The Confessions Read online

So, when I said that one should not talk to children about religion if one hopes that one day they will have some, and that they are incapable of knowing God, even in our imperfect way, I was basing my conviction on my observations, but not on my own experience. For I knew that my experience did not apply to others. Find me a Jean-Jacques Rousseau of six, talk to him of God at seven, and I promise you that you will be taking no risks.

  It is clear, I think, that for a child, and even for a man, to have a religion means to follow the one in which he is born. Sometimes one dispenses with part of it, one rarely adds anything to it; dogmatic faith is the fruit of education. Besides the common principle that bound me to the religion of my fathers, I had that aversion to Catholicism which is peculiar to our city. It was represented to us as the blackest idolatry, and its clergy were depicted in the most sordid colours. This point of view was so strong in my case that in my childhood I had never peeped inside a Catholic church, never met a priest in his vestments and never heard a processional bell, without a shiver of terror and alarm. I soon ceased to have these fears when in a town, but in country districts, which remind me most forcibly of the places where I knew them first, I have often found that terror to return. These impressions contrasted strangely, it is true, with memories of the kindness with which priests all around Geneva spontaneously treated the children of the city. Whereas the viaticum bell struck me with fear, the bells for mass and vespers reminded me of a breakfast with good fare, fresh butter, fruit, and milk. M. de Pontverre’s generous dinner had also produced a good effect. So I had allowed myself quite easily to be fooled. Envisaging popery only in relation to feasting and good cheer, I had easily accustomed myself to the idea of being a Catholic. But the thought of solemnly entering that faith had only occurred to me fugitively and as something in the distant future. But at this moment there was no deceiving myself; I saw with the liveliest horror the sort of obligation I had incurred and its inevitable results. The future neophytes around me were not of a kind to strengthen my courage by their example, and I could not pretend to myself that the deed of piety I was about to commit was in essence anything but scoundrelly. Young though I was, I knew that, whichever were the true religion, I was going to sell my own, and that-even if I were making the right choice I should in the depths of my heart be lying to the Holy Ghost, and should deserve the contempt of humankind. The more I thought the more enraged I became with myself; and I groaned at the fate that had led me there, as if that fate had not been of my own making. There were times when these thoughts became so strong that if I had found the door open for a moment I should certainly have run away. But I had not a chance, and this resolution was no firmer than the rest.

  It could not prevail. There were too many secret desires working against it. What is more, there was my stubborn resolve not to go back to Geneva; the shame, and the difficulty too, of returning across the mountains; the embarrassment of being poor and friendless in a strange land; all these combined to make me feel that my scruples of conscience were but repentance too late. I affected to reproach myself for what I had done in order to excuse what I was going to do. By exaggerating my past sins, I accepted the future as their inevitable consequence. I did not say to myself: ‘Nothing is done yet. You can retain your innocence if you wish.’ What I did say was, ‘Sigh for the crime of which you have incurred the guilt, and which you cannot help carrying out now.’

  Yet what rare strength of mind I should have required, at my age, to go back on all the promises I had made, all the hopes I had encouraged, to break the chains I had hung round my own neck and boldly declare that I wished to remain in the religion of my fathers, whatever the consequences might be. Such courage was impossible at my age; its chances of success would have been slight. Things had gone too far for them to allow me to draw back; and the greater my resistance, the more resolved they would have been to overcome it in one way or another.

  The sophistry that undid me is common to the majority of men, who deplore their lack of strength when it is already too late to make use of it. Virtue is only difficult through our own fault. If we chose always to be wise we should rarely need to be virtuous. But inclinations which we could easily overcome irresistibly attract us. We give in to slight temptations and minimize the danger. We fall insensibly into dangerous situations, from which we could easily have safeguarded ourselves, but from which we cannot withdraw without heroic efforts which appal us. So finally, as we tumble into the abyss, we ask God why he has made us so feeble. But, in spite of ourselves, He replies through our consciences: ‘I have made you too feeble to climb out of the pit, because I made you strong enough not to fall in.’

  I did not exactly resolve to turn Catholic. But, seeing the date of my conversion so far off, I utilized the time to accustom myself to the idea and, in the meanwhile, imagined some unforeseen event that would rescue me from my difficulty. To gain time, I decided to put up the best defence I possibly could, and soon my vanity gave me an excuse for ceasing to think of my resolution. For once I found that I could sometimes confuse the men who were trying to instruct me, it was enough to make me try to floor them completely. The efforts I devoted to this end were quite ridiculous. I decided to work on them whilst they were working on me, believing in my simplicity that I had only to convince them and they would agree to turn Protestant.

  They certainly did not find me as easy as they expected, either in the matter of receptivity or inclination. Protestants are generally better instructed than Catholics, and necessarily so, for their doctrine requires discussion, where the Roman faith demands submission. A Catholic must accept a decision imposed on him; a Protestant must learn to decide for himself. They were aware of this, but they did not expect from my age and circumstances that I should present any great difficulty to men of experience. Besides I had not even made my first Communion, or received the instruction preparatory to it. This they knew too, but they did not know, on the other hand, that I had been well taught at M. Lambercier’s and that I had also in my possession a small storehouse – most inconvenient to such gentry – in the shape of the History of Church and Empire, which I had learnt almost by heart at my father’s, and since nearly forgotten, but which came back to me as the dispute warmed up.

  A little old priest with some dignity gave us the first lesson, all together. For my companions it was more of a catechism than a controversy, and the problem was to teach them,, not to overcome their objections. But it was quite different with me. When my turn came I held him up at all points. I put every difficulty I could in his way. This made the lesson a very long one, and considerably bored the audience. My old priest talked a great deal, grew hot, wandered from the point, and got out of his difficulty by saying that he did not understand French at all well. Next day they put me alone in a separate room, for fear my awkward arguments might upset my comrades. Here I had a different priest, a younger man who was a fine talker – that is to say he used long sentences. If ever a teacher was self-satisfied that man was. I did not let myself be too intimidated, however, by his imposing manner. But, feeling that, after all, I could hold my ground, I began to answer him with considerable assurance and to catch him out here and there, where I could. He thought he could floor me with Saint Augustine, Saint Gregory, and the other Fathers, but found to his utter surprise that I could handle all the Fathers as nimbly as he. It was not that I had ever read them. Nor perhaps had he. But I remembered a number of passages out of my Le Sueur, and when he made a quotation I did not pause to dispute it but replied immediately with another from the same Father, which often considerably upset him. But in the end he won the day, for two reasons: in the first place because he was the stronger and, knowing that I was more or less at his mercy, I had sufficient judgement, young though I was, not to push him too far. For I could see well enough that the little old priest had not taken me or my erudition too kindly. But the second reason was that the young priest had studied and I had not. As a result he employed methods of argument that I could not follow, and ev
ery time he saw himself confronted with an unforeseen objection, he put off the discussion to the next day on the plea that I was straying from the point. Sometimes, even, he disputed all my quotations, denying their authenticity. Then he would offer to get me the book and challenge me to find them. He knew that the risk he was taking was slight, for with all my borrowed learning, I was not used enough to handling books and knew too little Latin to find a passage in a huge volume, even had I been sure that it was there. I rather suspect him of having resorted to that trickery of which he accused Protestant ministers, and of sometimes inventing passages to avoid answering an awkward question.

  During the course of these petty controversies, and whilst day after day was being wasted in arguments and idling and muttering of prayers, I had a very unpleasant little experience, which very nearly had unfortunate results for me.

  There is no soul so vile, no heart so barbarous as to be insusceptible to some sort of affection, and one of the two cut-throats who called themselves Moors took a fancy to me. He was fond of coming up to me and gossiping with me in his queer jargon. He did me little services, sometimes giving me some of his food at table, and he frequently kissed me with an ardour which I found most displeasing. But, frightened though I naturally was by his dusky face, which was beautified by a long scar, and by his passionate glances, which seemed to me more savage than affectionate, I put up with his kisses, saying to myself, ‘The poor man has conceived a warm friendship for me; it would be wrong to repulse him.’ But he passed by degrees to more unseemly conduct, and sometimes made me such strange suggestions that I thought he was wrong in the head. One night ne wanted to share my bed, but I objected on the plea that it was too narrow. He then pressed me to come into his. I still refused, however, for the poor devil was so dirty and smelt so strongly of the tobacco he chewed that he made me feel ill.

  Next day, very early in the morning, we were alone together in the assembly-hall. He resumed his caresses, but with such violence that I was frightened. Finally he tried to work up to the most revolting liberties and, by guiding my hand, to make me take the same liberties with him. I broke wildly away with a cry and leaped backwards, but without displaying indignation or anger, for I had not the slightest idea what it was all about. But I showed my surprise and disgust to such effect that he then left me alone. But as he gave up the struggle I saw something whitish and sticky shoot towards the fireplace and fall on the ground. My stomach turned over, and I rushed on to the balcony, more upset, more troubled and more frightened as well, than ever I had been in my life. I was almost sick.

  I could not understand what was the matter with the poor man. I thought he was having a fit of epilepsy or some other seizure even more terrible. And really I know of no more hideous sight for a man in cold blood than such foul and obscene behaviour, nothing more revolting than a terrifying face on fire with the most brutal lust. I have never seen another man in that state; but if we appear like that to women, they must indeed be fascinated not to find us repulsive.

  I could think of nothing better than to go and inform everybody of what had just happened. Our old woman attendant told me to hold my tongue. But I saw that my story had much upset her, for I heard her mutter under her breath: Can maledet! brutta bestia!* As I could see no reason for holding my tongue, I took no notice of her but went on talking. I talked so much in fact that next day one of the principals came very early and read me a sharp lecture, accusing me of impugning the honour of a sacred establishment and making a lot of fuss about nothing.

  In addition to this rebuke he explained to me a number of things I did not know, but which he did not suspect he was telling me for the first time. For he believed that I had known what the man wanted when I defended myself, but had merely been unwilling. He told me gravely that it was a forbidden and immoral act like fornication, but that the desire for it was not an affront to the person who was its object. There was nothing to get so annoyed about in having been found attractive. He told me quite openly that in his youth he had been similarly honoured and, having been surprised in a situation where he could put up no resistance, he had found nothing so brutal about it all. He carried his effrontery so far as to employ frank terminology and, imagining that the reason for my refusal had been fear of pain, assured me that my apprehensions were groundless. There was no reason to be alarmed about nothing.

  I listened to the wretch with redoubled astonishment, since he was not speaking for himself but apparently to instruct me for my own good. The whole matter seemed so simple to him that he had not even sought privacy for our conversation. There was an ecclesiastic listening all the while who found the matter no more alarming than he. This natural behaviour so impressed me that I finally believed such things were no doubt general practice in the world, though I had so far not had occasion to learn of them. So I listened without anger though not without disgust. The memory of my experience, and especially of what I had seen, remained so firmly imprinted on my mind that my stomach still rose when I thought of it. Unconsciously my dislike for the business extended to the apologist, and I could not sufficiently control myself for him not to see the ill effect of his lesson. He shot me a far from affectionate glance, and from that time on spared no pains to make my stay at the hospice unpleasant. So well did he succeed that, seeing only one way of escape, I made the same impassioned efforts to take it as hitherto I had taken to avoid it.

  This adventure put me on my guard for the future against the attentions of pederasts. And the sight of men with that reputation, by reminding me of the looks and behaviour of my frightful Moor, has always so horrified me that I have found it difficult to hide my disgust. Women, on the other hand, acquired a greater value for me, by way of contrast. I seemed to owe them a reparation for the offences of my sex, that could only be paid by the most delicate affection and personal homage. My memories of that self-styled African transformed the plainest of sluts into an object of adoration.

  I do not know what can have been said to him. As far as I could see no one except Mistress Lorenza looked on him any less favourably than before. However, he never approached or spoke to me again. A week later he was baptized with great ceremony, swathed in white from head to foot to symbolize the purity of his regenerate soul. On the day after, he left the hospice and I never saw him again.

  My turn came a month later.* For my directors required all that time to win the honour of a difficult conversion. They made me pass every dogma in review in order to triumph at my new docility.

  Finally I was sufficiently instructed and sufficiently disposed to the will of my masters to be led in procession to the metropolitan Church of Saint John to make a solemn abjuration and receive a supplementary baptism, though I was not actually re-baptized. But as the ceremonies are practically the same, that is enough to delude people into the belief that Protestants are not Christians. I was dressed in a special grey robe trimmed with white, kept for occasions of this sort. A man in front and a man behind carried copper basins on which they beat with a key, and into which everyone put an alms according to the degree of his piety or of the good will he felt to the new convert. In fact no detail of Catholic pomp was omitted that might make the ceremony more solemn for the public and more humiliating for me. The only thing missing was the white robe, which would have been useful to me afterwards. But, unlike the Moor, I was not given one since I had not the honour to be a Jew.

  That was not all. I had next to go before the Inquisition to receive absolution for the crime of heresy and to re-enter the bosom of the Church with the same ceremony to which Henry IV was submitted in the person of his ambassador. The aspect and behaviour of the Right Reverend Father Inquisitor were not calculated to dispel the secret terror that had seized me when I entered that house. After several questions about my faith, my condition, and my family, he asked me abruptly whether my mother was damned. Fear made me repress a first burst of indignation, and I contented myself with replying that I sincerely hoped she was not, and that God might have enligh
tened her in her last moments. The monk did not reply, but made a grimace that did not look at all like a sign of approbation.

  When all this was over and I expected finally to be given the post that I had been hoping for, I was turned out of the door with a little more than twenty francs in small change, the proceeds of the collection. They exhorted me to live like a good Christian and to remain in grace. Then they wished me good luck, shut the door behind me and all disappeared.

  Thus all my grand hopes were eclipsed in one moment, and all that had accrued from the self-interested step I had just taken was the memory of having become simultaneously an apostate and a dupe. It is easy to imagine the sharp change in my ideas when, after dreaming of the most brilliant fortune, I found myself plunged into abject misery; when after considering in the morning what mansion I should choose for my habitation, I was reduced at evening to sleeping in the street. You may suppose that I began by falling into a despair embittered by regret and annoyance at my own mistakes, and by the consciousness that all my misfortunes were of my own making. Not at all. I had just been shut up for the first time in my life and for more than two months. The first feeling I had was one of joy at recovering my liberty. After long servitude, I was master of myself and my actions once more. I saw myself in the middle of a great city of abundant opportunities, filled with people of rank, who could not fail to welcome me for my talent and deserts, as soon as I became known. Besides I had plenty of time to spare, and the twenty francs in my pocket seemed to me an inexhaustible treasure which I could spend as I liked without accounting to anyone. It was the first time I had felt so rich. So, far from indulging in tears and despair, I merely altered my hopes, and my pride lost nothing by the change. Never had I felt such confidence and security. I believed that my fortune was already made, and I congratulated myself on owing it to my own unaided efforts.