BOOK I

I am resolved on an undertaking that has no model and will have no imitator. I want to show my
fellow-men a man in all the truth of nature; and this man is to be myself. Myself alone. I feel my
heart and I know men. I am not made like any that I have seen: I venture to believe that I.was nöt
made like any that exist. If I am not more deserving, at least I am different. As to whether nature did
well or ill to break the mould in which I was cast, that is something no one can judge until after they
have read me. Let the trumpet of judgement sound when it will, I will present myself with this book
in my hand before the Supreme Judge I will say boldly: *Here is what Thave done, what I have
thought, what I was. I have told the good and the bad with equal frankness: I have concealed nothing
that was ill, added nothing that was good. and if I have sometimes used some indifferent
ornamentation, this has only ever been to fill a void occasioned by my lack of memory; 1 may have
supposed to be true what I knew could have been so, never what l knew to be false. I have shown
myself as l was, contemptible and vile when that is how I was, good, generous, sublime, when that is
how I was; I have disclosed my innermost self as you alone know it to be. Assemble about me,
Eternal Being, the numberless host of my fellow men; let them hear my confessions let them groan at
my unworthiness, let them blush at my wretchedness. Let each of them, here on the steps of your
throne, in turn reveal his heart with the same sincerity; and then let one of them say to you, if he
dares. I was better than that man.' I was born in 1712 in Geneva, the son of Isaac Rousseau and
Suzanne Ber-nard, citizens. Since an already modest family fortune to be divided between fifteen
children had reduced to almost nothing my father's share of it, he was obliged to depend for his
livelihood on his craft as a watchmaker, at which, indeed, he excelled. My mother, who was the
daughter of M. Bernard, the min ister, was wealthier; she was beautiful and she was good; and my
father had not won her easily. They had loved one another almost from the day they were
born; at the age of eight or nine years they were already taking walks together every evening along
the Treille; by len years they were inseparable. The sympa-thy, the harmony between their souls.
reinforced the feelings that habit had formed. Tender and sensitive by nature, they were both of them
waiting only for the moment when they would find another person of like disposition, or rather this
moment was waiting for them, and each of them gave his heart to the first that opened to receive it.
The destiny that had seemed to oppose their passion served only to kindle it. Unable to win his lady,
the young man was consumed with grief; she counselled him to travel and to forget her. He tray:
elled, to no avail, and returned more in love than ever. He found the woman he loved still tender and
true. After such a test all that remained was for them to love one another till the end of their days;
they swore to do so, and Heaven blessed the vow. Gabriel Bernard, my mother's brother, fell in love
with one of my father's sisters, but she consented to marry the brother only on condition that her
brother marry the sister. Love prevailed, and the two weddings took place on the same day. And so
my uncle was the husband of my aunt, and their children were my first cousins twice over. By the
end of the first year a child had been born on each side; but there was to be a further separation. My
uncle Bernard was an engineer; he went away to serve in the Empire and in Hungary under Prince
Eugène. He distinguished himself during the siege and the battle of Belgrade. After the birth of my
only brother, my father departed for Constantinople to take up a post as watchmaker to the seraglio.
While he was away my mother's beauty, intelligence, and accomplishments" won her many admirers.
M. de La Closure, the French resident in Geneva, was one of the most assiduous in his attentions. His
passion must have been keenly felt; since thirty years later he still softened visibly when he spoke of
her to me. My mother had more than her virtue with which to defend herself, she loved her husband
tenderly; she pressed him to return; he abandoned everything and came. I was the sad fruit of this
homecoming. Ten months later, I was born, weak and sickly; I cost my mother her life, and my birth
was the first of my mis-fortunes. I never knew how my father bore his loss; but I do know that he
never got over it. He thought he could see my mother in me, without being able to forget that I had
deprived him of her; he never caressed me without my sensing, from his sighs, from his urgent
embraces, that a bitter regret was mingled with them, for which, however, they were the more tender.
He had only to say to me; 'Let's talk about your mother, Jean-Jacques, and I would reply: 'Very well,
Father, and then we'll weep together. and these words alone were enough to move him to tears. 'Ah!
he would sigh, 'bring her back to me, comfort me for losing her; fill the emptiness she has left in my
soul. Would I love you as much if you were only my son?' Forty years after losing her he died in the
arms of a second wife, but with the name of the first on his lips, and her image deep in his heart.
Such were the authors of my days. Of all the gifts bestowed on them by heaven, the only one they
bequeathed to me was a tender heart; but to this they owed their happiness, just as I owe it all my
misfortune.
I was born almost dying; they despaired of saving me. I already carried within me the germ of an
indisposition which has worsened with the years, and which now allows me some occasional respite
only in order that 1 might endure another, more cruel, form of suffering. One of my father's sisters,
an amiable and virtuous young woman, took such good care of me that she saved me. She is still
alive as I write this, and at eighty years old cares for a husband who is younger than she, but ravaged
by drink. I forgive you, dear Aunt, for having preserved my life, and it grieves me that I cannot, at
the end of your days, repay you for the tender care you lavished on me at the beginning of mine. My
nurse Jacqueline, too, is still alive and in sound health. The hands that opened my eyes at my birth
may yet close them at my death.
I had feelings before I had thoughts: that is the common lot of humanity.
But I was more affected by it than others are. I have no idea what I did before the age of five or six: I
do not know how I learned to read; all I remember is what i first read and its effect on me; this is the
moment from which I date my first uninterrupted consciousness of myself. My mother had left some
romances." We began to read them after supper, my father and I. Our first intention was simply that I
should practise my reading with the help of some entertaining books; but we soon became so
engrossed in them that we spent whole nights taking it in turns to read to one another without
interruption, unable to break off until we had finished the whole volume. Sometimes my father,
hearing the swallows at dawn, would say shamefacedly: We'd better go to bed now: I'm more of a
child than you are
By this dangerous method I acquired in a short time not only a marked facil ity for reading and
comprehension, but also an understanding, unique in one of my years, of the passions. I had as yet no
ideas about things, but already I knew every feeling. I had conceived nothing: I had felt everything.
This rapid succession of confused emotions did not damage my reason, since as yet I had none; but it
provided me with one of a different temper; and left me with some bizarre and romantic notions
about human life, of which experience and reflection have never quite managed to cure me.
The romances lasted us until the summer of 1719. The following winter we found something else.
Since my mother's books were exhausted, we resorted to what we had inherited of her father's library.
Fortunately it contained some good books; and this could scarcely have been otherwise, since this
library had been collected by a man who was not only an ordained minister and even, for such was
the fashion of the day, a scholar, but also a man of taste and intelligence.
Le Sueurs History of Church and Empire, Bossuet's discourses on universal his-tory: Plutarch's on
famous men, Nani's History of Venice, Ovid's Metamorphos ses, a bruyère, Fontenelles Plurality of
Worlds and his Dialogues of the Dead. and some volumes of Molière, all these were moved into my
father's studio and there, every day, 1 read to him while he worked. I acquired a taste for these works
that was rare, perhaps unique, in one of my age. Plutarch, in par-ticular, became my favourite author.
The pleasure I took in reading and rereading him cured me in part of my passion for romances, and
I'soon preferred Agesilaus, Brutus, and Aristides to Orondate, Artamène, and Juba." These
interesting books, and the conversations they occasioned between my father and me, shaped that free,
republican spirit, that proud and indomitable character, that impatience with servitude and constraint.
which it has been my Lorment to possess all my life in circumstances not at all favourable to its
development. My mind was full of Athens and Rome: Tlived, as it were. in the midst of their great
men: I was, besides, by birth a citizen of a republic and the son of a father whose love for his country
was his greatest passion, and I was fired by his example: I thought of myself as a Greek or a Roman;
I became the person whose life I was reading: when I recounted acts of constancy and fortitude that
had particularly struck me, my eyes would flash and my voice grow louder. One day at table, while I
was relating the story of Scaevola, my family were alarmed to see me stretch out my hand and, in
imitation of his great deed, place it on a hot chafing-dish.
I had a brother seven years older than I, who was learning my father's trade The extreme affection
that was lavished upon me meant that he was a little neglected, which is not something of which I
can approve. His upbringing suffered in consequence. He fell into dissolute ways even before the age
at which one can, properly speaking, be considered dissolute. He was placed with a new master, from
whom he ran away just as he had done at home. I hardly ever saw: him; 1 can hardly claim to have
known him: but 1 nevertheless loved him dearly, and he loved me too, in as far as such a rascal is
capable of love. I remember once when my father, in a rage, was chastising him severely. throwing
myself impetuously between the two of them and flinging my arms around him. I thus protected him
by taking on my own body all the blows destined for him, and I kept this up so determinedly that my
father was obliged in the end to spare him, either because he was moved by my cries and my tears, or
because he was afraid of hurting me more than him. My brother went from bad to worse and in the
end ran off and disappeared forever. A little while later we heard that he was in Germany. He never
once wrote. No more was ever heard of him; and so it was that I became an only son.
If this poor boy's upbringing was neglected, the same could not be said of his brother, for royal
princes could not have been cared for more zealously than I was during my early years, idolized by
everyone around me, and, which is rarer, treated always as a much-loved child and never as a spoiled
one. Never once while I remained in my father's house was I allowed to roam the streets alone with
the other children; never was it necessary either to discourage in me or to indulge any of those
fanciful whims which are generally attributed to nature, and which are entirely the product of
upbringing. I had my childish faults: I prattled, I was greedy, I sometimes told lies. No doubt I stole
fruit, sweets, things to eat; but Inever, just for the fun of it, did any harm or dam-age, got others into
trouble, or teased dumb animals. I remember on one occa-sion, however, peeing into the kettle
belonging to one of our neighbours, Mme Clot, while she was at church. I must confess, too, that this
memory still makes me laugh, for Mme Clot, although otherwise a thoroughly good person, was the
grumpiest old woman I ever knew in my life. Such is the true but brief history of my childhood
misdemeanours.
How could I have learnt bad ways, when I was offered nothing but examples of mildness and
surrounded by the best people in the world? It was not that the people around me-my father, my aunt,
my nurse, our relatives, our friends, our neighbours-obeyed me, but rather that they loved me: and I
loved them in return. My whims were so little encouraged and so little opposed that it never occurred
to me to have any. I am ready to swear that, until I was myself subjected to the rule of a master, I
never even knew what a caprice was. When I was not reading or writing with my father, or going for
walks with my nurse, I was alwars with my aunt, watching her at her embroi-dery, hearing her sing,
sitting or standing at her side; and I was happy. Her good-humour, her gentleness, her agreeable
features, all these have so imprinted themselves on my memory, that I can still see in my mind's eye
her manner, her glance, her whole air; I still remember the affectionate little things she used to say: I
could describe how she was dressed, and how she wore her hair, even to the two black curls which,
after the fashion of the day, framed her temples.
I am convinced that it is to her that I owe the taste, or rather passion, for music that developed in me
fully only much later. She knew a prodigious number of songs and airs, which she sang in a small,
sweet voice. This excel lent young woman possessed a serenity of soul that banished far from her and
from everyone around her any reverie or sadness. I was so enchanted by her singing that, not only
have many of her songs lingered in my memory. but, now that I have lost her, others too, totally
forgotten since childhood; return to haunt me as I grow older, with a charm I cannot convey. Who
would have thought that, old driveller that I am, worn out with worry and care, 1 should suddenly
catch myself humming these little tunes in a voice already cracked and quavering, and weeping like a
child? One air in particular has come back to me in full, although the words of the second verse have
repeatedly resisted all my efforts to remember them, even though 1 dimly recall the rhymes. Here is
the beginning followed by what I have been able to remember of the rest.
Tircis,' I dare not stay Beneath the sturdy oak
To hear your pipe's sweet play:
Already I'm the talk Of all our village folk
a shepherd's vows his repose allows
For always the thorn lies under the rose.
What is it about this song, I wonder, that so beguiles and moves my heart? It has a capricious charm I
do not understand at all: nevertheless. I am quite incapable of singing it through to the end without
dissolving into tears. I have often been on the point of writing to Paris to enquire about the test of the
words. in case there should be anyone there who still knows them. But I suspect that some of the
pleasure I take in recalling this little tune would fade if I knew for certain that others apart from my
poor aunt Suzanne had sung it.
Such were the affections that marked my entry into life; thus there began to take shape or to manifest
themselves within me this heart, at once so proud and so tender, and this character, effeminate and
yet indomitable, which, continually fluctuating between weakness and courage, between laxity and
virtue, has to the end divided me against myself and ensured that abstinence and enjoyment, pleasure
and wisdom have all eluded me equally.
This upbringing was interrupted by an accident whose consequences have affected my life ever since.
My father had a quarrel with a M. Gautier, a French captain, who had relatives in the council? This
Gautier, an insolent and cowardly fellow, suffered a nose-bleed and, out of revenge. accused my
father of having drawn his sword on him inside the city limits. My father, threatened with
imprisonment, insisted that, in accordance with the law, his accuser be taken into custody with him.
Unable to obtain this, he chose to leave Geneva and to exile himself for the rest of his life rather than
give way on a point where it seemed to him that both his honour and his liberty were compromised.
I remained behind under the guardianship of my uncle Bernard, who at the time was employed on the
fortifications of Geneva. His eldest daughter had died, but he had a son the same age as myself. We
were sent off together to Bossey to board with the minister, M. Lambercier, so that, along with some
Latin, we might acquire that hotchpotch of knowledge which usually accom panies it under the name
of education.
Two years spent in this village softened, somewhat, my Roman harshness and restored my childhood
to me. At Geneva, where nothing was imposed on me, I had loved reading and study; it was almost
my only amusement. At Bossey I was made to work, and thus grew to love the games that served as
relaxation.
The countryside was so new to me that I never tired of enjoying it. I came to love it with a passion
that has never faded. The memory of the happy days I spent there has filled me with regret for rural
life and its pleasures at every stage of my existence until the one that took me back there. M.
Lambercier was a sensible man who, while not neglecting our education, did not overburden us with
schoolwork. The proof that he went about this in the right way is that, in spite of my dislike of any
form of compulsion, I have never remembered my hours of study with any distaste, and that, while I
did not learn much from him, what I did learn, I learned without difficulty and have never forgotten.
This simple country life bestowed on me a gift beyond price in opening up my heart to friendship. Up
until then I had only known feelings that, although exalted, were imaginary. Living peaceably day
after day with my cousin Bernard, I became warmly attached to him, and soon felt a more tender
affection for him than I had for my brother, and one that has not been erased by time. He was a tall
boy, lanky and very thin, as mild-tempered as he was feeble-bodied, and who did not take unfair
advantage of the preference that, as the son of my guardian, he was shown by the whole household.
We shared the same tasks, the same amusements, the same tastes; we were on our own together; we
were of the same age, each of us needed a friend; so that to be separated was for both of us, so to
speak, to be annihilated. Although we rarely had occasion to demonstrate.our mutual attachment, it
was strong, and not only could we not bear to be separated for a moment, but we could not imagine
ever being able to bear it. Since we both of us responded readily to affection and were good-
humoured when not crossed, we always agreed about everything. If, as the favourite of our
guardians, he took precedence over me when we were with them, when we were alone the advantage
was mine, and this redressed the balance between us. When he was at a loss during lessons, I
whispered the answer to him; when my exercise was finished, I helped him with his, and in games,
where I was the more inventive, he always followed my lead. In other words, our characters were so
compatible and the friendship that united us so real; that, during the more than five years that we
were virtually inseparable, whether at Bossey or in Geneva, we often, it is true, fell out. but we never
needed to be separated, none of our quarrels lasted for more than a quarter of an hour, and neither of
us ever once informed against the other.
These remarks may seem puerile, but they nevertheless draw attention to an example that is perhaps
unique among children.
The kind of life Fled at Bossey suited me so well that it would have fixed my character for ever, if
only it had lasted longer It was founded on feelings that were at once tender, affectionate, and
tranquil. Never I believe, has any individual of our species possessed less natural vanity than I do. I
would soar to heights of sublime feeling, but as promptly fall back into my habitual indo-lence. To be
loved by all who came near me was my most urgent wish. I was by nature gentle, so too was my
cousin; so indeed were our guardians. During two whole years I neither witnessed nor was the victim
of any kind of violence.
Everything fostered the tendencies that nature herself had planted in my heart. 1 knew no greater
happiness than to see everyone content with me and with the world in general. I will never forget
how, when it was my turn in chapel to recite my catechism, nothing distressed me more, if I
happened to hesi tate in my replies, than to see on Mille Lambercier's face signs of anxiety and
distress. I was more upset by this than by the shame of failing in publie, although that, too, affected
me greatly: for, not much moved by praise, I was always susceptible to shame, and I can safely say
that the expectation of a reprimand from Mille Lambercier alarmed me less than did the fear of
causing her pain.
And indeed, she was not afraid, any more than was her brother, to shou severity when this was
necessary: but since her severity was almost always justified and never excessive, it provoked in me
feelings of distress rather than of rebellion. I was more concerned about occasioning displeasure than
about being chastised, for marks of disapprobation segmed more cruel to me than physical
punishment. I find it embarrassing to go into greater detail, but ! must. How promptly we would
change our methods of dealing with the young if only the long-term effects of the one that is
presently employed, always indiscriminately and often indiscreetly, could be foreseen! The lesson
that may be learned from just one example of this, as common as it is pernicious, is so important that
I have decided to give it.
Just as Mille Lambercier felt for us the affection of a mother, so too she had a mothers authority,
which she sometimes exerted to the point of intlicting common childhood punishments on us, when
we had deserved this. For a while she restricted herself to threats of punishment which were quite
new to me and which I found very frightening: but after the threat had been carried out, I discovered
that it was less terrible in the event than it had been in anticipation, and, what is even more bizarre,
that this punishment made me even fonder of the woman who had administered it. Indeed. it took all
the sincerity of my affection for her and all my natural meekness to prevent me from seeking to merit
a repetition of the same treatment, for Thad found in the pain inflicted, and even in the shame that
accompanied it, an element of sensuality which left me with more desire than fear at the prospect of
experiencing it again from the same hand. It is true that, since without doubt some precocious sexual
instinct entered into all this, the same punishment received from her brother would not have seemed
to me at all pleasant. But given his temperament, this arrangement was not something that needed to
be feared, so that. if I resisted the temptation to earn punishment, this was solely because I was afraid
of vexing Mile de Lamber-cier; for so great is the power that human kindness exercises over me.
even if it has its origin in the senses, that in my heart the former will always prevail over the latter.
This second offence, which I had avoided without fearing it, duly occurred, but without involving
any misdeed or at least any conscious act of will on my part, so that it was with a clear conscience
that I as it were profited from it:
But this second was also the last: for Mile de Lambercier, who no doubt inferred from some sign I
gave that the punishment was not achieving its aim; declared that she could not continue with it, that
it exhausted her too much Up until then we had slept in her room and sometimes, in winter, even in
her bed. Two days later we were moved to another room, and I had henceforward the honour, which I
would gladly have foregone, of being treated by her as a big boy.
Who would have believed that this ordinary form of childhood punishment, meted out to a boy of
eight years' by a young woman of thirty, should have decided my tastes, my desires, my passions, my
whole self, for the rest of my life, and in a direction that was precisely the opposite of what might
naturally have been expected? My senses were inflamed, but at the same time my desires, confused
and indeed limited by what I had already experienced, never thought of looking for anything else.
My blood had burned within my veins almost from the moment of my birth, but I kept myself pure of
any taint until an age when even the coldest and slowest of temperaments begins to develop.
Long tormented, but without knowing why, I devoured with ardent gaze all the beautiful women I
encountered. My imagination returned to them again and again, but only to deploy them in its own
way, and to make of each of them another Mlle de Lambercier.
This bizarre taste, which persisted beyond adolescence and indeed drove me to the verge of depravity
and madness, nevertheless preserved in me those very standards of upright behaviour which it might
have been expected to under-mine. If ever an upbringing was proper and chaste, it was certainly the
one that I had received. My three aunts were not only persons of exemplary respectability, they also
practised a reticence that women have long since abandoned. My father, who liked his pleasures but
was gallant in the old style. never uttered, even in the presence of the women he most admired, a
single word that would make a virgin blush, and the consideration that is due to children has never
been more scrupulously observed than it was in my family and in front of me. M. Lambercier's
household was no less strict in this regard, and indeed a very good servant was dismissed for having
said something a little too free and easy in front of us. Not only had I reached adolescence before I
had any clear idea about sexual union, but such confused ideas as I did have always took some
odious and disgusting form. I had a horror of common prostitutes that I have never lost; I could not
look at a debauchee without disdain, without dread even, so extreme was the aversion that I had felt
for debauchery ever since, going to Saconnex one day along a hollow lane, I saw holes in the earth
along both sides of the path and was told that this was where these people did their coupling. What I
had seen dogs doing always came into my mind too when I thought of how it might be for people,
and the very memory was enough to sicken me
These prejudices, which Towed to my upbringing and which were sufficient in themselves to delay
the first eruptions of a combustible temperament, were further reinforced, as I have said, by the false
direction in which I had been led by the first stirrings of sensuality. I imagined only what I had
experienced; in spite of a troublesome agitation in the blood, I concentrated all my desires on the
kind of pleasure I already knew, without ever getting as far as that which I had been made to think of
as odious, and which so closely resembled the other, although I had not the least suspicion of this.
When, in the midst of my foolish fantasies, of my wild erotic flights, and of the extrayagant actions
to which they sometimes drove me, I resorted in imagination to the assistance of the other sex, I
never dreamt that it could be put to any other use than that which I burned to make of it.
In this way, then, in spite of an ardent, lascivious, and very precocious temperament, not only did I
pass beyond he ago of puberty without desiring, without knowing, any sensual pleasures beyond
those to which Mile de Lambercier had quite innocently introduced me; but also, when at last the
passing years had made me a man, it was again the case that what should have ruined me preserved
me. The taste I had acquired as a child, instead of disappearing, became so identified with that other
pleasure that I was never able to dissociate it from the desires aroused through the senses; and this
vagary, in conjunction with my natural timidity, has always inhibited me in my approaches to
women, because I dare not tell them everything. but nor am I able to perform everything; since my
kind of pleasure, of which the other sort is orily the end point, cannot be extracted by the man who
desires it, nor guessed at by the woman who alone can bestow it. And so I have spent my life
coveting but never declaring myself to the women I loved most. Never daring to reveal my
proclivities, I have at least kept them amused with relationships that allowed my mind to divell on
them. To lie at the feet of an imperious mistress, to obey her commands, to be obliged to beg for her
for-giveness, these were sweet pleasures. and the more my inflamed imagination roused my blood,
the more! played the bashful lover. This way of making love does not, needless to say, result in very
rapid progress, nor does it pose much threat to the virtue of the women who are its object. I have thus
possessed very few, but have nevertheless achieved much pleasure in my own way, that is, through
my imagination. Thus it is that my senses, conspiring with my timid nature and my romantic spirit,
have kept my heart pure and my behaviour honourable, thanks to those very inclinations which, if I
had been a little bolder perhaps, would have plunged me into the most brutish pleasure-seeking.
I have taken the first step, and the most painful, into the dark and miry labyrinth of my confessions. It
is not what is criminal that it is the hardest to reveal, but what is laughable or shameful. But from
now on I can feel certain of myself: after whät I have just dared to say, nothing can stop me.

BOOK 2

My landlady who, as I have said, had taken a liking to me, told me that she might have tound a
situation for me, and that a lady of quality wanted to see me. This was enough to convince me
that I was at last embarked upon adventures in high places, for this was the idea I always came
back to. It turned out, however, not to be as brilliant as I had imagined. I was taken to see the
lady by the servant who had told her about me. She questioned me, cross-examined me, and was,
apparently, satisfied, for all of a sudden I found myself in her service, not exactly as a favourite,
but as a footman. I was dressed in the same colour as the other servants, except that they had a
shoulder knot which I was not given; since there was no braid on her livery, it looked very little
different from any ordinary suit of clothes. Such was the unexpected fulflment of all my high
hopes!
The Comtesse de Vercellis, whose household I had entered, was a widow with no children. Her
husband had been from Piedmont; as for her, I have always assumed that she came from Savoy,
since I could not imagine a Piedmontese speaking French so well and with such a pure accent.
She was in her middle years, distinguished in appearance, cultivated in mind, with a great love
and knowledge of French literature. She wrote a great deal and always in French. Her letters had
the turn of phrase and the grace, almost, of Mme de Sévigné's: some of them might even have
been taken for hers. My main task, not at all an unpleasant one, was to take dictation of these
letters, since she was prevented by a breast cancer, which caused her much suffering, from
writing them herself.
Mme de Vercellis possessed not only great intelligence but a steadfast and noble soul. I watched
her during her last illness, I saw her suffer and die without betraying a moment's weakness,
without making the least apparent effort to contain herself, without abandoning her woman's
dignity, and without suspecting that there was any philosophy in all of this; indeed, the word
'philoso-phy was not yet in vogue, and she would not have known it in the sense in which it is
used today. This strength of character was so marked as to be indis-tinguishable, sometimes,
from coldness. She always seemed to me to be as indifferent to the feelings of others as she was
to her own, so that, if she performed good works among the poor and needy; she did so because
this was goud in itself rather than out of any true compassion: I'experienced something of this
indifterence during the three months I was with her. It would have been natural for her to
conceive a liking for a young man of some promise, who was continually in her presence, and
for it to occur to her, as she felt death approach, that afterwards he would still need help and
support; how-ever, either because she did not think me worthy of any special attention, or
because the people who watched over her saw to it that she thought only of them, she did nothing
for me.
I well remember, however, the curiosity she showed while getting to know me. She would
sometimes ask me about myself; she liked me to show her the letters I was writing to Mme de
Warens, and to describe my feelings to her.
But she went about discovering them in quite the wrong way, since she never revealed hers to
me. My heart was eager to pour itself out, provided it felt that another was open to receive it.
Cold and curt interrogation, however, with no hint either of approbation or of blame at my
replies; did not inspire me with confidence. Unable to judge whether my chatter was pleasing or
displeasing, ! became fearful and would try, not so much to say what I felt, as to avoid saying
anything that might harm me. I have since observed that this habit of coldly interrogating people
whom you are trying to get to know is fairly common among women who pride themselves on
their intelligence. They imagine that, by revealing nothing of their own feelings, they will the
better succeed in dis: covering yours; what they do not realize is that they thereby deprive you of
the courage to reveal them. Anyone subjected to close questioning will, for that very reason, be
put on his guard, and if he suspects that, far from inspiring any real interest, he is merely being
made to talk, he will either lie, say nothing, or watch his tongue even more carefully than before,
preferring to be thought a fool than to be the dupe of someone's mere curiosity. It is, in short,
pointless to attempt to see into the heart of another while affecting to conceal one's own.
Mme de Vercellis never said a word to me that expressed affection, pity, or benevolence. She
questioned me coldly, Ireplied with reserve. My replies were so timid that she must have lound
them beneath her notice. and become bored. Towards the end she asked me no more questions
and spoke to me only if she wanted me to do something for her. She judged me on the busis not
so much of what I was but of what she had made me, and because she regarded me as nothing
more than a footman, she prevented me from appearing to be anything else:
I think that this was my first experience of that malign play of hidden self-interest which has so
often impeded me in life and which has left me with a verellis heirersion somas ho children order
happroduce come de la.
Roque, who was assiduous in his attentions towards her. In addition, her principal servants,
seeing that her end was near, were determined not to be forgot-ten, and all in all she was
surrounded by so many over-zealous people that it was unlikely that she would find time to think
of me. The head of her household was a certain M. Lorenzini, an artful man. whose wife, even
more art-fully, had so insinuated herself into the good graces of her mistress that she was treated
by her as a friend rather than a paid servant. She had persuaded her to take on as chambermaid a
niece of hers, called Mille Pontal, a crafty little creature who gave herself the airs of a lady's
maid: together. she and her aunt were so successiul in ingratiating themselves with their mistress
that she saw only through their eyes and acted only through their agency. I had not the good
fortune to find favour with these three people: 1 obeyed them, but I did not serve them; I did not
see why, as well as attending our common mistress, l should be a servant to her servants. I
presented moreover, something of a threat to them. They could see very well that I was not in my
rightful place: they feared that Madame would see it too, and that what she might do to rectify
this would diminish their own inheritance: for people of that sort are too greedy to be fair, and
look upon any legacy made to others as depriving them of what is properly theirs. And so they
made a concerted effort to keep me out of her sight. She liked writing letters. It was a welcome
distraction for someone in her condition; they discouraged it and persuaded her doctor to oppose
it on the grounds that it was too tiring for her. On the pretext that I did not understand my duties,
they hired in my place two great oafs to carry her about in her chair; and in short, they were so
successful in all this that, when she came to make her will, I had not even entered her room
during the whole of the previous week. It is true that thereafter I entered as before and was more
assiduous in my attentions than anyone else; for the poor woman's sufferings distressed me
greatly, while the constancy with which she bore them inspired admiration and affection in me;
indeed I shed genuine tears in that room, unnoticed by her or by anyone else.
At last we lost her. I saw her die. In life she had been a woman of wit and good sense; in death
she was a sage. I can safely say that she endeared the Catholic religion to me by the serenity of
spirit with which she fulfilled its duties, without omission and without affectation. She was by
nature serious, but towards the end of her illness she assumed an air of gaiety, which was too
constant to be simulated, and which was as though lent her by reason itself to compensate for the
gravity of her situation. It was only during her last two days that she stayed in bed, and even then
she kept up a tranquil conversation with the people round about her, At last, unable to speak and
already in the throes of death, she gave a great fart. 'Good, she said, as she turned over. A woman
who farts cannot be dead. These were the last words she uttered She had bequeathed a year's
wages to each of her menial servants, but, since my name did not appear on her household list, I
received nothing: in spite of this, the Comte de la Roque gave me thirty francs and let me keep
the new suit of clothes which, although I was wearing it, M. Lorenzini had wanted to take away
from me. He even promised to try to find me a new position and gave me permission to go and
see him. I went two or three times, but without managing to speak to him. Easily deterred, I did
not go again. As we will soon see, this was a mistake.
If only this were all that I have to relate about my time with Mme de Ver-cellis! But although my
situation appeared unchanged, I was not the same on leaving her house as I had been when I
entered it. I took away with me the enduring memory of a crime and the intolerable burden of a
remorse, with which even now, after forty years, my conscience is still weighed down. and
whose bitter knowledge, far from fading, becomes more painful with the years.
Who would have thought that a child's misdeed could have such cruel conse-quences? But it is
because of these all too probable consequences that my heart is denied any consolation. I may
have caused to perish. in shameful and miserable circumstances, a young woman who, amiable,
honest, and deserv-ing, was, without a doubt, worth a great deal more than I.
It is almost inevitable that the dispersal of a household should generate a certain confusion and
that items should go astray. And yet, such was the loyalty of the servants and the vigilance of M.
and Mme Lorenzini that nothing was missing from the inventory. All that was lost was a little
ribbon, silver and rose-coloured and already quite old, which belonged to Mlle Pontal. Many
other, better things had been within my reach; but I was tempted only by this ribbon, I stole it,
and since I made little attempt to conceal it, I was soon found with it. They asked me where I had
got it. I hesitated, stammered, and finally said, blushing, that Marion had given it to me. Marion
was a young girl from the Maurienne, whom Mme de Vercellis had engaged as a cook when
because she no longer entertained and had more need of nourishing soups than of delicate
ragouts, she decided to dismiss her own. Not only was Marion pretty, with a freshness of
complexion that is found only in the mountains, and. above all, an air of modesty and sweetness
that won the heart of everyone who saw her, she was also a good girl, virtuous and totally loyal.
There was thus great surprise when I named her Twas regarded as scarcely less trustworthy, and
so an enquiry was thought to be necessary to establish which of us was the thief. She was
summoned; a large crowd of people was present, among them the Comte de la Roque, She
arrived, was shown the ribbon, and, shamelessly, I made my accusation; taken aback, she said
nothing, then threw me a glance which would have disarmed the devil himself, but which my
barbarous heart resisted: At length she denied the charge. firmly but calmly, remonstrated with
me, urged me to recollect myself and not to bring disgrace upon an innocent girl who had never
done me any harm; I persisted in my infernal wickedness, however, repeated my accusation, and
asserted to her face that it was she who had given me the ribbon. The poor girl began to cry;
but said no more than, 'Ah Rousseau, and I always thought you had a good character! How wretched
you are making me, and yet I would not for anything be in your place. And that was all. She
continued to defend herself with steadfast simplicity but without permitting herself any attack on me.
The contrast between her moderation and my decided tone worked against her. It did not seem
natural to suppose that there could be such diabolical effrontery on the one hand and such angelic
sweetness on the other. No formal conclusion was reached, but the presumption was in my favour.
Because of the general upheaval, the matter was left there, and the Comte de la Roque, dismissing us
both. contented himself with saying that the conscience of the guilty party would be certain to avenge
the innocent. This was no vain prophecy, but is every day fulfilled anew. I do not know what became
of the victim of my false witness: it seems unlikely that, after this, she would easily have found
another good situation: She had suffered an imputation to her honour that was cruel in every way.
The theft was trifling; nevertheless, it was a theft and, what was worse, had been used to seduce a
young boy; finally, the lie and the obstinacy with which she clung to it left nothing to be hoped for
from someone who combined so many vices. I fear, too, that wreichedness and destitution were not
the worst of the dangers 1 exposed her to. Who knows to what extremes despair and injured
innocence might not, at her age, have driven her? Ah, if my remorse at having made her unhappy is
intolerable, only judge how it feels to have perhaps reduced her to being worse off than myself! At
times I am so troubled by this cruel memory, and so distressed, that I lie sleepless in my bed,
imagining the poor girl advancing towards me to reproach me for my crime as though I had
committed it only yesterday. While I still enjoyed some tranquillity in life it tormented me less, but in
these tempestuous times it deprives me of the sweetest consolation known to persecuted innocence; it
brings home to me the truth of an observation I think I have made in another work, that remorse is
lulled during times of good fortune and aggravated in adversity. And yet I have never been able to
bring myself to unburden my heart of this confession by entrusting it to a friend. I have never, in
moments of the greatest intimacy, divulged it to anyone, even to Mme de Warens. The most that I
have been able to do has been to confess my responsibility for an atrocious deed, without ever saying
of what exactly it consisted. This burden, then, has lain unalleviated on my conscience until this very
day: and I can safely say that the desire to be in some measure relieved of it has greatly contributed
to the decision I have taken to write my confessions. I have been outspoken in the confession I have
just made, and surely no one could think that I have in any way sought to mitigate the infamy of my
crime. But I would not be fulfilling the purpose of this book if I did not at the same time reveal my
own innermost feelings, and if I were afraid to excuse myself, even where the truth of the matter calls
for it. I have never been less motivated by malice than at this cruel moment, and when I accused this
unfortunate girl, it is bizarre, but it is true, that it was my fondness for her that was the cause of it.
She was on my mind, and I had simply used as an excuse the first object that presented itself to me.
Laccused her of having done what I wanted to do, and of having given me the ribbon, because my
intention had been to give it to her. When she appeared shortly afterwards I was stricken with
remorse, but the presence of so many people was stronger than my repen-tance. It was not that I was
afraid of being punished, but that l was afraid of being put to shame; and I feared shame more than
deuth, more than crime. more than anything in the world. I would have wanted the carth to swallow
me up and bury me in its depths. It was shame alone, unconquerable shame, that prevailed over
everything and was the cause of all my impudence; and the more criminal I became, the more my
terror at having to admit it made me bold. All I could think of was the horror of being found out and
of being denounced, publicly and to my face, as a thief, a liar, a slanderer. The confusion that seized
my whole being robbed me of any other feeling. If I had been given time to collect myself, I would
unquestionably have admitted everything. If M. de la Roque had taken me aside and had said to me:
Don't ruin this poor girl. If you are guilty, own up to it now, I would have thrown myself at his feet
forthwith; of that I am perfectly certain. But, when what I needed was encour-agement, all I received
was intimidation. My age, loo, was a consideration that it is only fair to take into account. I was
scarcely more than a child; or rather ! still was one. Real wickedness is even more criminal in a
young person than in an adult, but what is merely weakness is much less so, and my offence, when it
comes down to it, was little more. Thus its memory distresses me less because of any evil in the act
itself than because of that which it must have caused. It has even had the good effect of preserving
me for the rest of my life from any inclination towards crime, because of the terrible impression that
has remained with me of the only one I ever committed, and I suspect that my aversion towards lying
comes in large part from remorse at having been capable of one that was so wicked. If, as I venture to
believe, such a crime can be expiated, it must surely have been so by the many misfortunes that
burden my old age; by forty years of rectitude and honour in difficult circumstances; indeed, poor
Marion has found so many avengers in this world that, however grave my offence against her, I am
not too afraid that I will carry the guilt for it into the next. That is all that I had to say on this subject.
May I be spared from ever having to speak of it again.