crowds,
overwhelm me with their force and number. Ten volumes a day would
not suffice barely to enumerate my thoughts; how then should I find
time to write them? In stopping, I thought of nothing but a hearty
dinner; on departing, of nothing but a charming walk; I felt that a
new paradise awaited me at the door, and eagerly leaped forward to
enjoy it.
  Never did I experience this so feelingly as in the perambulation I
am now describing. On coming to Paris, I had confined myself to
ideas which related to the situation I expected to occupy there. I had
rushed into the career I was about to run, and should have completed
it with tolerable eclat, but it was not that my heart adhered to. Some
real beings obscured my imagined ones- Colonel Godard and his nephew
could not keep pace with a hero of my disposition. Thank Heaven, I was
soon delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter at pleasure
into the wilderness of chimeras, for that alone remained before me,
and I wandered in it so completely that I several times lost my way;
but this was no misfortune, I would not have shortened it, for,
feeling with regret, as I approached Lyons, that I must again return
to the material world, I should have been glad never to have arrived
there.
  One day, among others, having purposely gone out of my way to take a
nearer view of a spot that appeared delightful, I was so charmed
with it, and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely
lost myself, and after several hours' useless walking, weary, fainting
with hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant's hut, which had not
indeed a very promising appearance, but was the only one I could
discover near me. I thought it was here, as at Geneva, or in
Switzerland, where the inhabitants, living at ease, have it in their
power to exercise hospitality. I entreated the countryman to give me
some dinner, offering to pay for it: on which he presented me with
some skimmed milk and coarse barley-bread, saying it was all he had. I
drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread, chaff and all; but it
was not very restorative to a man sinking with fatigue. The countryman
judged the truth of my story by my appetite, and presently after
(having said that he plainly saw I was an honest, good-natured young
man,* and did not come to betray him) opened a trap door by the
side of his kitchen, went down, and returned with a good brown loaf of
pure wheat, the remains of a ham, and a bottle of wine: he then
prepared a good thick omelet, and I made such a dinner as none but a
walking traveler ever enjoyed.

  * At that time my features did not resemble later portraits.

  When I again offered to pay, his inquietude and fears returned; he
not only would have no money, but refused it with the most evident
emotion; and what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine
the motive of his fear. At length, he pronounced tremblingly those
terrible words, "Commissioners," and "Cellar-rats," which he explained
by giving me to understand that he concealed his wine because of the
excise, and his bread on account of the tax imposed on it; adding,
he should be an undone man, if it was suspected he was not almost
perishing with want. What he said to me on this subject (of which I
had not the smallest idea) made an impression on my mind that can
never be effaced, sowing seeds of that inextinguishable hatred which
has since grown up in my heart against the vexations these unhappy
people suffer, and against their oppressors. This man, though in
easy circumstances, dare not eat the bread gained by the sweat of
his brow, and could only escape destruction by exhibiting an outward
appearance of misery!- I left his cottage with as much indignation
as concern, deploring the fate of those beautiful countries, where
nature has been prodigal of her gifts, only that they may become the
prey of barbarous exactors.
  The incident which I have just related, is the only one I have a
distinct remembrance of during this journey: I recollect, indeed, that
on approaching Lyons, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks
of the Lignon; for among the romances I had read with my father,
Astrea was not forgotten, and returned more frequently to my
thoughts than any other. Stopping for some refreshment (while chatting
with my hostess), I inquired the way to Forez, and was informed that
country was an excellent place for mechanics, as there were many
forges, and much iron work done there. This eulogium instantly
calmed my romantic curiosity, for I felt no inclination to seek Dianas
and Sylvanders among a generation of blacksmiths. The good woman who
encouraged me with this piece of information certainly thought I was a
journeyman locksmith.
  I had some view in going to Lyons: on my arrival, I went to the
Chasattes, to see Mademoiselle du Chatelet, a friend of Madam de
Warrens, for whom I had brought a letter when I came there with M.
le Maitre, so that it was an acquaintance already formed. Mademoiselle
du Chatelet informed me her friend had passed through Lyons, but could
not tell whether she had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her
departure whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy; but if I
choose, she would immediately write for information, and thought my
best plan would be to remain at Lyons till she received it. I accepted
this offer, but did not tell Mademoiselle du Chatelet how much I was
pressed for an answer and that my exhausted purse would not permit
me to wait long. It was not an appearance of coolness that withheld
me, on the contrary, I was very kindly received, treated on the
footing of equality, and this took from me the resolution of
explaining my circumstances, for I could not bear to descend from a
companion to a miserable beggar.
  I seem to have retained a very connecting remembrance of that part
of my life contained in this book; yet I think I remember, about the
same period, another journey to Lyons (the particulars of which I
cannot recollect) where I found myself much straitened, and a confused
remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not
contribute to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many
others, had I possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at
every ale-house I came to, I might have fared better; but in that my
incapacity equaled my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of
both, it will be sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost
my whole life in different circumstances, and frequently have been
near wanting bread, I was never once asked for money by a creditor
without having it in my power to pay it instantly; I could never
bear to contract clamorous debts, and have ever preferred suffering to
owing.
  Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets, may certainly be
called suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyons, having
preferred buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to
bestowing them on a lodging; as I was convinced there was less
danger of dying for want of sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing,
while in this unhappy situation, I took no care for the future, was
neither uneasy nor melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to
Mademoiselle du Chatelet's letter, and lying in the open air,
stretched on the earth, or on a bench, slept as soundly as if reposing
on a bed of roses. I remember, particularly, to have passed a most
delightful night at some distance from the city, in a road which had
the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot recollect which, on the one side, and
a range of raised gardens, with terraces, on the other. It had been
a very hot day, the evening was delightful, the dew moistened the
fading grass, no wind was stirring, the air was fresh without
chillness, the setting sun had tinged the clouds with a beautiful
crimson, which was again reflected by the water, and the trees that
bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who were
continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind
of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so
many delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them
alone. Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it
grew very late, without perceiving I was tired; at length, however,
I discovered it, and threw myself on the step of a kind of niche, or
false door, in the terrace wall. How charming was the couch! the trees
formed a stately canopy, a nightingale sat directly over me, and
with his soft notes lulled me to rest: how pleasing my repose; my
awaking more so. It was broad day; on opening my eyes I saw the water,
the verdure, and the admirable landscape before me. I arose, shook off
the remains of drowsiness, and finding I was hungry, retook the way to
the city, resolving, with inexpressible gayety, to spend the two
pieces of six blancs I had yet remaining in a good breakfast. I
found myself so cheerful that I went all the way singing; I even
remember I sang a cantata of Batistin's called the Baths of Thomery,
which I knew by heart. May a blessing light on the good Batistin and
his good cantata, which procured me a better breakfast than I had
expected, and a still better dinner, which I did not expect at all! In
the midst of my singing, I heard some one behind me, and turning round
perceived an Antonine, who followed after and seemed to listen with
pleasure to my song. At length accosting me, he asked, if I understood
music. I answered, "A little," but in a manner to have it understood I
knew a great deal, and as he continued questioning of me, related a
part of my story. He asked me, if I had ever copied music? I
replied, "Often," which was true: I had learned most by copying.
"Well," continued he, "come with me, I can employ you for a few
days, during which time you shall want for nothing; provided you
consent not to quit my room." I acquiesced very willingly, and
followed him.
  This Antonine was called M. Rolichon; he loved music, understood it,
and sang in some little concerts with his friends; thus far all was
innocent and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor, part
of which he was obliged to conceal. He conducted me into a chamber,
where I found a great quantity of music: he gave me some to copy,
particularly the cantata he had heard me singing, and which he was
shortly to sing himself.
  I remained here three or four days, copying all the time I did not
eat, for never in my life was I so hungry, or better fed. M.
Rolichon brought my provisions himself from the kitchen, and it
appeared that these good priests lived well, at least if every one
fared as I did. In my life, I never took such pleasure in eating,
and it must be owned this good cheer came very opportunely, for I
was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily as I ate, which is saying a
great deal; 'tis true I was not as correct as diligent, for some
days after, meeting M. Rolichon in the street, he informed me there
were so many omissions, repetitions, and transpositions, in the
parts I had copied, that they could not be performed. It must be
owned, that in choosing the profession of music, I hit on that I was
least calculated for; yet my voice was good and I copied neatly; but
the fatigue of long works bewilders me so much, that I spend more time
in altering and scratching out than in pricking down, and if I do
not employ the strictest attention in comparing the several parts,
they are sure to fail in the execution. Thus, through endeavoring to
do well, my performance was very faulty; for aiming at expedition, I
did all amiss. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from treating me
well to the last, and giving me half-a-crown at my departure, which
I certainly did not deserve, and which completely set me up, for a few
days after I received news from Madam de Warrens, who was at Chambery,
with money to defray the expenses of my journey to her, which I
performed with rapture. Since then my finances have frequently been
very low, but never at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I
mark this period with a heart fully alive to the bounty of Providence,
as the last of my life in which I sustained poverty and hunger.
  I remained at Lyons seven or eight days to wait for some little
commissions with which Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du
Chatelet, whom during this interval I visited more assiduously than
before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and
being no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or
painful endeavors to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Chatelet was
neither young nor handsome, but did not want for elegance; she was
easy and obliging, while her understanding gave price to her
familiarity. She had a taste for that kind of moral observation
which leads to the knowledge of mankind, and from her originated
that study in myself. She was fond of the works of Le Sage,
particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to my
perusal. I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was
not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances
which abounded with high-flown sentiments.
  Thus did I pass my time at the grate of Mademoiselle du Chatelet,
with as much profit as pleasure. It is certain that the interesting
and sensible conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to
form the understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy
of books. I got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders
and their friends, and among the rest, with a young person of
fourteen, called Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at
that time, though I was in love with her eight or nine years
afterwards, and with great reason, for she was a most charming girl.
  I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madam de Warrens, and
this gave some respite to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real
objects I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities. I had not
only found her, but also by her means, and near her, an agreeable
situation, having received word that she had procured one that would
suit me, and by which I should not be obliged to quit her. I exhausted
all my conjectures in guessing what this occupation could be, but I
must have possessed the art of divination to have hit it on the right.
I had money sufficient to make my journey agreeable: Mademoiselle du
Chatelet persuaded me to hire a horse, but this I could not consent
to, and I was certainly right, for by so doing I should have lost
the pleasure of the last pedestrian expedition I ever made; for I
cannot give that name to those excursions I have frequently taken
about my own neighborhood, while I lived at Motiers.
  It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high as
when my situation, is least agreeable or cheerful. When everything
smiles around me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine itself to
realities, cannot embellish, but must create. Real objects strike me
as they really are, my imagination can only decorate ideal ones. If
I would paint the spring, it must be in winter; if describe a
beautiful landscape, it must be while surrounded with walls; and I
have said a hundred times, that were I confined in the Bastile, I
could draw the most enchanting picture of liberty. On my departure
from Lyons, I saw nothing but an agreeable future, the content I now
with reason enjoyed was as great as my discontent had been at
leaving Paris, notwithstanding, I had not during this journey any of
those delightful reveries I then enjoyed. My mind was serene, and that
was all; I drew near the excellent friend I was going to see, my heart
overflowing with tenderness, enjoying in advance, but without
intoxication, the pleasure of living near her; I had always expected
this, and it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime, I was
anxious about the employment Madam de Warrens had procured me, as if
that alone had been material. My ideas were calm and peaceable, not
ravishing and celestial; every object struck my sight in its natural
form; I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked the trees, the
houses, the springs, deliberated on the cross-roads, was fearful of
losing myself, yet did not do so; in a word, I was no longer in the
empyrean, but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps
at the end of my journey, never farther.
  I am in recounting my travels, as I was in making them, loath to
arrive at the conclusion. My heart beat with joy as I approached my
dear Madam de Warrens, but I went no faster on that account. I love to
walk at my ease, and stop at leisure; a strolling life is necessary to
me: traveling on foot, in a fine country, with fine weather, and
having an agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the manner of
living of all others most suited to my taste.
  It is already understood what I mean by a fine country; never can
a flat one, though ever so beautiful, appear such in my eyes: I must
have torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb or
descend, and rugged roads with precipices on either side to alarm
me. I experienced this pleasure in its utmost extent as I approached
Chambery, not far from a mountain which is called Pas de l'Echelle.
Above the main road, which is hewn through the rock, a small river
runs and rushes into fearful chasms, which it appears to have been
millions of ages in forming. The road has been hedged by a parapet
to prevent accidents, which enabled me to contemplate the whole
descent, and gain vertigoes at pleasure; for a great part of my
amusement in these steep rocks, is, they cause a giddiness and
swimming in my head, which I am particularly fond of, provided I am in
safety; leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained whole
hours, catching, from time to time, a glance of the froth and blue
water, whose rushing caught my ear, mingled with the cries of
ravens, and other birds of prey that flew from rock to rock, and
bush to bush, at six hundred feet below me. In places where the
slope was tolerably regular, and clear enough from bushes to let
stones roll freely, I went a considerable way to gather them, bringing
those I could but just carry, which I piled on the parapet, and then
threw down one after the other, being transported at seeing them roll,
rebound, and fly into a thousand pieces, before they reached the
bottom of the precipice.
  Near Chambery I enjoyed an equal pleasing spectacle, though of a
different kind; the road passing near the foot of the most charming
cascade I ever saw. The water, which is very rapid, shoots from the
top of an excessively steep mountain, falling at such a distance
from its base that you may walk between the cascade and the rock
without any inconvenience; but if not particularly careful it is
easy to be deceived as I was, for the water, falling from such an
immense height, separates, and descends in a rain as fine as dust, and
on approaching too near this cloud, without perceiving it, you may
be wet through in an instant.
  At length I arrived at Madam de Warrens'; she was not alone, the
intendant-general was with her. Without speaking a word to me, she
caught my hand, and presenting me to him with that natural grace which
charmed all hearts, said: "This, sir, is the poor young man I
mentioned; deign to protect him as long as he deserves it, and I shall
feel no concern for the remainder of his life." Then added, addressing
herself to me, "Child, you now belong to the king, thank Monsieur
the Intendant, who furnishes you with the means of existence." I
stared without answering, without knowing what to think of all this;
rising ambition almost turned my head; I was already prepared to act
the intendant myself. My fortune, however, was not so brilliant as I
had imagined, but it was sufficient to maintain me, which, as I was
situated, was a capital acquisition. I shall now explain the nature of
my employment.
  King Victor Amadeus, judging by the event of preceding wars, and the
situation of the ancient patrimony of his fathers, that he should
not long be able to maintain it, wished to drain it beforehand.
Resolving, therefore, to tax the nobility, he ordered a general survey
of the whole country, in order that it might be rendered more equal
and productive. This scheme, which was begun under the father, was
completed by the son: two or three hundred men, part surveyors, who
were called geometricians, and part writers, who were called
secretaries, were employed in this work: among those of the latter
description Madam de Warrens had got me appointed. This post,
without being very lucrative, furnished the means of living eligibly
in that country; the misfortune was, this employment could not be of
any great duration, but it put me in train to procure something
better, as by this means she hoped to insure the particular protection
of the intendant, who might find me some more settled occupation
before this was concluded.
  I entered on my new employment a few days after my arrival, and as
there was no great difficulty in the business, soon understood it;
thus, after four or five years of unsettled life, folly, and
suffering, since my departure from Geneva, I began, for the first
time, to gain my bread with credit.
  These long details of my early youth must have appeared trifling,
and I am sorry for it: though born a man, in a variety of instances, I
was long a child, and am so yet in many particulars. I did not promise
the public a great personage: I promised to describe myself as I am,
and to know me in my advanced age it was necessary to have known me in
my youth. As, in general, objects that are present make less
impression on me than the bare remembrance of them (my ideas being all
from recollection), the first traits which were engraven on my mind
have distinctly remained: those which have since been imprinted
there have rather combined with the former than effaced them. There is
a certain, yet varied succession of affections and ideas, which
continue to regulate those that follow them, and this progression must
be known in order to judge rightly of those they have influenced. I
have studied to develop the first causes, the better to show the
concatenation of effects. I would be able by some means to render my
soul transparent to the eyes of the reader, and for this purpose
endeavor to show it in every possible point of view, to give him every
insight, and act in such a manner, that not a motion should escape
him, as by this means he may form a judgment of the principles that
produce them.
  Did I take upon myself to decide, and say to the reader, "Such is my
character," he might think that if I did not endeavor to deceive
him, I at least deceived myself; but in recounting simply all that has
happened to me, all my actions, thoughts, and feelings, I cannot
lead him into an error, unless I do it willfully) which by this
means I could not easily effect, since it is his province to compare
the elements, and judge of the being they compose: thus the result
must be his work, and if he is then deceived the error will be his
own. It is not sufficient for this purpose that my recitals should
be merely faithful, they must also be minute; it is not for me to
judge of the importance of facts, I ought to declare them simply as
they are, and leave the estimate that is to be formed of them to
him. I have adhered to this principle hitherto, with the most
scrupulous exactitude, and shall not depart from it in the
continuation; but the impressions of age are less lively than those of
youth; I began by delineating the latter: should I recollect the
rest with the same precision, the reader may, perhaps, become weary
and impatient, but I shall not be dissatisfied with my labor. I have
but one thing to apprehend in this undertaking: I do not dread
saying too much, or advancing falsities, but I am fearful of not
saying enough, or concealing truths.