BOOK III.

|Leaving the service of Madam de Vercellis nearly as I had entered it,

I returned to my former hostess, and remained there five or six weeks;

during which time health, youth, and laziness, frequently rendered my

temperament importunate. I was restless, absent, and thoughtful: I wept

and sighed for a happiness I had no idea of, though at the same time

highly sensible of some deficiency. This situation is indescribable, few

men can even form any conception of it, because, in general, they have

prevented that plenitude of life, at once tormenting and delicious. My

thoughts were incessantly occupied with girls and women, but in a

manner peculiar to myself: these ideas kept my senses in a perpetual and

disagreeable activity, though, fortunately, they did not point out the

means of deliverance. I would have given my life to have met with a Miss

Goton, but the time was past in which the play of infancy predominated;

increase of years had introduced shame, the inseparable companion of

a conscious deviation from rectitude, which so confirmed my natural

timidity as to render it invincible; and never, either at that time or

since, could I prevail on myself to offer a proposition favorable to my

wishes (unless in a manner constrained to it by previous advances) even

with those whose scruples I had no cause to dread.

My stay at Madam de Vercellis's had procured me some acquaintance, which

I thought might be serviceable to me, and therefore wished to retain.

Among others, I sometimes visited a Savoyard abbe, M. Gaime, who was

tutor to the Count of Melarede's children. He was young, and not much

known, but possessed an excellent cultivated understanding, with great

probity, and was, altogether, one of the best men I ever knew. He was

incapable of doing me the service I then stood most in need of, not

having sufficient interest to procure me a situation, but from him

I reaped advantages far more precious, which have been useful to me

through life, lessons of pure morality, and maxims of sound judgment.

In the successive order of my inclinations and ideas, I had ever been

too high or too low. Achilles or Thersites; sometimes a hero, at others

a villain. M. Gaime took pains to make me properly acquainted with

myself, without sparing or giving me too much discouragement. He spoke

in advantageous terms of my disposition and talents, adding, that

he foresaw obstacles which would prevent my profiting by them; thus,

according to him, they were to serve less as steps by which I should

mount to fortune, than as resources which might enable me to exist

without one. He gave me a true picture of human life, of which,

hitherto, I had formed but a very erroneous idea, teaching me, that a

man of understanding, though destined to experience adverse fortune,

might, by skilful management, arrive at happiness; that there was no

true felicity without virtue, which was practicable in every situation.

He greatly diminished my admiration of grandeur, by proving that those

in a superior situation are neither better nor happier than those they

command. One of his maxims has frequently returned to my memory: it was,

that if we could truly read the hearts of others we should feel more

inclination to descend than rise: this reflection, the truth of which

is striking without extravagance, I have found of great utility, in the

various exigences of my life, as it tended to make me satisfied with

my condition. He gave me the first just conception of relative duties,

which my high-flown imagination had ever pictured in extremes, making

me sensible that the enthusiasm of sublime virtues is of little use in

society; that while endeavoring to rise too high we are in danger of

falling; and that a virtuous and uniform discharge of little duties

requires as great a degree of fortitude as actions which are called

heroic, and would at the same time procure more honor and happiness.

That it was infinitely more desirable to possess the lasting esteem of

those about us, than at intervals to attract admiration.

In properly arranging the various duties between man and man, it was

necessary to ascend to principles; the step I had recently taken, and

of which my present situation was the consequence, naturally led us to

speak of religion. It will easily be conceived that the honest M. Gaime

was, in a great measure, the original of the Savoyard Vicar; prudence

only obliging him to deliver his sentiments, on certain points, with

more caution and reserve, and explain himself with less freedom; but his

sentiments and councils were the same, not even excepting his advice to

return to my country; all was precisely as I have since given it to the

pubic. Dwelling no longer, therefore, on conversations which everyone

may see the substance of, I shall only add, that these wise instructions

(though they did not produce an immediate effect) were as so many seeds

of virtue and religion in my heart which were never rooted out, and only

required the fostering cares of friendship to bring to maturity.

Though my conversation was not very sincere, I was affected by his

discourses, and far from being weary, was pleased with them on account

of their clearness and simplicity, but above all because his heart

seemed interested in what he said. My disposition is naturally tender,

I have ever been less attached to people for the good they have really

done me than for that they designed to do, and my feelings in this

particular have seldom misled me: thus I truly esteemed M. Gaime. I

was in a manner his second disciple, which even at that time was of

inestimable service in turning me from a propensity to vice into which

my idleness was leading me.

One day, when I least expected it, I was sent for by the Count de la

Roque. Having frequently called at his house, without being able to

speak with him, I grew weary, and supposing he had either forgot me or

retained some unfavorable impression of me, returned no more: but I was

mistaken in both these conjectures. He had more than once witnessed the

pleasure I took in fulfilling my duty to his aunt: he had even mentioned

it to her, and afterwards spoke of it, when I no longer thought of it

myself.

He received me graciously, saying that instead of amusing me with

useless promises, he had sought to place me to advantage; that he had

succeeded, and would put me in a way to better my situation, but

the rest must depend on myself. That the family into which he should

introduce me being both powerful and esteemed, I should need no other

patrons; and though at first on the footing of a servant, I might

be assured, that if my conduct and sentiments were found above that

station, I should not long remain in it. The end of this discourse

cruelly disappointed the brilliant hopes the beginning had inspired.

"What! forever a footman?" said I to myself, with a bitterness which

confidence presently effaced, for I felt myself too superior to that

situation to fear long remaining there.

He took me to the Count de Gauvon, Master of the Horse to the Queen, and

Chief of the illustrious House of Solar. The air of dignity conspicuous

in this respectable old man, rendered the affability with which

he received me yet more interesting. He questioned me with evident

interest, and I replied with sincerity. He then told the Count de la

Roque, that my features were agreeable, and promised intellect, which he

believed I was not deficient in; but that was not enough, and time must

show the rest; after which, turning to me, he said, "Child, almost

all situations are attended with difficulties in the beginning; yours,

however, shall not have too great a portion of them; be prudent, and

endeavor to please everyone, that will be almost your only employment;

for the rest fear nothing, you shall be taken care of." Immediately

after he went to the Marchioness de Breil, his daughter-in-law, to whom

he presented me, and then to the Abbe de Gauvon, his son. I was elated

with this beginning, as I knew enough of the world already to conclude,

that so much ceremony is not generally used at the reception of a

footman. In fact, I was not treated like one. I dined at the steward's

table; did not wear a livery; and the Count de Favria (a giddy youth)

having commanded me to get behind his coach, his grandfather ordered

that I should get behind no coach, nor follow any one out of the house.

Meantime, I waited at table, and did, within doors, the business of a

footman; but I did it, as it were, of my own free will, without being

appointed to any particular service; and except writing some letters,

which were dictated to me, and cutting out some ornaments for the Count

de Favria, I was almost the absolute master of my time. This trial of my

discretion, which I did not then perceive, was certainly very dangerous,

and not very humane; for in this state of idleness I might have

contracted vices which I should not otherwise have given into.

Fortunately, it did not produce that effect; my memory retained the

lessons of M. Gaime, they had made an impression on my heart, and I

sometimes escaped from the house of my patron to obtain a repetition of

them. I believe those who saw me going out, apparently by stealth, had

no conception of my business. Nothing could be more prudent than the

advice he gave me respecting my conduct. My beginning was admirable;

so much attention, assiduity, and zeal, had charmed everyone. The Abby

Gaime advised me to moderate this first ardor, lest I should relax, and

that relaxation should be considered as neglect. "Your setting out,"

said he, "is the rule of what will be expected of you; endeavor

gradually to increase your attentions, but be cautious how you diminish

them."

As they paid but little attention to my trifling talents, and supposed

I possessed no more than nature had given me, there was no appearance

(notwithstanding the promises of Count de Gauvon) of my meeting with

any particular consideration. Some objects of more consequence had

intervened. The Marquis de Breil, son of the Count de Gauvon, was then

ambassador at Vienna; some circumstances had occurred at that court

which for some weeks kept the family in continual agitation, and left

them no time to think of me. Meantime I had relaxed but little in my

attentions, though one object in the family did me both good and harm,

making me more secure from exterior dissipation, but less attentive to

my duty.

Mademoiselle de Breil was about my own age, tolerably handsome, and

very fair complexioned, with black hair, which notwithstanding, gave

her features that air of softness so natural to the flaxen, and which my

heart could never resist. The court dress, so favorable to youth, showed

her fine neck and shape to advantage, and the mourning, which was then

worn, seemed to add to her beauty. It will be said, a domestic should

not take notice of these things; I was certainly to blame, yet I

perceived all this, nor was I the only one; the maitre d' hotel and

valet de chambre spoke of her sometimes at table with a vulgarity that

pained me extremely. My head, however, was not sufficiently turned

to allow of my being entirely in love; I did not forget myself, or

my situation. I loved to see Mademoiselle de Breil; to hear her utter

anything that marked wit, sense, or good humor: my ambition, confined to

a desire of waiting on her, never exceeded its just rights. At table I

was ever attentive to make the most of them; if her footman quitted

her chair, I instantly supplied his place; in default of this, I stood

facing her, seeking in her eyes what she was about to ask for, and

watching the moment to change her plate. What would I not have given to

hear her command, to have her look at, or speak the smallest word to me!

but no, I had the mortification to be beneath her regard; she did not

even perceive I was there. Her brother, who frequently spoke to me

while at table, having one day said something which I did not consider

obliging, I made him so arch and well-turned an answer, that it drew her

attention; she cast her eyes upon me, and this glance was sufficient

to fill me with transport. The next day, a second occasion presented

itself, which I fortunately made use of. A great dinner was given; and I

saw, with astonishment, for the first time, the maitre d' hotel waiting

at table, with a sword by his side, and hat on his head. By chance, the

discourse turned on the motto of the house of Solar, which was, with

the arms, worked in the tapestry: 'Tel fiert qui ne fue pas'. As the

Piedmontese are not in general very perfect in the French language, they

found fault with the orthography, saying, that in the word fiert there

should be no 't'. The old Count de Gauvon was going to reply, when

happening to cast his eyes on me, he perceived I smiled without daring

to say anything; he immediately ordered me to speak my opinion. I then

said, I did not think the 't' superfluous, 'fiert' being an old French

word, not derived from the noun 'ferus', proud, threatening; but from

the verb 'ferit', he strikes, he wounds; the motto, therefore, did not

appear to mean, some threat, but, 'Some strike who do not kill'. The

whole company fixed their eyes on me, then on each other, without

speaking a word; never was a greater degree of astonishment; but what

most flattered me, was an air of satisfaction which I perceived on the

countenance of Mademoiselle de Breil. This scornful lady deigned to cast

on me a second look at least as valuable as the former, and turning to

her grandfather, appeared to wait with impatience for the praise

that was due to me, and which he fully bestowed, with such apparent

satisfaction, that it was eagerly chorused by the whole table. This

interval was short, but delightful in many respects; it was one of those

moments so rarely met with, which place things in their natural order,

and revenge depressed merit for the injuries of fortune. Some minutes

after Mademoiselle de Breil again raised her eyes, desiring me with

a voice of timid affability to give her some drink. It will easily be

supposed I did not let her wait, but advancing towards her, I was seized

with such a trembling, that having filled the glass too full, I spilled

some of the water on her plate, and even on herself. Her brother asked

me, giddily, why I trembled thus? This question increased my confusion,

while the face of Mademoiselle de Breil was suffused with a crimson

blush.

Here ended the romance; where it may be remarked (as with Madam Basile,

and others in the continuation of my life) that I was not fortunate in

the conclusion of my amours. In vain I placed myself in the antechamber

of Madam de Breil, I could not obtain one mark of attention from her

daughter; she went in and out without looking at me, nor had I the

confidence to raise my eyes to her; I was even so foolishly stupid, that

one day, on dropping her glove as she passed, instead of seizing and

covering it with kisses, as I would gladly have done, I did not dare

to quit my place, but suffered it to be taken up by a great booby of a

footman, whom I could willingly have knocked down for his officiousness.

To complete my timidity, I perceived I had not the good fortune to

please Madam de Breil; she not only never ordered, but even rejected, my

services; and having twice found me in her antechamber, asked me, dryly,

"If I had nothing to do?" I was obliged, therefore, to renounce this

dear antechamber; at first it caused me some uneasiness, but other

things intervening, I presently thought no more of it.

The disdain of Madam de Breil was fully compensated by the kindness of

her father-in-law, who at length began to think of me. The evening after

the entertainment, I have already mentioned, he had a conversation

with me that lasted half an hour, which appeared to satisfy him, and

absolutely enchanted me. This good man had less sense than Madam de

Vercellis, but possessed more feeling; I therefore succeeded much better

with him. He bade me attach myself to his son, the Abbe Gauvon, who

had an esteem for me, which, if I took care to cultivate, might be

serviceable in furnishing me with what was necessary to complete their

views for my future establishment. The next morning I flew to M. the

Abbe, who did not receive me as a servant, but made me sit by his

fireside, and questioned me with great affability. He soon found that

my education, which had attempted many things, had completed none; but

observing that I understood something of Latin, he undertook to teach me

more, and appointed me to attend him every morning. Thus, by one of the

whimsicalities which have marked the whole course of my life, at once

above and below my natural situation, I was pupil and footman in

the same house: and though in servitude, had a preceptor whose birth

entitled him to supply that place only to the children of kings.

The Abbe de Gauvon was a younger son, and designed by his family for a

bishopric, for which reason his studies had been pursued further than

is usual with people of quality. He had been sent to the university of

Sienna, where he had resided some years, and from whence he had brought

a good portion of cruscantism, designing to be that at Turin which the

Abbe de Dangeau was formerly at Paris. Being disgusted with theology,

he gave in to the belle-lettres, which is very frequent in Italy, with

those who have entered the career of prelacy. He had studied the poets,

and wrote tolerable Latin and Italian verses; in a word, his taste

was calculated to form mine, and give some order to that chaos of

insignificant trash with which my brain was encumbered; but whether

my prating had misled him, or that he could not support the trouble of

teaching the elementary parts of Latin, he put me at first too high; and

I had scarcely translated a few fables of Phoedrus before he put me

into Virgil, where I could hardly understand anything. It will be seen

hereafter that I was destined frequently to learn Latin, but never to

attain it. I labored with assiduity, and the abbe bestowed his attention

with a degree of kindness, the remembrance of which, even at this time,

both interests and softens me. I passed the greater part of the morning

with him as much for my own instruction as his service; not that he ever

permitted me to perform any menial office, but to copy, or write from

his dictating; and my employment of secretary was more useful than that

of scholar, and by this means I not only learned the Italian in its

utmost purity, but also acquired a taste for literature, and some

discernment of composition, which could not have been at La Tribu's, and

which was useful to me when I afterwards wrote alone.

At this period of my life, without being romantic, I might reasonably

have indulged the hope of preferment. The abbe, thoroughly pleased with

me, expressed his satisfaction to everyone, while his father had such

a singular affection for me, that I was assured by the Count de Favria,

that he had spoken of me to the king; even Madam de Breil had laid aside

her disdainful looks; in short I was a general favorite, which gave

great jealousy to the other servants, who seeing me honored by the

instructions of their master's son, were persuaded I should not remain

their equal.

As far as I could judge by some words dropped at random, and which I

reflected on afterwards, it appeared to me, that the House of Solar,

wishing to run the career of embassies, and hoping perhaps in time to

arrive at the ministry, wished to provide themselves with a person of

merit and talents, who depending entirely on them, might obtain their

confidence, and be of essential service. This project of the Count

de Gauvon was judicious, magnanimous, and truly worthy of a powerful

nobleman, equally provident and generous; but besides my not seeing, at

that time, its full extent, it was far too rational for my brain, and

required too much confinement.

My ridiculous ambition sought for fortune in the midst of brilliant

adventures, and not finding one woman in all this scheme, it appeared

tedious, painful and melancholy; though I should rather have thought

it more honorable on this account, as the species of merit generally

patronized by women is certainly less worthy that I was supposed to

possess.

Everything succeeded to my wish: I had obtained, almost forced, the

esteem of all; the trial was over, and I was universally considered as

a young man with flattering prospects, who was not at present in his

proper sphere, but was expected soon to reach it; but my place was not

assigned me by man, and I was to reach it by very difficult paths. I now

come to one of those characteristic traits, which are so natural to

me, and which, indeed, the reader might have observed without this

reflection.

There were at Turin several new converts of my own stamp, whom I neither

liked nor wish to see; but I had met with some Genevese who were not of

this description, and among others a M. Mussard, nicknamed Wryneck,

a miniature painter, and a distant relation. This M. Mussard, having

learned my situation at the Count de Gauvon's, came to see me, with

another Genevese, named Bacle, who had been my comrade during my

apprenticeship. This Bacle was a very sprightly, amusing young fellow,

full of lively sallies, which at his time of life appeared extremely

agreeable. At once, then, behold me delighted with M. Bacle; charmed to

such a degree that I found it impossible to quit him. He was shortly to

depart for Geneva; what a loss had I to sustain! I felt the whole force

of it, and resolving to make the best use of this precious interval,

I determined not to leave him, or, rather, he never quitted me, for

my head was not yet sufficiently turned to think of quitting the house

without leave, but it was soon perceived that he engrossed my whole

time, and he was accordingly forbid the house. This so incensed me, that

forgetting everything but my friend Bacle, I went neither to the

abbe nor the count, and was no longer to be found at home. I paid no

attention to repeated reprimands, and at length was threatened with

dismissal. This threat was my ruin, as it suggested the idea that it

was not absolutely necessary that Bacle should depart alone. From

that moment I could think of no other pleasure, no other situation or

happiness than taking this journey. To render the felicity still more

complete, at the end of it (though at an immense distance) I pictured to

myself Madam de Warens; for as to returning to Geneva, it never entered

into my imagination. The hills, fields, brooks and villages, incessantly

succeeded each other with new charms, and this delightful jaunt seemed

worthy to absorb my whole existence. Memory recalled, with inexpressible

pleasure, how charming the country had appeared in coming to Turin; what

then must it be, when, to the pleasure of independence, should be added

the company of a good-humored comrade of my own age and disposition,

without any constraint or obligation, but free to go or stay as we

pleased? Would it not be madness to sacrifice the prospect of so much

felicity to projects of ambition, slow and difficult in their execution,

and uncertain in their event? But even supposing them realized, and in

their utmost splendor, they were not worth one quarter of an hour of the

sweet pleasure and liberty of youth.

Full of these wise conclusions, I conducted myself so improperly, that

(not indeed without some trouble) I got myself dismissed; for on my

return one night the maitre de hotel gave me warning on the part of the

count. This was exactly what I wanted; for feeling, spite of myself,

the extravagance of my conduct, I wished to excuse it by the addition

of injustice and ingratitude, by throwing the blame on others, and

sheltering myself under the idea of necessity.

I was told the Count de Favria wished to speak with me the next morning

before my departure; but, being sensible that my head was so far turned

as to render it possible for me to disobey the injunction, the maitre de

hotel declined paying the money designed me, and which certainly I

had very ill earned, till after this visit; for my kind patrons being

unwilling to place me in the situation of a footman, I had not any fixed

wages.

The Count de Favria, though young and giddy, talked to me on this

occasion in the most sensible and serious manner: I might add, if it

would not be thought vain, with the utmost tenderness. He reminded me,

in the most flattering terms, of the cares of his uncle, and intentions

of his grandfather; after having drawn in lively colors what I was

sacrificing to ruin, he offered to make my peace, without stipulating

any conditions, but that I should no more see the worthless fellow who

had seduced me.

It was so apparent that he did not say all this of himself, that

notwithstanding my blind stupidity, I powerfully felt the kindness of

my good old master, but the dear journey was too firmly printed on

my imagination for any consideration to balance the charm. Bereft of

understanding, firm to my purpose, I hardened myself against conviction,

and arrogantly answered, that as they had thought fit to give me

warning, I had resolved to take it, and conceived it was now too late to

retract, since, whatever might happen to me, I was fully resolved not

to be driven a second time from the same house. The count, justly

irritated, bestowed on me some names which I deserved, and putting me

out of his apartment by the shoulders, shut the door on me. I departed

triumphant, as if I had gained the greatest victory, and fearful of

sustaining a second combat even had the ingratitude to leave the house

without thanking the abbe for his kindness.

To form a just conception of my delirium at that moment, the excess to

which my heart is subject to be heated by the most trifling incidents,

and the ardor with which my imagination seizes on the most attractive

objects should be conceived. At these times, plans the most ridiculous,

childish, and void of sense, flatter my favorite idea, and persuade me

that it is reasonable to sacrifice everything to the possession of

it. Would it be believed, that when near nineteen, any one could be so

stupid as to build his hopes of future subsistence on an empty phial?

For example:

The Abbe de Gauvon had made me a present, some weeks before, of a very

pretty heron fountain, with which I was highly delighted. Playing with

this toy, and speaking of our departure, the sage Bacle and myself

thought it might be of infinite advantage, and enable us to lengthen our

journey. What in the world was so curious as a heron fountain? This

idea was the foundation on which we built our future fortune: we were to

assemble the country people in every village we might pass through, and

delight them with the sight of it, when feasting and good cheer would be

sure to pour on us abundantly; for we were both firmly persuaded, that

provisions could cost nothing to those who grew and gathered them, and

if they did not stuff travellers, it was downright ill-nature.

We pictured in all parts entertainments and weddings, reckoning that

without any expense but wind from our lungs, and the water of our

fountain, we should be maintained through Piedmont, Savoy, France, and

indeed, all the world over. There was no end to our projected travels,

and we immediately directed our course northward, rather for the

pleasure of crossing the Alps, than from a supposed necessity of being

obliged to stop at any place.

Such was the plan on which I set out, abandoning without regret, my

preceptors, studies, and hopes, with the almost certain attainment of a

fortune, to lead the life of a real vagabond. Farewell to the capital;

adieu to the court, ambition, love, the fair, and all the great

adventures into which hope had led me during the preceding year!

I departed with my fountain and my friend Bacle, a purse lightly

furnished, but a heart over-flowing with pleasure, and only thinking how

to enjoy the extensive felicity which I supposed my project encircled.

This extravagant journey was performed almost as agreeably as I had

expected, though not exactly on the same plan; not but our fountain

highly amused the hostess and servants for some minutes at all the

ale-houses where we halted, yet we found it equally necessary to pay

on our departure; but that gave us no concern, as we never thought of

depending on it entirely until our money should be expended. An accident

spared us that trouble, our fountain was broken near Bramant, and in

good time, for we both felt (though without daring to own it to each

other) that we began to be weary of it. This misfortune rendered

us gayer than ever; we laughed heartily at our giddiness in having

forgotten that our clothes and shoes would wear out, or trusting to

renew them by the play of our fountain. We continued our journey as

merrily as we had begun it, only drawing faster towards that termination

where our drained purses made it necessary for us to arrive.

At Chambery I became pensive; not for the folly I had committed,

for never did any one think less of the past, but on account of the

reception I should meet with from Madam de Warens; for I looked on her

house as my paternal home. I had written her an account of my

reception at the Count de Gauvon's; she knew my expectancies, and, in

congratulating me on my good fortune, had added some wise lessons on the

return I ought to make for the kindness with which they treated me.

She looked on my fortune as already made, if not destroyed by my own

negligence; what then would she say on my arrival? for it never entered

my mind that she might shut the door against me, but I dreaded the

uneasiness I might give her; I dreaded her reproaches, to me more

wounding than want; I resolved to bear all in silence, and, if possible

to appease her. I now saw nothing but Madam de Warens in the whole

universe, and to live in disgrace with her was impossible.

I was most concerned about my companion, whom I did not wish to offend,

and feared I should not easily get rid of. I prefaced this separation by

an affected coldness during the last day's journey. The drole understood

me perfectly; in fact, he was rather giddy than deficient in point of

sense--I expected he would have been hurt at my inconstancy, but I was

quite mistaken; nothing affected my friend Bacle, for hardly had we set

foot in town, on our arrival in Annecy, before he said, "You are now at

home,"--embraced--bade me adieu--turned on his heel, and disappeared;

nor have I ever heard of him since.

How did my heart beat as I approached the habitation of Madam de Warens!

my legs trembled under me, my eyes were clouded with a mist, I neither

saw, heard, nor recollected any one, and was obliged frequently to stop

that I might draw breath, and recall my bewildered senses. Was it fear

of not obtaining that succor I stood in need of, which agitated me to

this degree? At the age I then was, does the fear of perishing with

hunger give such alarms? No: I declare with as much truth as pride, that

it was not in the power of interest or indigence, at any period of my

life, to expand or contract my heart. In the course of a painful life,

memorable for its vicissitudes, frequently destitute of an asylum,

and without bread, I have contemplated, with equal indifference, both

opulence and misery. In want I might have begged or stolen, as others

have done, but never could feel distress at being reduced to such

necessities. Few men have grieved more than myself, few have shed so

many tears; yet never did poverty, or the fear of falling into it, make

me heave a sigh or moisten my eyelids. My soul, in despite of fortune,

has only been sensible of real good and evil, which did not depend on

her; and frequently, when in possession of everything that could make

life pleasing, I have been the most miserable of mortals.

The first glance of Madam de Warens banished all my fears--my heart

leaped at the sound of her voice; I threw myself at her feet, and in

transports of the most lively joy, pressed my lips upon her hand. I

am ignorant whether she had received any recent information of me. I

discovered but little surprise on her countenance, and no sorrow. "Poor

child!" said she, in an affectionate tone, "art thou here again? I knew

you were too young for this journey; I am very glad, however, that it

did not turn out so bad as I apprehended." She then made me recount my

history; it was not long, and I did it faithfully: suppressing only some

trifling circumstances, but on the whole neither sparing nor excusing

myself.

The question was, where I could lodge: she consulted her maid on this

point--I hardly dared to breathe during the deliberation; but when I

heard I was to sleep in the house, I could scarce contain my joy;

and saw the little bundle I brought with me carried into my destined

apartment with much the same sensations as St. Preux saw his chaise put

up at Madam de Wolmar's. To complete all, I had the satisfaction to

find that this favor was not to be transitory; for at a moment when they

thought me attentive to something else, I heard Madam de Warens say,

"They may talk as they please, but since Providence has sent him back, I

am determined not to abandon him."

Behold me, then, established at her house; not, however, that I date the

happiest days of my life from this period, but this served to prepare

me for them. Though that sensibility of heart, which enables us truly

to enjoy our being, is the work of Nature, and perhaps a mere effect of

organization, yet it requires situations to unfold itself, and without a

certain concurrence of favorable circumstances, a man born with the

most acute sensibility may go out of the world without ever having been

acquainted with his own temperament. This was my case till that time,

and such perhaps it might have remained had I never known Madam de

Warens, or even having known her, had I not remained with her long

enough to contract that pleasing habit of affectionate sentiments with

which she inspired me. I dare affirm, that those who only love, do not

feel the most charming sensations we are capable of: I am acquainted

with another sentiment, less impetuous, but a thousand times more

delightful; sometimes joined with love, but frequently separated from

it. This feeling is not simply friendship; it is more enchanting, more

tender; nor do I imagine it can exist between persons of the same sex;

at least I have been truly a friend, if ever a man was, and yet never

experienced it in that kind. This distinction is not sufficiently clear,

but will become so hereafter: sentiments are only distinguishable by

their effects.

Madam de Warens inhabited an old house, but large enough to have

a handsome spare apartment, which she made her drawing-room. I now

occupied this chamber, which was in the passage I have before mentioned

as the place of our first meeting. Beyond the brook and gardens was

a prospect of the country, which was by no means uninteresting to the

young inhabitant, being the first time, since my residence at Bossey,

that I had seen anything before my windows but walls, roofs, or the

dirty street. How pleasing then was this novelty! it helped to increase

the tenderness of my disposition, for I looked on this charming

landscape as the gift of my dear patroness, who I could almost fancy had

placed it there on purpose for me. Peaceably seated, my eyes pursued her

amidst the flowers and the verdure; her charms seemed to me confounded

with those of the spring; my heart, till now contracted, here found

means to expand itself, and my sighs exhaled freely in this charming

retreat.

The magnificence I had been accustomed to at Turin was not to be found

at Madam de Warens', but in lieu of it there was neatness, regularity,

and a patriarchal abundance, which is seldom attached to pompous

ostentation. She had very little plate, no china, no game in her

kitchen, or foreign wines in her cellar, but both were well furnished,

and at every one's service; and her coffee, though served in earthenware

cups, was excellent. Whoever came to her house was invited to dine

there, and never did laborer, messenger, or traveller, depart without

refreshment. Her family consisted of a pretty chambermaid from Fribourg,

named Merceret; a valet from her own country called Claude Anet (of

whom I shall speak hereafter), a cook, and two hired chairmen when she

visited, which seldom happened. This was a great deal to be done out

of two thousand livres a year; yet, with good management, it might have

been sufficient in a country where land is extremely good, and money

very scarce. Unfortunately, economy was never her favorite virtue; she

contracted debts--paid them--thus her money passed from hand to hand

like a weaver's shuttle, and quickly disappeared.

The arrangement of her housekeeping was exactly what I should have

chosen, and I shared it with satisfaction. I was least pleased with the

necessity of remaining too long at table. Madam de Warens was so much

incommoded with the first smell of soup or meat, as almost to occasion

fainting; from this she slowly recovered, talking meantime, and never

attempting to eat for the first half hour. I could have dined thrice in

the time, and had ever finished my meal long before she began; I then

ate again for company; and though by this means I usually dined twice,

felt no inconvenience from it. In short, I was perfectly at my ease,

and the happier as my situation required no care. Not being at this

time instructed in the state of her finances, I supposed her means

were adequate to her expense; and though I afterwards found the same

abundance, yet when instructed in her real situation, finding

her pension ever anticipated, prevented me from enjoying the same

tranquility. Foresight with me has always embittered enjoyment; in vain

I saw the approach of misfortunes, I was never the more likely to avoid

them.

From the first moment of our meeting, the softest familiarity was

established between us: and in the same degree it continued during the

rest of her life. Child was my name, Mamma was hers, and child and mamma

we have ever continued, even after a number of years had almost effaced

the apparent difference of age between us. I think those names convey

an exact idea of our behavior, the simplicity of our manners, and above

all, the similarity of our dispositions. To me she was the tenderest of

mothers, ever preferring my welfare to her own pleasure; and if my own

satisfaction found some interest in my attachment to her, it was not to

change its nature, but only to render it more exquisite, and infatuate

me with the charm of having a mother young and handsome, whom I was

delighted to caress: I say literally, to caress, for never did it

enter into her imagination to deny me the tenderest maternal kisses and

endearments, or into my heart to abuse them. It will be said, at length

our connection was of a different kind: I confess it; but have patience,

that will come in its turn.

The sudden sight of her, on our first interview, was the only truly

passionate moment she ever inspired me with; and even that was

principally the work of surprise. With her I had neither transports nor

desires, but remained in a ravishing calm, sensible of a happiness I

could not define, and thus could I have passed my whole life, or even

eternity, without feeling an instant of uneasiness.

She was the only person with whom I never experienced that want of

conversation, which to me is so painful to endure. Our tete-a-tetes

were rather an inexhaustible chat than conversation, which could only

conclude from interruption. So far from finding discourse difficult, I

rather thought it a hardship to be silent; unless, when contemplating

her projects, she sunk into a reverie; when I silently let her meditate,

and gazing on her, was the happiest of men. I had another singular

fancy, which was that without pretending to the favor of a tete-a-tete,

I was perpetually seeking occasion to form them, enjoying such

opportunities with rapture; and when importunate visitors broke in upon

us, no matter whether it was man or woman, I went out murmuring, not

being able to remain a secondary object in her company; then, counting

the minutes in her antechamber, I used to curse these eternal visitors,

thinking it inconceivable how they could find so much to say, because I

had still more.

If ever I felt the full force of my attachment, it was when I did not

see her. When in her presence, I was only content; when absent, my

uneasiness reached almost to melancholy, and a wish to live with her

gave me emotions of tenderness even to tears. Never shall I forget one

great holiday, while she was at vespers, when I took a walk out of the

city, my heart full of her image, and the ardent wish to pass my life

with her. I could easily enough see that at present this was impossible;

that the happiness I enjoyed would be of short duration, and this idea

gave to my contemplations a tincture of melancholy, which, however, was

not gloomy, but tempered with a flattering hope. The ringing of bells,

which ever particularly affects me, the singing of birds, the fineness

of the day, the beauty of the landscape, the scattered country houses,

among which in idea I placed our future dwelling, altogether struck me

with an impression so lively, tender, melancholy, and powerful, that I

saw myself in ecstasy transported into that happy time and abode, where

my heart, possessing all the felicity it could desire, might taste it

with raptures inexpressible.

I never recollect to have enjoyed the future with such force of

illusions as at that time; and what has particularly struck me in

the recollection of this reverie, is that when realized, I found my

situation exactly as I had imagined it. If ever waking dream had an

appearance of a prophetic vision, it was assuredly this; I was only

deceived in its imaginary duration, for days, years, and life itself,

passed ideally in perfect tranquility, while the reality lasted but a

moment. Alas! my most durable happiness was but as a dream, which I had

no sooner had a glimpse of, than I instantly awoke.

I know not when I should have done, if I was to enter into a detail

of all the follies that affection for my dear Madam de Warens made

me commit. When absent from her, how often have I kissed the bed on a

supposition that she had slept there; the curtains and all the furniture

of my chamber, on recollecting they were hers, and that her charming

hands had touched them; nay, the floor itself, when I considered she had

walked there. Sometimes even in her presence, extravagancies escaped me,

which only the most violent passions seemed capable of inspiring; in a

word, there was but one essential difference to distinguish me from

an absolute lover, and that particular renders my situation almost

inconceivable.

I had returned from Italy, not absolutely as I went there, but as no

one of my age, perhaps, ever did before, being equally unacquainted

with women. My ardent constitution had found resources in those means

by which youth of my disposition sometimes preserve their purity at

the expense of health, vigor, and frequently of life itself. My local

situation should likewise be considered--living with a pretty woman,

cherishing her image in the bottom of my heart, seeing her during

the whole day, at night surrounded with objects that recalled her

incessantly to my remembrance, and sleeping in the bed where I knew she

had slept. What a situation! Who can read this without supposing me on

the brink of the grave? But quite the contrary; that which might have

ruined me, acted as a preservative, at least for a time. Intoxicated

with the charm of living with her, with the ardent desire of passing my

life there, absent or present I saw in her a tender mother, an amiable

sister, a respected friend, but nothing more; meantime, her image filled

my heart, and left room far no other object. The extreme tenderness with

which she inspired me excluded every other woman from my consideration,

and preserved me from the whole sex: in a word, I was virtuous, because

I loved her. Let these particulars, which I recount but indifferently,

be considered, and then let any one judge what kind of attachment I had

for her: for my part, all I can say, is, that if it hitherto appears

extraordinary, it will appear much more so in the sequel.

My time passed in the most agreeable manner, though occupied in a way

which was by no means calculated to please me; such as having projects

to digest, bills to write fair, receipts to transcribe, herbs to pick,

drugs to pound, or distillations to attend; and in the midst of

all this, came crowds of travellers, beggars, and visitors of all

denominations. Some times it was necessary to converse at the same time

with a soldier, an apothecary, a prebendary, a fine lady, and a lay

brother. I grumbled, swore, and wished all this troublesome medley at

the devil, while she seemed to enjoy it, laughing at my chagrin till the

tears ran down her cheeks. What excited her mirth still more, was to

see that my anger was increased by not being able myself to refrain from

laughter. These little intervals, in which I enjoyed the pleasure

of grumbling, were charming; and if, during the dispute, another

importunate visitor arrived, she would add to her amusement by

maliciously prolonging the visit, meantime casting glances at me for

which I could almost have beat her; nor could she without difficulty

refrain from laughter on seeing my constrained politeness, though every

moment glancing at her the look of a fury, while, even in spite of

myself, I thought the scene truly diverting.

All this, without being pleasing in itself, contributed to amuse,

because it made up a part of a life which I thought delightful. Nothing

that was performed around me, nothing that I was obliged to do, suited

my taste, but everything suited my heart; and I believe, at length, I

should have liked the study of medicine, had not my natural distaste

to it perpetually engaged us in whimsical scenes, that prevented my

thinking of it in a serious light. It was, perhaps, the first time that

this art produced mirth. I pretended to distinguish a physical book by

its smell, and what was more diverting, was seldom mistaken. Madam

de Warens made me taste the most nauseous drugs; in vain I ran, or

endeavored to defend myself; spite of resistance or wry faces, spite

of my struggles, or even of my teeth, when I saw her charming fingers

approach my lips, I was obliged to give up the contest.

[Illustration: 0098]

When shut up in an apartment with all her medical apparatus, any one who

had heard us running and shouting amidst peals of laughter would rather

have imagined we had been acting a farce than preparing opiates or

elixirs.

My time, however, was not entirely passed in these fooleries; in the

apartment which I occupied I found a few books: there was the Spectator,

Puffendorf, St. Everemond, and the Henriade. Though I had not my old

passion for books, yet I amused myself with reading a part of them. The

Spectator was particularly pleasing and serviceable to me. The Abbe de

Gauvon had taught me to read less eagerly, and with a greater degree

of attention, which rendered my studies more serviceable. I accustomed

myself to reflect on elocution and the elegance of composition;

exercising myself in discerning pure French from my provincial idiom.

For example, I corrected an orthographical fault (which I had in common

with all Genevese) by these two lines of the Henriade:

Soit qu' un ancient respect pour le sang de leurs maitres,

Parlat encore pour lui dans le coeur de ces traitres

I was struck with the word 'parlat', and found a 't' was necessary to

form the third person of the subjunctive, whereas I had always written

and pronounced it parla, as in the present of the indicative.

Sometimes my studies were the subject of conversation with Madam de

Warens; sometimes I read to her, in which I found great satisfaction;

and as I endeavored to read well, it was extremely serviceable to me.

I have already observed that her mind was cultivated; her understanding

was at this time in its meridian. Several people of learning having been

assiduous to ingratiate themselves, had taught her to distinguish

works of merit; but her taste (if I may so express myself) was rather

Protestant; ever speaking warmly of Bayle, and highly esteeming St.

Evremond, though long since almost forgotten in France: but this did not

prevent her having a taste for literature, or expressing her thoughts

with elegance. She had been brought up with polite company, and coming

young to Savoy, by associating with people of the best fashion, had lost

the affected manners of her own country, where the ladies mistake wit

for sense, and only speak in epigram.

Though she had seen the court but superficially, that glance was

sufficient to give her a competent idea of it; and notwithstanding

secret jealousies and the murmurs excited by her conduct and running in

debt, she ever preserved friends there, and never lost her pension.

She knew the world, and was useful. This was her favorite theme in our

conversations, and was directly opposite to my chimerical ideas, though

the kind of instruction I particularly had occasion for. We read

Bruyere together; he pleased her more than Rochefoucault, who is a

dull, melancholy author, particularly to youth, who are not fond

of contemplating man as he really is. In moralizing she sometimes

bewildered herself by the length of her discourse; but by kissing her

lips or hand from time to time I was easily consoled, and never found

them wearisome.

This life was too delightful to be lasting; I felt this, and the

uneasiness that thought gave me was the only thing that disturbed my

enjoyment. Even in playfulness she studied my disposition, observed and

interrogated me, forming projects for my future fortune, which I could

readily have dispensed with. Happily it was not sufficient to know my

disposition, inclinations and talents; it was likewise necessary to find

a situation in which they would be useful, and this was not the work of

a day. Even the prejudices this good woman had conceived in favor of my

merit put off the time of calling it into action, by rendering her more

difficult in the choice of means; thus (thanks to the good opinion she

entertained of me), everything answered to my wish; but a change soon

happened which put a period to my tranquility.

A relation of Madam de Warens, named M. d'Aubonne, came to see her;

a man of great understanding and intrigue, being, like her, fond of

projects, though careful not to ruin himself by them. He had offered

Cardinal Fleury a very compact plan for a lottery, which, however, had

not been approved of, and he was now going to propose it to the court

of Turin, where it was accepted and put into execution. He remained some

time at Annecy, where he fell in love with the Intendant's lady, who was

very amiable, much to my taste and the only person I saw with pleasure

at the house of Madam de Warens. M. d'Aubonne saw me, I was strongly

recommended by his relation; he promised, therefore, to question and see

what I was fit for, and, if he found me capable, to seek me a situation.

Madam de Warens sent me to him two or three mornings, under pretense of

messages, without acquainting me with her real intention. He spoke to me

gayly, on various subjects, without any appearance of observation; his

familiarity presently set me talking, which by his cheerful and jesting

manner he encouraged without restraint--I was absolutely charmed with

him. The result of his observations was, that notwithstanding the

animation of my countenance, and promising exterior, if not absolutely

silly, I was a lad of very little sense, and without ideas of learning;

in fine, very ignorant in all respects, and if I could arrive at being

curate of some village, it was the utmost honor I ought ever to aspire

to. Such was the account he gave of me to Madam de Warens. This was not

the first time such an opinion had been formed of me, neither was it the

last; the judgment of M. Masseron having been repeatedly confirmed.

The cause of these opinions is too much connected with my character not

to need a particular explanation; for it will not be supposed that I

can in conscience subscribe to them; and with all possible impartiality,

whatever M. Masseron, M. d'Aubonne and many others may have said, I

cannot help thinking them mistaken.

Two things very opposite, unite in me, and in a manner which I cannot

myself conceive. My disposition is extremely ardent, my passions

lively and impetuous, yet my ideas are produced slowly, with great

embarrassment and after much afterthought. It might be said my heart and

understanding do not belong to the same individual. A sentiment takes

possession of my soul with the rapidity of lightning, but instead of

illuminating, it dazzles and confounds me; I feel all, but see nothing;

I am warm, but stupid; to think I must be cool. What is astonishing,

my conception is clear and penetrating, if not hurried: I can make

excellent impromptus at leisure, but on the instant, could never say or

do anything worth notice. I could hold a tolerable conversation by the

post, as they say the Spaniards play at chess, and when I read that

anecdote of a duke of Savoy, who turned himself round, while on a

journey, to cry out 'a votre gorge, marchand de Paris!' I said, "Here is

a trait of my character!"

This slowness of thought, joined to vivacity of feeling, I am not only

sensible of in conversation, but even alone. When I write, my ideas are

arranged with the utmost difficulty. They glance on my imagination and

ferment till they discompose, heat, and bring on a palpitation; during

this state of agitation, I see nothing properly, cannot write a single

word, and must wait till it is over. Insensibly the agitation subsides,

the chaos acquires form, and each circumstance takes its proper place.

Have you never seen an opera in Italy? where during the change of scene

everything is in confusion, the decorations are intermingled, and

any one would suppose that all would be overthrown; yet by little and

little, everything is arranged, nothing appears wanting, and we feel

surprised to see the tumult succeeded by the most delightful spectacle.

This is a resemblance of what passes in my brain when I attempt to

write; had I always waited till that confusion was past, and then

painted, in their natural beauties, the objects that had presented

themselves, few authors would have surpassed me.

Thence arises the extreme difficulty I find in writing; my manuscripts,

blotted, scratched, and scarcely legible, attest the trouble they cost

me; nor is there one of them but I have been obliged to transcribe four

or five times before it went to press. Never could I do anything when

placed at a table, pen in hand; it must be walking among the rocks, or

in the woods; it is at night in my bed, during my wakeful hours, that I

compose; it may be judged how slowly, particularly for a man who has not

the advantage of verbal memory, and never in his life could retain by

heart six verses. Some of my periods I have turned and returned in my

head five or six nights before they were fit to be put to paper: thus it

is that I succeed better in works that require laborious attention, than

those that appear more trivial, such as letters, in which I could never

succeed, and being obliged to write one is to me a serious punishment;

nor can I express my thoughts on the most trivial subjects without it

costing me hours of fatigue. If I write immediately what strikes me, my

letter is a long, confused, unconnected string of expressions, which,

when read, can hardly be understood.

It is not only painful to me to give language to my ideas but even

to receive them. I have studied mankind, and think myself a tolerable

observer, yet I know nothing from what I see, but all from what I

remember, nor have I understanding except in my recollections. From

all that is said, from all that passes in my presence, I feel nothing,

conceive nothing, the exterior sign being all that strikes me;

afterwards it returns to my remembrance; I recollect the place, the

time, the manner, the look, and gesture, not a circumstance escapes me;

it is then, from what has been done or said, that I imagine what has

been thought, and I have rarely found myself mistaken.

So little master of my understanding when alone, let any one judge what

I must be in conversation, where to speak with any degree of ease you

must think of a thousand things at the same time: the bare idea that I

should forget something material would be sufficient to intimidate me.

Nor can I comprehend how people can have the confidence to converse in

large companies, where each word must pass in review before so many,

and where it would be requisite to know their several characters and

histories to avoid saying what might give offence. In this particular,

those who frequent the world would have a great advantage, as they know

better where to be silent, and can speak with greater confidence; yet

even they sometimes let fall absurdities; in what predicament then must

he be who drops as it were from the clouds? It is almost impossible he

should speak ten minutes with impunity.

In a tete-a-tete there is a still worse inconvenience; that is; the

necessity of talking perpetually, at least, the necessity of answering

when spoken to, and keeping up the conversation when the other is

silent. This insupportable constraint is alone sufficient to disgust me

with variety, for I cannot form an idea of a greater torment than being

obliged to speak continually without time for recollection. I know not

whether it proceeds from my mortal hatred of all constraint; but if I

am obliged to speak, I infallibly talk nonsense. What is still worse,

instead of learning how to be silent when I have absolutely nothing to

say, it is generally at such times that I have a violent inclination:

and endeavoring to pay my debt of conversation as speedily as possible,

I hastily gabble a number of words without ideas, happy when they

only chance to mean nothing; thus endeavoring to conquer or hide my

incapacity, I rarely fail to show it.

I think I have said enough to show that, though not a fool, I have

frequently passed for one, even among people capable of judging; this

was the more vexatious, as my physiognomy and eyes promised otherwise,

and expectation being frustrated, my stupidity appeared the more

shocking. This detail, which a particular occasion gave birth to, will

not be useless in the sequel, being a key to many of my actions which

might otherwise appear unaccountable; and have been attributed to a

savage humor I do not possess. I love society as much as any man, was

I not certain to exhibit myself in it, not only disadvantageously, but

totally different from what I really am. The plan I have adopted of

writing and retirement, is what exactly suits me. Had I been present, my

worth would never have been known, no one would even have suspected it;

thus it was with Madam Dupin, a woman of sense, in whose house I lived

for several years; indeed, she has often since owned it to me: though

on the whole this rule may be subject to some exceptions. I shall now

return to my history.

The estimate of my talents thus fixed, the situation I was capable

of promised, the question only remained how to render me capable of

fulfilling my destined vocation. The principle difficulty was, I did not

know Latin enough for a priest. Madam de Warens determined to have me

taught for some time at the seminary, and accordingly spoke of it to

the Superior, who was a Lazarist, called M. Gras, a good-natured little

fellow, half blind, meagre, gray-haired, insensible, and the least

pedantic of any Lazarist I ever knew; which, in fact, is saying no great

matter.

He frequently visited Madam de Warens, who entertained, caressed, and

made much of him, letting him sometimes lace her stays, an office he was

willing enough to perform. While thus employed, she would run about the

room, this way or that, as occasion happened to call her. Drawn by the

lace, Monsieur the Superior followed, grumbling, repeating at every

moment, "Pray, madam, do stand still;" the whole forming a scene truly

diverting.

M. Gras willingly assented to the project of Madam de Warens, and, for a

very moderate pension, charged himself with the care of instructing me.

The consent of the bishop was all that remained necessary, who not only

granted it, but offered to pay the pension, permitting me to retain the

secular habit till they could judge by a trial what success they might

have in my improvement.

What a change! but I was obliged to submit; though I went to the

seminary with about the same spirits as if they had been taking me to

execution. What a melancholy abode! especially for one who left the

house of a pretty woman. I carried one book with me, that I had borrowed

of Madam de Warens, and found it a capital resource! it will not be

easily conjectured what kind of book this was--it was a music book.

Among the talents she had cultivated, music was not forgotten; she had a

tolerable good voice, sang agreeably, and played on the harpsichord. She

had taken the pains to give me some lessons in singing, though before

I was very uninformed in that respect, hardly knowing the music of

our psalms. Eight or ten interrupted lessons, far from putting me in

a condition to improve myself, did not teach me half the notes;

notwithstanding, I had such a passion for the art, that I determined to

exercise myself alone. The book I took was not of the most easy kind; it

was the cantatas of Clerambault. It may be conceived with what attention

and perseverance I studied, when I inform my reader, that without

knowing anything of transposition or quantity, I contrived to sing with

tolerable correctness, the first recitative and air in the cantata of

Alpheus and Arethusa; it is true this air is, so justly set, that it is

only necessary to recite the verses in their just measure to catch the

music.

There was at the seminary a curst Lazarist, who by undertaking to teach

me Latin made me detest it. His hair was coarse, black and greasy, his

face like those formed in gingerbread, he had the voice of a buffalo,

the countenance of an owl, and the bristles of a boar in lieu of a

beard; his smile was sardonic, and his limbs played like those of

a puppet moved by wires. I have forgotten his odious name, but the

remembrance of his frightful precise countenance remains with me, though

hardly can I recollect it without trembling; especially when I call to

mind our meeting in the gallery, when he graciously advanced his filthy

square cap as a sign for me to enter his apartment, which appeared more

dismal in my apprehension than a dungeon. Let any one judge the contrast

between my present master and the elegant Abbe de Gauvon.

Had I remained two months at the mercy of this monster, I am certain my

head could not have sustained it; but the good M. Gras, perceiving I was

melancholy, grew thin, and did not eat my victuals, guessed the cause of

my uneasiness (which indeed was not very difficult) and taking me from

the claws of this beast, by another yet more striking contrast, placed

me with the gentlest of men, a young Faucigneran abbe, named M. Gatier,

who studied at the seminary, and out of complaisance for M. Gras, and

humanity to myself, spared some time from the prosecution of his

own studies in order to direct mine. Never did I see a more pleasing

countenance than that of M. Gatier. He was fair complexioned, his beard

rather inclined to red; his behavior like that of the generality of

his countrymen (who under a coarseness of countenance conceal much

understanding), marked in him a truly sensible and affectionate soul.

In his large blue eyes there was a mixture of softness, tenderness, and

melancholy, which made it impossible to see him without feeling one's

self interested. From the looks and manner of this young abbe he might

have been supposed to have foreseen his destiny, and that he was born to

be unhappy.

His disposition did not belie his physiognomy: full of patience and

complaisance, he rather appeared to study with than to instruct me.

So much was not necessary to make me love him, his predecessor having

rendered that very easy; yet, notwithstanding all the time he bestowed

on me, notwithstanding our mutual good inclinations, and that his plan

of teaching was excellent, with much labor, I made little progress. It

is very singular, that with a clear conception I could never learn

much from masters except my father and M. Lambercier; the little I know

besides I have learned alone, as will be seen hereafter. My spirit,

impatient of every species of constraint, cannot submit to the law of

the moment; even the fear of not learning prevents my being attentive,

and a dread of wearying those who teach, makes me feign to understand

them; thus they proceed faster than I can comprehend, and the conclusion

is I learn nothing. My understanding must take its own time and cannot

submit to that of another.

The time of ordination being arrived, M. Gatier returned to his province

as deacon, leaving me with gratitude, attachment, and sorrow for his

loss. The vows I made for him were no more answered than those I offered

for myself. Some years after, I learned, that being vicar of a parish,

a young girl was with child by him, being the only one (though he

possessed a very tender heart) with whom he was ever in love. This was

a dreadful scandal in a diocese severely governed, where the priests

(being under good regulation) ought never to have children--except by

married women. Having infringed this politic law, he was put in prison,

defamed, and driven from his benefice. I know not whether it was ever

after in his power to reestablish his affairs; but the remembrance of

his misfortunes, which were deeply engraven on my heart, struck me when

I wrote Emilius, and uniting M. Gatier with M. Gaime, I formed from

these two worthy priests the character of the Savoyard Vicar, and

flatter myself the imitation has not dishonored the originals.

While I was at the seminary, M. d'Aubonne was obliged to quit Annecy,

Moultou being displeased that he made love to his wife, which was

acting like a dog in the manger, for though Madam Moultou was extremely

amiable, he lived very ill with her, treating her with such brutality

that a separation was talked of. Moultou, by repeated oppressions, at

length procured a dismissal from his employment: he was a disagreeable

man; a mole could not be blacker, nor an owl more knavish. It is

said the provincials revenge themselves on their enemies by songs; M.

d'Aubonne revenged himself on his by a comedy, which he sent to Madam

de Warens, who showed it to me. I was pleased with it, and immediately

conceived the idea of writing one, to try whether I was so silly as the

author had pronounced me. This project was not executed till I went to

Chambery, where I wrote 'The Lover of Himself'. Thus when I said in the

preface to that piece, "it was written at eighteen," I cut off a few

years.

Nearly about this time an event happened, not very important in itself,

but whose consequence affected me, and made a noise in the world when

I had forgotten it. Once a week I was permitted to go out; it is not

necessary to say what use I made of this liberty. Being one Sunday at

Madam de Warens, a building belonging to the Cordeliers, which joined

her house, took fire; this building which contained their oven, being

full of dry fagots, blazed violently and greatly endangered the house;

for the wind happening to drive the flames that way, it was covered with

them. The furniture, therefore, was hastily got out and carried into the

garden which fronted the windows, on the other side the before-mentioned

brook. I was so alarmed that I threw indiscriminately everything that

came to hand out of the window, even to a large stone mortar, which at

another time I should have found it difficult to remove, and should have

thrown a handsome looking-glass after it had not some one prevented

me. The good bishop, who that day was visiting Madam de Warens, did not

remain idle; he took her into the garden, where they went to prayers

with the rest that were assembled there, and where sometime afterwards,

I found them on their knees, and presently joined them. While the good

man was at his devotions, the wind changed, so suddenly and critically,

that the flames which had covered the house and began to enter the

windows, were carried to the other side of the court, and the house

received no damage. Two years after, Monsieur de Berner being dead, the

Antoines, his former brethren, began to collect anecdotes which might

serve as arguments of his beatification; at the desire of Father Baudet,

I joined to these an attestation of what I have just related, in doing

which, though I attested no more than the truth, I certainly acted ill,

as it tended to make an indifferent occurrence pass for a miracle. I had

seen the bishop in prayer, and had likewise seen the wind change during

the prayer, and even much to the purpose, all this I could certify

truly; but that one of these facts was the cause of the other, I ought

not to have attested, because it is what I could not possibly be assured

of. Thus much I may say, that as far as I can recollect what my ideas

were at that time, I was sincerely, and in good earnest a Catholic. Love

of the marvellous is natural to the human heart; my veneration for the

virtuous prelate, and secret pride in having, perhaps, contributed to

the event in question, all helped to seduce me; and certainly, if this

miracle was the effect of ardent prayer, I had a right to claim a share

of the merits.

More than thirty years after, when I published the 'Lettres de

la Montagne', M. Feron (I know not by what means) discovered this

attestation, and made use of it in his paper. I must confess the

discovery was very critically timed, and appeared very diverting, even

to me.

I was destined to be the outcast of every condition; for notwithstanding

M. Gatier gave the most favorable account he possibly could of my

studies, they plainly saw the improvement I received bore no proportion

to the pains taken to instruct me, which was no encouragement to

continue them: the bishop and superior, therefore, were disheartened,

and I was sent back to Madam de Warens, as a subject not even fit to

make a priest of; but as they allowed, at the same time, that I was

a tolerably good lad, and far from being vicious, this account

counterbalanced the former, and determined her not to abandon me.

I carried back in triumph the dear music book, which had been so useful

to me, the air of Alpheus and Arethusa being almost all I had learned at

the seminary. My predilection for this art started the idea of making

a musician of me. A convenient opportunity offered; once a week, at

least, she had a concert at her house, and the music-master from the

cathedral, who directed this little band, came frequently to see her.

This was a Parisian, named M. le Maitre, a good composer, very lively,

gay, young, well made, of little understanding, but, upon the whole, a

good sort of man. Madam de Warens made us acquainted; I attached myself

to him, and he seemed not displeased with me. A pension was talked of,

and agreed on; in short, I went home with him, and passed the winter

the more agreeably at his chambers, as they were not above twenty paces

distant from Madam de Warens', where we frequently supped together. It

may easily be supposed that this situation, ever gay, and singing with

the musicians and children of the choir, was more pleasing to me than

the seminary and fathers of St. Lazarus. This life, though free, was

regular; here I learned to prize independence, but never to abuse

it. For six whole months I never once went out except to see Madam de

Warens, or to church, nor had I any inclination to it. This interval is

one of those in which I enjoyed the greatest satisfaction, and which I

have ever recollected with pleasure. Among the various situations I

have been placed in, some were marked with such an idea of virtuous

satisfaction, that the bare remembrance affects me as if they were yet

present. I vividly recollect the time, the place, the persons, and even

the temperature of the air, while the lively idea of a certain local

impression peculiar to those times, transports me back again to the very

spot; for example, all that was repeated at our meetings, all that was

sung in the choir, everything that passed there; the beautiful and noble

habits of the canons, the chasubles of the priests, the mitres of the

singers, the persons of the musicians; an old lame carpenter who played

the counter-bass, a little fair abbe who performed on the violin, the

ragged cassock which M. le Maitre, after taking off his sword, used to

put over his secular habit, and the fine surplice with which he covered

the rags of the former, when he went to the choir; the pride with which

I held my little flute to my lips, and seated myself in the orchestra,

to assist in a recitative which M. le Maitre had composed on purpose for

me; the good dinner that afterwards awaited us, and the good appetites

we carried to it. This concourse of objects, strongly retraced in my

memory, has charmed me a hundred time as much, or perhaps more, than

ever the reality had done. I have always preserved an affection for a

certain air of the 'Conditor alme Syderum', because one Sunday in Advent

I heard that hymn sung on the steps of the cathedral, (according to

the custom of that place) as I lay in bed before daybreak. Mademoiselle

Merceret, Madam de Warens' chambermaid, knew something of music; I shall

never forget a little piece that M. le Maitre made me sing with her, and

which her mistress listened to with great satisfaction. In a word, every

particular, even down to the servant Perrine, whom the boys of the

choir took such delight in teasing. The remembrance of these times of

happiness and innocence frequently returning to my mind, both ravish and

affect me.

I lived at Annecy during a year without the least reproach, giving

universal satisfaction. Since my departure from Turin I had been guilty

of no folly, committed none while under the eye of Madam de Warens. She

was my conductor, and ever led me right; my attachment for her became

my only passion, and what proves it was not a giddy one, my heart

and understanding were in unison. It is true that a single sentiment,

absorbing all my faculties, put me out of a capacity of learning even

music: but this was not my fault, since to the strongest inclination, I

added the utmost assiduity. I was attentive and thoughtful; what could

I do? Nothing was wanting towards my progress that depended on me;

meantime, it only required a subject that might inspire me to occasion

the commission of new follies: that subject presented itself, chance

arranged it, and (as will be seen hereafter) my inconsiderate head gave

in to it.

One evening, in the month of February, when it was very cold, being all

sat round the fire, we heard some one knock at the street door. Perrine

took a light, went down and opened it: a young man entering, came

upstairs, presented himself with an easy air, and making M. Maitre

a short, but well-turned compliment, announced himself as a French

musician, constrained by the state of his finances to take this liberty.

The heart of the good Le Maitre leaped at the name of a French musician,

for he passionately loved both his country and profession; he therefore

offered the young traveller his service--and use of his apartment, which

he appeared to stand much in need of, and which he accepted without

much ceremony. I observed him while he was chatting and warming himself

before supper; he was short and thick, having some fault in his shape,

though without any particular deformity; he had (if I may so express

myself) an appearance of being hunchbacked, with flat shoulders, and I

think he limped. He wore a black coat, rather worn than old, which

hung in tatters, a very fine but dirty shirt, frayed ruffles; a pair of

splatterdashes so large that he could have put both legs into either of

them, and, to secure himself from the snow, a little hat, only fit to

be carried under his arm. With this whimsical equipage, he had, however,

something elegant in his manners and conversation; his countenance

was expressive and agreeable, and he spoke with facility if not with

modesty; in short, everything about him bore the mark of a young

debauchee, who did not crave assistance like a beggar, but as a

thoughtless madcap. He told us his name was Venture de Villeneuve, that

he came from Paris, had lost his way, and seeming to forget that he had

announced himself for a musician, added that he was going to Grenoble to

see a relation that was a member of Parliament.

During supper we talked of music, on which subject he spoke well: he

knew all the great virtuosi, all the celebrated works, all the actors,

actresses, pretty women, and powerful lords; in short nothing was

mentioned but what he seemed thoroughly acquainted with. Though no

sooner was any topic started, than by some drollery, which set every

one a-laughing, he made them forget what had been said. This was on a

Saturday; the next day there was to be music at the cathedral: M. le

Maitre asked if he would sing there--"Very willingly."--"What part would

he chose?"--"The counter-tenor:" and immediately began speaking of other

things. Before he went to church they offered him his part to

peruse, but he did not even look at it. This Gasconade surprised Le

Maitre--"You'll see," said he, whispering to me, "that he does not know

a single note."--I replied: "I am very much afraid of him." I followed

them into the church; but was extremely uneasy, and when they began, my

heart beat violently, so much was I interested in his behalf.

I was presently out of pain: he sung his two recitatives with all

imaginable taste and judgment; and what was yet more, with a very

agreeable voice. I never enjoyed a more pleasing surprise. After

mass, M. Venture received the highest compliments from the canons and

musicians, which he answered jokingly, though with great grace. M. le

Maitre embraced him heartily; I did the same; he saw I was rejoiced at

his success, and appeared pleased at my satisfaction.

It will easily be surmised, that after having been delighted with M.

Bacle, who had little to attract my admiration, I should be infatuated

with M. Venture, who had education, wit, talents, and a knowledge of

the world, and might be called an agreeable rake. This was exactly what

happened, and would, I believe, have happened to any other young man

in my place; especially supposing him possessed of better judgment to

distinguish merit, and more propensity to be engaged by it; for Venture

doubtless possessed a considerable share, and one in particular, very

rare at his age, namely, that of never being in haste to display his

talents. It is true, he boasted of many things he did not understand,

but of those he knew (which were very numerous) he said nothing,

patiently waiting some occasion to display them, which he then did with

ease, though without forwardness, and thus gave them more effect. As

there was ever some intermission between the proofs of his various

abilities, it was impossible to conjecture whether he had ever

discovered all his talents. Playful, giddy, inexhaustible, seducing in

conversation, ever smiling, but never laughing, and repeating the rudest

things in the most elegant manner--even the most modest women were

astonished at what they endured from him: it was in vain for them to

determine to be angry; they could not assume the appearance of it. It

was extraordinary that with so many agreeable talents, in a country

where they are so well understood, and so much admired, he so long

remained only a musician.

My attachment to M. Venture, more reasonable in its cause, was also less

extravagant in its effects, though more lively and durable than that

I had conceived for M. Bacle. I loved to see him, to hear him, all his

actions appeared charming, everything he said was an oracle to me, but

the enchantment did not extend far enough to disable me from quitting

him. I spoke of him with transport to Madam de Warens, Le Maitre

likewise spoke in his praise, and she consented we should bring him to

her house. This interview did not succeed; he thought her affected,

she found him a libertine, and, alarmed that I had formed such an ill

acquaintance, not only forbade me bringing him there again, but likewise

painted so strongly the danger I ran with this young man, that I became

a little more circumspect in giving in to the attachment; and very

happily, both for my manners and wits, we were soon separated.

M. le Maitre, like most of his profession, loved good wine; at table he

was moderate, but when busy in his closet he must drink. His maid was so

well acquainted with this humor that no sooner had he prepared his

paper to compose, and taken his violoncello, than the bottle and glass

arrived, and was replenished from time to time: thus, without being ever

absolutely intoxicated, he was usually in a state of elevation. This

was really unfortunate, for he had a good heart, and was so playful that

Madam de Warens used to call him the kitten. Unhappily, he loved his

profession, labored much and drank proportionately, which injured his

health, and at length soured his temper. Sometimes he was gloomy and

easily offended, though incapable of rudeness, or giving offence to any

one, for never did he utter a harsh word, even to the boys of the choir:

on the other hand, he would not suffer another to offend him, which was

but just: the misfortune was, having little understanding, he did not

properly discriminate, and was often angry without cause.

The Chapter of Geneva, where so many princes and bishops formerly

thought it an honor to be seated, though in exile it lost its ancient

splendor, retained (without any diminution) its pride. To be admitted,

you must either be a gentleman or Doctor of Sorbonne. If there is

a pardonable pride, after that derived from personal merit, it is

doubtless that arising from birth, though, in general, priests having

laymen in their service treat them with sufficient haughtiness, and thus

the canons behaved to poor Le Maitre. The chanter, in particular, who

was called the Abbe de Vidonne, in other respects a well-behaved man,

but too full of his nobility, did not always show him the attention

his talents merited. M. le Maitre could not bear these indignities

patiently; and this year, during passion week, they had a more serious

dispute than ordinary. At an institution dinner that the bishop gave the

canons, and to which M. Maitre was always invited, the abbe failed in

some formality, adding, at the same time, some harsh words, which the

other could not digest; he instantly formed the resolution to quit them

the following night; nor could any consideration make him give up his

design, though Madam de Warens (whom he went to take leave of) spared

no pains to appease him. He could not relinquish the pleasure of leaving

his tyrants embarrassed for the Easter feast, at which time he knew they

stood in greatest need of him. He was most concerned about his

music, which he wished to take with him; but this could not easily be

accomplished, as it filled a large case, and was very heavy, and could

not be carried under the arm.

Madam de Warens did what I should have done in her situation; and

indeed, what I should yet do: after many useless efforts to retain

him, seeing he was resolved to depart, whatever might be the event,

she formed the resolution to give him every possible assistance. I

must confess Le Maitre deserved it of her, for he was (if I may use the

expression) dedicated to her service, in whatever appertained to either

his art or knowledge, and the readiness with which he obliged gave

a double value to his complaisance: thus she only paid back, on an

essential occasion, the many favors he had been long conferring on her;

though I should observe, she possessed a soul that, to fulfill such

duties, had no occasion to be reminded of previous obligations.

Accordingly she ordered me to follow Le Maitre to Lyons, and to continue

with him as long as he might have occasion for my services. She has

since avowed, that a desire of detaching me from Venture had a great

hand in this arrangement. She consulted Claude Anet about the conveyance

of the above-mentioned case. He advised, that instead of hiring a beast

at Annecy, which would infallibly discover us, it would be better, at

night, to take it to some neighboring village, and there hire an ass to

carry it to Seyssel, which being in the French dominions, we should have

nothing to fear. This plan was adopted; we departed the same night

at seven, and Madam de Warens, under pretense of paying my expenses,

increased the purse of poor Le Maitre by an addition that was very

acceptable. Claude Anet, the gardiner, and myself, carried the case

to the first village, then hired an ass, and the same night reached

Seyssel.

I think I have already remarked that there are times in which I am

so unlike myself that I might be taken for a man of a direct opposite

disposition; I shall now give an example of this. M. Reydelet, curate of

Seyssel, was canon of St. Peter's, consequently known to M. le Maitre,

and one of the people from whom he should have taken most pains to

conceal himself; my advice, on the contrary, was to present ourselves to

him, and, under some pretext, entreat entertainment as if we visited him

by consent of the chapter. Le Maitre adopted the idea, which seemed to

give his revenge the appearance of satire and waggery; in short, we went

boldly to Reydelet, who received us very kindly. Le Maitre told him he

was going to Bellay by desire of the bishop, that he might superintend

the music during the Easter holidays, and that he proposed returning

that way in a few days. To support this tale, I told a hundred others,

so naturally that M. Reydelet thought me a very agreeable youth, and

treated me with great friendship and civility. We were well regaled and

well lodged: M. Reydelet scarcely knew how to make enough of us; and we

parted the best friends in the world, with a promise to stop longer on

our return. We found it difficult to refrain from laughter, or wait till

we were alone to give free vent to our mirth: indeed, even now, the bare

recollection of it forces a smile, for never was waggery better or

more fortunately maintained. This would have made us merry during the

remainder of our journey, if M. le Maitre (who did not cease drinking)

had not been two or three times attacked with a complaint that he

afterwards became very subject to, and which resembled an epilepsy.

These fits threw me into the most fearful embarrassments, from which I

resolved to extricate myself with the first opportunity.

According to the information given to M. Reydelet, we passed our Easter

holidays at Bellay, and though not expected there, were received by

the music-master, and welcomed by every one with great pleasure. M. le

Maitre was of considerable note in his profession, and, indeed, merited

that distinction. The music-master of Bellay (who was fond of his own

works) endeavored to obtain the approbation of so good a judge; for

besides being a connoisseur, M. le Maitre was equitable, neither a

jealous, ill-natured critic, nor a servile flatterer. He was so superior

to the generality of country music-masters and they were so sensible of

it, that they treated him rather as their chief than a brother musician.

Having passed four or five days very agreeably at Bellay, we departed,

and continuing our journey without meeting with any accidents, except

those I have just spoken of, arrived at Lyons, and were lodged at Notre

Dame de Pitie. While we waited for the arrival of the before-mentioned

case (which by the assistance of another lie, and the care of our good

patron, M. Reydelet, we had embarked on the Rhone) M. le Maitre went to

visit his acquaintance, and among others Father Cato, a Cordelier, who

will be spoken of hereafter, and the Abbe Dortan, Count of Lyons, both

of whom received him well, but afterwards betrayed him, as will be seen

presently; indeed, his good fortune terminated with M. Reydelet.

Two days after our arrival at Lyons, as we passed a little street not

far from our inn, Le Maitre was attacked by one of his fits; but it was

now so violent as to give me the utmost alarm. I screamed with terror,

called for help, and naming our inn, entreated some one to bear him to

it, then (while the people were assembled, and busy round a man that had

fallen senseless in the street) he was abandoned by the only friend on

whom he could have any reasonable dependence; I seized the instant

when no one heeded me, turned the corner of the street and disappeared.

Thanks to Heaven, I have made my third painful confession; if many such

remained, I should certainly abandon the work I have undertaken.

Of all the incidents I have yet related, a few traces are remaining

in the places where I have lived; but what I have to relate in the

following book is almost entirely unknown; these are the greatest

extravagancies of my life, and it is happy they had not worse

conclusions. My head, (if I may use the simile) screwed up to the

pitch of an instrument it did not naturally accord with, had lost

its diapason; in time it returned to it again, when I discontinued my

follies, or at least gave in to those more consonant to my disposition.

This epoch of my youth I am least able to recollect, nothing having

passed sufficiently interesting to influence my heart, to make me

clearly retrace the remembrance. In so many successive changes, it is

difficult not to make some transpositions of time or place. I

write absolutely from memory, without notes or materials to help

my recollection. Some events are as fresh in my idea as if they had

recently happened, but there are certain chasms which I cannot fill up

but by the aid of recital, as confused as the remaining traces of those

to which they refer. It is possible, therefore, that I may have erred

in trifles, and perhaps shall again, but in every matter of importance

I can answer that the account is faithfully exact, and with the same

veracity the reader may depend I shall be careful to continue it.

My resolution was soon taken after quitting Le Maitre; I set out

immediately for Annecy. The cause and mystery of our departure had

interested me for the security of our retreat: this interest, which

entirely employed my thoughts for some days, had banished every other

idea; but no sooner was I secure and in tranquility, than my predominant

sentiment regained its place. Nothing flattered, nothing tempted me, I

had no wish but to return to Madam de Warens; the tenderness and truth

of my attachment to her had rooted from my heart every imaginable

project, and all the follies of ambition, I conceived no happiness

but living near her, nor could I take a step without feeling that the

distance between us was increased. I returned, therefore, as soon

as possible, with such speed, and with my spirits in such a state of

agitation, that though I recall with pleasure all my other travels, I

have not the least recollection of this, only remembering my leaving

Lyons and reaching Annecy. Let anyone judge whether this last event can

have slipped my memory, when informed that on my arrival I found Madam

de Warens was not there, having set out for Paris.

I was never well informed of the motives of this journey. I am certain

she would have told me had I asked her, but never was man less curious

to learn the secrets of his friend. My heart is ever so entirely filled

with the present, or with past pleasures, which become a principal part

of my enjoyment, that there is not a chink or corner for curiosity to

enter. All that I conceive from what I heard of it, is, that in the

revolution caused at Turin by the abdication of the King of Sardinia,

she feared being forgotten, and was willing by favor of the intrigues of

M. d' Aubonne to seek the same advantage in the court of France, where

she has often told me she should have preferred it, as the multiplicity

of business there prevents your conduct from being so closely inspected.

If this was her business, it is astonishing that on her return she

was not ill received; be that as it will, she continued to enjoy her

allowance without any interruption. Many people imagined she was charged

with some secret commission, either by the bishop, who then had business

at the court of France, where he himself was soon after obliged to go,

or some one yet more powerful, who knew how to insure her a gracious

reception at her return. If this was the case, it is certain the

ambassadress was not ill chosen, since being young and handsome, she had

all the necessary qualifications to succeed in a negotiation.