t rarely, to some
trivial weakness of our human nature, I protest that I have never
corrupted a woman's thoughts with sophisms. I have never sapped the
principles of a sound education. I have never exposed the duties and
obligations of their sex to ridicule, by clothing license with the name
of liberty. I have never stigmatised the bonds of religion, the conjugal
tie, modesty, chastity, decent self-respect, with the title of
prejudice--reversing the real meaning of that word, as is the wont of
self-styled philosophers, who are a very source of infection to the age
we live in.

Here, then, I leave with you the candid and public confession of my
loves.[8] I have related the circumstances of my birth, my education, my
travels, my friendships, my engrossing occupations, my literary
quarrels, my amorous adventures. It is for you to take them as you find
them. I have written them down at the dictation of mere truth. They are
_useless_, I know, and I only _publish_ them in obedience to the virtue
of _humility_.

XXXVI.

_On the absurdities and contrarieties to which my star has made me
subject._

I wrote the useless memoirs of my life in 1780, down to the age I had
attained in that year; but now that I still find myself alive in 1797,
the vice of scribbling being in my case incorrigible, I am wasting some
more pages on useless memoirs subsequent to that date, and am giving
these in their turn to the public from a motive of humility.

If I were to narrate all the whimsical absurdities and all the untoward
accidents to which my luckless star exposed me, I should have a lengthy
business on my hands. They were of almost daily occurrence. Those alone
which I meekly endured through the behaviour of servants in my employ,
would be enough to fill a volume, and the anecdotes would furnish matter
for madness or laughter.

I will content myself with mentioning one singularity, which was
annoying, dangerous, and absurd at the same time. Over and over again
have I been mistaken by all sorts of people for some one not myself; and
the drollest point is that, in spite of their obstinate persistence, I
was not in the least like the persons they took me for. One day I met
an old artisan at San Pavolo, who ran to meet me, bent down and kissed
the hem of my garment with tears, thanking me with all his heart for
having been the cause of liberating his son from prison through my
influence. I told him firmly that he did not know me,