The Confessions Read online

  Money has never seemed to me as precious as people think it. Indeed it has never seemed to me very useful. For it has no value in itself and must be transformed to be enjoyed. One must bargain and purchase and often be cheated, paying dear for poor services. I want an article of quality; but my money is sure to obtain a poor one. I pay a lot for a new laid egg, and it proves stale; for a ripe fruit, and it is green; for a girl, and she is debauched. I enjoy good wine, but where can I get it? At a wine merchant’s? Notwithstanding all my precautions he will poison me. Supposing I insist on getting what I want. What trouble and embarrassment I must put myself to! I must use friends and correspondents, give orders, write, go hither and thither, wait; and often I shall be cheated in the end. What a trouble my money is! I am not fond enough of good wine to disturb myself to that extent.

  Countless times, during my apprenticeship and since, I have gone out with the idea of buying some dainty. As I come to the pastrycook’s I catch sight of the women behind the counter and can already imagine them laughing amongst themselves and making fun of the greedy youngster. Then I pass a fruiterer’s, and look at the ripe pears out of the corner of my eye; the scent of them tempts me. But two or three young people over there are looking at me; a man I know is standing in front of the shop; I can see a girl coming in the distance. Is not she our maidservant? My short sight is constantly deceiving me. I take everyone who passes for someone I know. I am frightened by everything and discover obstacles everywhere. As my discomfort grows my desire increases. But in the end I go home like an idiot, consumed by longing and with money enough in my pocket to satisfy it, but not having dared to buy anything.

  I should involve myself in the most boring details were I to continue on the subject of my money and its spending – by me or by other people – and to relate all the embarrassment and shame, the repugnance and discomfort and repulsion I have always felt in regard to it. But as the reader learns more of my life, he will get to know my disposition and feel all this for himself without my needing to tell him.

  Once this is clear, he will have no difficulty in understanding one of the apparent contradictions in my character: the combination of an almost sordid avarice with the greatest contempt for money. It is a commodity that I find so unmanageable that it does not even occur to me to desire it when I have not got it, and when I have it I keep it for a long while without spending it, since I never know how to use it satisfactorily. But if an agreeable and convenient occasion arises I make such good use of it that my purse is empty before I have noticed it. Do not expect to find in me, however, that peculiarity of misers – spending in order to make a display. On the contrary I spend in secret and for pleasure. Far from calling attention to my spending, I conceal it. I am so conscious that money is not for me that I am almost ashamed of having any and still more ashamed of employing it. If I had ever had a sufficient income to live comfortably I should never have been tempted to be miserly, I am quite sure. I should have spent my whole income and never tried to increase it. But my precarious position always frightens me. I love liberty; I hate embarrassment, worry, and constraint. So long as the money lasts in my purse, it assures me of independence and relieves me of the need of plotting to obtain more, a need which has always appalled me. So afraid am I to see it end that I treasure it. Money in one’s possession is the instrument of liberty; money one pursues is the symbol of servitude. That is why I hold fast to what I have, but covet no more.

  My disinterestedness, therefore, is a sign of indolence; the pleasure of possession is not worth the trouble involved in acquisition. And my mad spending is a sign of indolence too; when the occasion for spending agreeably arises, too much use cannot be made of it. I am less tempted by money than by things, because between money and the desired object there is always an intermediary, whereas between a thing and its enjoyment there is none. If I see something, it tempts me. But if all I see is the way of acquiring it, I am not tempted. I have been a thief, and sometimes I still steal trifles that tempt me, and that I had rather take than ask for. But, in youth or age, I do not remember ever having taken a farthing from anyone, except on one occasion, almost fifteen years ago, when I stole seven livres ten sous. The incident is worth the telling, for it involves such an absurd mixture of boldness and stupidity that I should find it most difficult to believe if it concerned anyone but myself.

  It was in Paris. I was walking, at about five o’clock, with M. de Francueil in the Palais-Royal when he took out his watch, looked at it, and said, ‘Let us go the Opera.’ I agreed, and we went. He bought two tickets for the amphitheatre, gave me one and went on ahead with the other. I followed him in, but on reaching the doorway found it congested. When I looked in; I saw that everyone was standing. So, thinking I might easily be lost in the crowd, or at least make M. de Francueil think so, I went out again, presented my ticket, asked for my money back, and walked away. But what I had not suspected was that the moment I got to the door everyone sat down and M. de Francueil clearly perceived that I was no longer there.

  Nothing could have been so far from my natural disposition as this act. But I note it as a proof that there are moments of a kind of delirium, in which men cannot be judged by what they do. I did not exactly steal that money. What I stole was the use of it. But it was a theft and, what is more, it was a disgraceful one.

  I should never finish this story were I to follow out every occasion during my apprenticeship on which I passed from sublime heroism to the depths of villainy. However, though I assumed the vices of my station, I found it impossible to acquire a taste for them. My comrades’ amusements bored me; and when too much constraint made my work repulsive too, I grew weary of everything. In that state I re-acquired my love of reading, which I had long ago lost. The time for books I stole from my work, and that brought me fresh punishments. But, spurred on by opposition, this taste soon became a furious passion. Mme La Tribu’s famous lending library provided reading of all sorts. Good or bad was alike to me. I did not choose, I read everything with equal avidity. I read at my bench, I read on errands, I read in the lavatory, and was oblivious of myself for hours on end. I read till my head spun, I did nothing but read. My master spied on me, caught me, beat me, and took away my books. How many volumes were torn up, burnt, and thrown out of the window! How many works returned to Mme La Tribu’s shelves with volumes missing! When I had no money to pay her, I gave her my shirts, my ties, my clothes; my weekly pocket-money of three sous was carried to her regularly every Sunday.

  There, it may be said, is a case where money became necessary. That is true, but it was at a moment when reading had cut down every activity. Given over entirely to my new craze, I did nothing but read; I gave up stealing. This is another of my characteristic contradictions. When I am in a certain mood a trifle distracts me, changes me, captures me, and becomes a passion. Then I forget everything, and think only of the new subject of interest. My heart throbbed with impatience to turn over the pages of the new book I had in my pocket. I took it out as soon as I was alone, and had no longer a thought of ransacking my master’s private workshop. I cannot even imagine that I should have stolen even if I had had a more expensive craze. Being confined in the moment, it was not in my nature thus to provide for the future. Mme La Tribu gave me credit, the deposit she asked was small, and once I had a book in my pocket I did not give another thought for anything. The money that came to me in the natural way passed in the same way to her; and when she became pressing nothing came more readily to hand than my own clothes. Stealing in advance involved too much foresight; and stealing to pay her wasn’t even a temptation.

  What with rows and beatings and ill-selected and secret reading, my temper became wild and taciturn. My mind was beginning to be perverted and I lived like an outlaw. But if my taste did not preserve me from dull and tasteless books, my luck saved me from the obscene and licentious. Not that Mme La Tribu, a most accommodating woman in every way, had any scruples about lending me them. But the air of mystery she assumed in rec
ommending them absolutely compelled me, out of mingled discomfort and disgust, to refuse them. What is more, luck so favoured my modesty in this respect that I was more than thirty before I even glanced at one of those dangerous works which even fashionable ladies find so embarrassing that they can only read them in secret.

  In less than a year I exhausted Mme La Tribu’s small library, and found myself most distressingly at a loss in my spare time. I was cured of my childish follies and youthful rogueries by my craze for reading, and even by what I read. For, ill-chosen and often bad though these books were, they nevertheless kindled my heart to nobler feelings than my condition inspired in me. Revolted by everything within my reach, and feeling that anything which might have attracted me was too far away, I saw nothing that could possibly stir my heart. My senses, which had been roused long ago, demanded delights of which I could not even guess the nature. I was as far from the reality as if I had been entirely lacking in sexuality. My senses were already mature, and I sometimes thought of my past eccentricities, but I could not see beyond them. In this strange situation my restless imagination took a hand which saved me from myself and calmed my growing sensuality. What it did was to nourish itself on situations that had interested me in my reading, recalling them, varying them, combining them, and giving me so great a part in them, that I became one of the characters I imagined, and saw myself always in the pleasantest situations of my own choosing. So, in the end, the fictions I succeeded in building up made me forget my real condition, which so dissatisfied me. My love for imaginary objects and my facility in lending myself to them ended by disillusioning me with everything around me, and determined that love of solitude which I have retained ever since that time. There will be more than one example in what follows of the strange effects of that trait in my character which seems so gloomy and misanthropic. In fact, however, it arises from my too loving heart, from my too tender and affectionate nature, which find no living creatures akin to them, and so are forced to feed upon fictions. I am satisfied for the moment to have indicated the origin and prime cause of an inclination which has modified all my passions, and restrained them by making use of those very passions to curb themselves. So it is that I have been slow in accomplishment through excess of desire.

  Finally I reached the age of sixteen, restless and dissatisfied with myself and everything else, without any taste for my work, racked with desires I did not understand, weeping when I had no cause for tears and sighing I knew not why – tenderly nursing my illusions, in brief, since I saw nothing around me that I valued as much. On Sundays my comrades came to fetch me, after service, to go out and amuse myself with them. I would gladly have avoided them if I could. But once I took part in their games I was keener and more adventurous than any of them. Hard to rouse and hard to restrain: that had been a constant trait in my character. When we went walking outside the city I always ran ahead, and never dreamt of returning unless someone else dreamt of it for me. Twice I was caught, and the gates were shut before I could reach them. You can imagine how I was punished next day. On the second occasion indeed I was promised such a welcome if there were a third that I decided not to run the risk. Nevertheless the dreaded third time came. All my precautions were rendered nugatory by a wretched Captain Minutoli, who always closed the gates on his nights of duty half an hour before the others. I was returning with two comrades. A Mlle and a half from the city I heard the sound of the tattoo and increased my pace. Then I heard the drum-roll and ran my hardest. I arrived out of breath and bathed in sweat, my heart pounding. I saw from the distance that the soldiers were at their posts. I ran up and shouted breathlessly. It was too late. When I was twenty paces away I saw them raise the first bridge. I trembled as I watched its dreadful horns rising in the air, a sinister and fatal augury of the inevitable fate which from that moment awaited me.

  In the first access of my grief I threw myself down on the grass and bit the earth. My companions merely laughed at my misfortune and immediately decided what to do. I made up my mind also, but in another sense. There and then I decided never to return to my master; and next day, as they returned to the city at the hour when the gates were opened, I bade them farewell for ever. I asked them only to inform my cousin Bernard, in secret, of the resolution I had taken, and to tell him where he could meet me for the last time.

  Being somewhat estranged from him since I had entered on my apprenticeship I was seeing him less. Nevertheless for some time we had been meeting on Sundays. But, little by little, each of us was altering his habits and we met now more rarely. I believe that his mother had some hand in this change. He was a lad of the upper town; I was a poor apprentice, a mere child of the Saint-Gervais quarter. There was no longer any equality between us despite our equal birth. It was demeaning for him to go about with me. Nevertheless relations had not been absolutely broken off between us; and, being a good-natured lad, he often followed his feelings in despite of his mother’s instructions. When he heard of my plan he hurried to me, not in order to dissuade me or to share in my adventure, but by a few trifling presents to ease the hardships of my flight. For my own resources could not carry me very far. Among other things he gave me a small sword, which greatly took my fancy, and which I carried as far as Turin, where want forced me to dispose of it and where, as they say, I consumed it. But the more I have thought over the way he behaved to me at that critical moment, the more persuaded I am that he was following his mother’s instructions and perhaps his father’s as well. For it is impossible that, left to himself, he would not have made some effort to hold me back, or that he would not have been tempted to follow me. But instead of restraining me he encouraged me in my plan; and then, when he saw that I had quite made up my mind, he left me without many tears. We have neither written to one another nor seen one another since. It is sad; for he was an essentially good person, and we were made to be friends.

  Before I abandon myself to my fatal destiny, let me turn for a moment to the prospect that would normally have awaited me had I fallen into the hands of a better master. Nothing suited my character better, nor was more likely to make me happy than the calm and obscure life of a good craftsman, particularly in a superior trade like that of an engraver at Geneva. The work, which was lucrative enough to yield a man an easy subsistence but not sufficiently rewarding to lead to fortune, would have limited my ambition till the end of my days and have left me honest leisure wherein to cultivate simple tastes. It would have kept me in my sphere, and offered me no means of escaping from it. Since my imagination was rich enough to embellish any state with illusions, and powerful enough to transport me, so to speak, according to my whim, from one state to another, it mattered very little to me in what walk of life I actually was. Never mind how great the distance between my position and the nearest castle in Spain, I had no difficulty in taking up residence there. It followed, therefore, that the simplest of situations, the one that demanded the least trouble and exertion, the one that left the mind most free, was the most suitable for me; and that was precisely the situation I was then in. I should have passed a calm and peaceful life in the security of my faith, in my own country, among my family and friends. That was what my peculiar character required, a life spent in the uniform pursuit of a trade I had chosen, and in a society after my own heart. I should have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good father, a good friend, a good workman, a good man in every way. I should have been happy in my condition, and should perhaps have been respected. Then, after a life – simple and obscure, but also mild and uneventful – I should have died peacefully in the bosom of my family. Soon, no doubt, I should have been forgotten, but at least I should have been mourned for as long as I was remembered.

  But instead… what a picture I have to paint! But do not let us anticipate the miseries of my life. I shall have only too much to say to my readers on that melancholy subject.

  BOOK TWO

  1728–1731 Terrible though the moment had appeared in which fear prompted me to fly, when the time
came to carry out my plan I found it quite delightful. Although no more than a child, to leave my country and my relations and everyone who might sustain or support me; to throw up an apprenticeship half completed without knowing my trade well enough to live by it; to incur the miseries of poverty without any means of ending them; in the weakness and innocence of my youth to expose myself to all the temptations of vice and despair; to court evils, errors, traps, slavery, and death in a distant land, beneath a far less merciful yoke than the one I had just found intolerable: that was what I was about to do, that was the perspective which I should have envisaged. How different was the future I imagined! The only thought in my mind was the independence I believed I had won. Now that I was free and my own master, I supposed that I could do anything, achieve anything. I had only to take one leap, and I could rise and fly through the air. I marched confidently out into the world’s wide spaces. Soon they would be filled with my fame. Everywhere I went I should find feastings, treasures, and adventures, friends ready to help me and mistresses eager to do my pleasure. The moment I showed myself the universe would be busy with my concerns. Not the whole universe, however. I could to some extent do without that; I did not require so much. One charming circle would be enough; more would be an embarrassment. Modestly I imagined myself one of a narrow but exquisitely chosen clan, over which I felt confident that I should rule. A single castle was the limit of my ambition. To be the favourite of its lord and lady, the lover of their daughter, the friend of their son, and protector of their neighbours: that would be enough; I required no more. In expectation of this modest future I wandered for some days around the city, staying with peasants whom I knew, all of whom received me with greater kindness than townsfolk would have shown me. They welcomed me, lodged me, and fed me too spontaneously to take any credit for it. This could not be called charity; it was not done with sufficient condescension for that.