The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1

Name: The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1
Author: Musset, Alfred de

Musset, Alfred de

France -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Historical fiction

During the fete, in particular, he was in such a state of nervous
excitement that he acted like a schoolboy.  Once he persuaded me to go
out on foot with him, muffled in grotesque costumes, with masks and
instruments of music.  We promenaded all night, in the midst of the most
frightful din of horrible sounds.  We found a driver asleep on his box
and unhitched his horses; then, pretending we had just come from the
ball, set up a great cry.  The coachman started up, cracked his whip,
and his horses started off on a trot, leaving him seated on the box.
That same evening we had passed through the Champs Elysees; Desgenais,
seeing another carriage passing, stopped it after the manner of a
highwayman; he intimidated the coachman by threats and forced him to
climb down and lie flat on his stomach.  He opened the carriage door and
found within a young man and a lady motionless with fright.  He whispered
to me to imitate him, and we began to enter one door and go out by the
other, so that in the obscurity the poor young people thought they saw a
procession of bandits going through their carriage.

As I understand it, the men who say that the world gives experience ought
to be astonished if they are believed.  The world is merely a number of
whirlpools, each one independent of the others; they circle in groups
like flocks of birds.  There is no resemblance between the different
quarters of the same city, and the denizen of the Chaussee d'Antin has as
much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon.  It is true that these various
whirlpools are traversed, and have been since the beginning of the world,
by seven personages who are always the same: the first is called hope;
the second, conscience; the third, opinion; the fourth, desire; the
fifth, sorrow; the sixth, pride; and the seventh, man.

"But," the reader objects, "where are the women in all this?"

Oh!  creatures who bear the name of women and who have passed like dreams
through a life that was itself a dream, what shall I say of you?  Where
there is no shadow of hope can there be memory?  Where shall I seek for
it?  What is there more dumb in human memory?  What is there more
completely forgotten than you?

If I must speak of women I will mention two; here is one of them:

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1Musset, Alfred de

General

The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1

Musset, Alfred de

France -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Historical fiction

During the fete, in particular, he was in such a state of nervous
excitement that he acted like a schoolboy.  Once he persuaded me to go
out on foot with him, muffled in grotesque costumes, with masks and
instruments of music.  We promenaded all night, in the midst of the most
frightful din of horrible sounds.  We found a driver asleep on his box
and unhitched his horses; then, pretending we had just come from the
ball, set up a great cry.  The coachman started up, cracked his whip,
and his horses started off on a trot, leaving him seated on the box.
That same evening we had passed through the Champs Elysees; Desgenais,
seeing another carriage passing, stopped it after the manner of a
highwayman; he intimidated the coachman by threats and forced him to
climb down and lie flat on his stomach.  He opened the carriage door and
found within a young man and a lady motionless with fright.  He whispered
to me to imitate him, and we began to enter one door and go out by the
other, so that in the obscurity the poor young people thought they saw a
procession of bandits going through their carriage.

As I understand it, the men who say that the world gives experience ought
to be astonished if they are believed.  The world is merely a number of
whirlpools, each one independent of the others; they circle in groups
like flocks of birds.  There is no resemblance between the different
quarters of the same city, and the denizen of the Chaussee d'Antin has as
much to learn at Marais as at Lisbon.  It is true that these various
whirlpools are traversed, and have been since the beginning of the world,
by seven personages who are always the same: the first is called hope;
the second, conscience; the third, opinion; the fourth, desire; the
fifth, sorrow; the sixth, pride; and the seventh, man.

"But," the reader objects, "where are the women in all this?"

Oh!  creatures who bear the name of women and who have passed like dreams
through a life that was itself a dream, what shall I say of you?  Where
there is no shadow of hope can there be memory?  Where shall I seek for
it?  What is there more dumb in human memory?  What is there more
completely forgotten than you?

If I must speak of women I will mention two; here is one of them:

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1

The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 1

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