I obstinately persisted in forcing my memory to retain a great
deal by heart, and, for that purpose, I always carried some book
with me, which, while at work, I studied with inconceivable labor. I
was continually repeating something, and am really amazed that the
fatigue of these vain and continual efforts did not render me entirely
stupid. I must have learned and relearned the Eclogues of Virgil
twenty times over, though at this time I cannot recollect a single
line of them. I have lost or spoiled a great number of books by a
custom I had of carrying them with me into the dove-house, the garden,
orchard, or vineyard, when, being busy about something else, I laid my
book at the foot of a tree, on the hedge, or the first place that came
to hand, and frequently left them there, finding them a fortnight
after, perhaps, rotted to pieces, or eaten by the ants or snails;
and this ardor for learning became so far a madness that it rendered
me almost stupid, and I was perpetually muttering some passage or
other to myself.
The writings of Port-Royal, and those of the Oratory, being what I
most read, had made me half a Jansenist, and, notwithstanding all my
confidence, their harsh theology sometimes alarmed me. A dread of
hell, which till then I had never much apprehended, by little and
little disturbed my security, and had not Madam de Warrens
tranquilized my soul, would at length have been too much for me. My
confessor, who was hers likewise, contributed all in his power to keep
up my hopes.
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