This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY
(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)
By ALFRED DE MUSSET
Having decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessarypreparations required time, and we took a furnished apartment for onemonth. The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope,confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approachingseparation. We had now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows ofeternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget allthe suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proofof tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigittepardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice andleave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion sheexhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last my good angel hadtriumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in my heart.Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go and buryourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we found pleasurein that very uncertainty; while glancing over the map we said "Whereshall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?"How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon hersmiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale fromthe sorrows of the past! Blissful projects of future joy, you areperhaps the only true happiness known to man! For eight days we spentour time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a youngman presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte.After their interview I found her sad and distraught; but I could notguess the cause unless the letters were from N———, that village whereI had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only relatives lived.Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatientto get away; at the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest.When I arose in the morning and the sun was shining through our windows,I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated withhappiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love forBrigitte that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightestwords made me tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternatedbetween tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except withhorror and disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scattered aboutin disorder—albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much.We went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervals I wouldstop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler, saying thatshe had to do all the work, and that I was good for nothing; and allsorts of projects flitted through our minds. Sicily was far away, butthe winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very pretty with itspainted houses, its green gardens, and the Apennines in the background!But what noise! What crowds! Among every three men on the street, oneis a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the Middle Agesliving in the midst of modern life. How can any one endure those grilledwindows and that horrible brown color with which all the houses aretinted?
What could we do at Rome? We we