by Eugène Sue
Eight months before his death he astounded the doctors by discussing with them his disease, and showing them his reasons for believing that it would inevitably end fatally, — even the time he probably had to live. And, however, with the terrible conviction that every day was bearing him nearer to the tomb, he never showed the least weakness nor the slightest regret. Never a complaint, never a word in allusion to his approaching end! Silence, always silence! and his life until the day of his death was such as I have described.
The day before this frightful event, he caused me to go through a long and serious examination on the manner in which I was to manage my fortune; this with remarkable lucidity and apparent satisfaction. He then said to me: “I have doubled the means my father left me; this increase of fortune has been my steady object in life, because my constant aim has been your future happiness. Make a good use of these riches if you are able. Remember, my child, that gold is all-powerful: honour and happiness. Above all things, try to live alone; that is the great science of life. If you should find a woman like your mother, marry her, but be on your guard against adorers who will simply be after your fortune; in a word, never trust in any appearances before having sounded their secret depths.” Then showing me his great secretary, he added: “You are to have that piece of furniture burned, just as it stands, with all it contains. I have taken out all our family papers, and you should be perfectly indifferent as to the rest. Adieu, my child, I have always been satisfied with your conduct.”
And as through my tears I spoke to him of eternity, of my grief if I should have the frightful misfortune to lose him, he faintly smiled and said to me, in his calm and steady voice: “My child, why do you speak to me of these vanities? There is nothing eternal, there is nothing even durable in human feeling, joy and gladness are but transitory emotions, — grief and sadness are still more fleeting. Remember this, my poor child. You are generous and affectionate — you love me tenderly — you are grievously afflicted at the thought of losing me. Your actual grief is really so intense that it hides from you for the time being the coming separation, — and yet this diseased body can not, ought not, to continue to live; sooner or later after I am gone, you will begin to regret me less; little by little you will turn your mind to other thoughts, then you will begin to be consoled, — and after awhile I shall be forgotten!”
“Never,” I exclaimed, and, throwing myself on the foot of his bed, I took his hand and covered it with my tears.
He placed his hand, which was already cold, on my forehead, and continued: “Poor dear child! Where fore deny that which is self-evident, — why try to escape the inexorable law of our race? In this series of changes which, starting at violent grief, ends by forgetfulness, there is nothing as I see it either odious or guilty. Nothing is more natural, nothing is more consistent with our human nature. More than this, one of these days you will be able to enjoy the wealth I am leaving you without the slightest feeling of sadness. You will remember me, I hope and desire, from time to time, but seldom, and without anguish. The remembrance of me will never interfere with your enjoyments, your pleasures, the pursuits of your daily existence; so at last I shall count in your bright young life only as the dust of the old tree, which, having lived its time, now only serves as a nourishment to its young shoots. Nothing is more simple, more human, more natural, I tell you so once more.”
“Ah, never believe such a thing as that,” I cried out in terror. “This fortune will be hateful to me, — nothing will ever be any consolation to me.”
But my father added:
“Make no foolish promises, my son; eighty thousand francs a year can never be hateful, and the most poignant grief is capable of consolation. Do I not know it from my own experience? Did not I feel thus when my father died? Will your sentiments not be the same as mine were? And if you ever have a son, will he not feel the same grief when you die? Believe me, my child, true wisdom consists in being thus able to envisage the inexorable reality of things, and never to indulge in vain hopes. When you once understand this truth, when it once causes the phantom of falsehood to dissolve, then you will neither hate nor despise men for being thus constituted, because you know yourself to be like them, — you will then pity them and help them, for you will often feel greatly unhappy! If you find men ungrateful, alas! look into the depth of your own soul, and you will often see such base ingratitude that you will be enabled to forgive others. Understand this, my poor child, that to forgive all is to know all. Finally, a time will come when the sight of their unknown or hidden vices will be so saddening or repugnant to you that you will do as I did, you will leave them and live alone. Then, my child, instead of having constantly before your eyes the harrowing sight of the moral infirmities of mankind, you will only have your own, and in the contemplation of a splendid nature, in meditation, in the inexhaustible and maternal sweetness of study, you will be able to forget and forgive the sins of our poor humanity.”
The day after this conversation, my father was no more.
CHAPTER V.
HÉLÈNE.
IN RECALLING THESE souvenirs of my past life, I have no other aim than the firm determination, if that be possible, of reviewing, as a cold and disinterested spectator, the scenes of my most secret thoughts, as well as the struggles of my instincts, whether good or evil; not to be ashamed to own up to a single one of them, no matter how base or paltry..
I believe myself to be neither better nor worse than the common run of men, and what gives me the courage to admit everything to myself is the conviction that possesses me, that, should the greater number of men ask themselves the same questions, and reply to them with the same frankness, their answers would in most instances be the same as mine.
To go back to the death of my father: my grief was most profound, but it was not my predominating sentiment at the first. My first sensation was a sort of terrified stupefaction at finding myself, at twenty-two years old, perfectly free, and master of a large fortune. My next feeling was an inexplicable anguish at the idea that from henceforth I was without any natural protector. Come vice or virtue, glory or obscurity, my life from henceforth would interest no one; besides, the eccentric life my father had led, isolated for so long from all the world, had placed me almost in the position of a stranger to that society which my rank and fortune entitled me to enter. The future seemed to extend itself before me like a vast desert crossed by a thousand paths, but no souvenir, no interest, nor even any family or caste patronage could I claim which might show me which of these paths was the right one.
As in all else, thanks to the lapse of time, this impression was fated to be modified and then radically altered; but the transition was a long one.
Some time later this timidity gave place to, or rather was mingled with, a tinge of pride, as I considered that all the great domains of our family belonged to me alone, and that, though the responsibility of their regency might be burdensome, it would be its own compensation. When still very young I had mechanically acquired a habit of self-interrogation, so when I perceived that my profound affliction had begun to take on these first tints of personality, I shuddered as I remembered those terrible words of my dying father, “You are generous and kind, you love me tenderly, and yet, sooner or later after my death, you will begin to miss me less and less, then you will be entirely consoled, and finally you will forget me altogether.”
I have heard stories giving many examples of men to whom a tragic and premature end had been foretold, and who, goaded by some unexplainable fatality, had taken upon themselves the task of realising these sad predictions. It is the same way, I believe, with certain thoughts which are repugnant, even hateful to you, against which you struggle vainly, and to which you finally succumb; thus it was with the prediction of my father; I fought against it a long time, but at last I was conquered.
But this struggle was certainly one of the most distressing periods of my life. To recognise little by little the uselessness of our grief, to become cruelly convinced of this fo
rmidable vulgarity, that those feelings which nature has most deeply rooted in our hearts can fade, wither, die, and disappear under the icy breath of time, — ought not such thoughts to cut us to the quick?
Are they not heart-breaking? Such were the thoughts which caused me to curse my ingratitude, but my curses were in vain.
It was the month of January, for I had remained all the winter at Serval, with my aunt and Hélène. Every morning I mounted my horse and went for a long ride in the forest, where I would spend three or four hours. The gray, cloudy, foggy weather pleased me, the wide driveways covered with snow, or littered with dead leaves, which the wind scattered hither and thither, had a dreary aspect which suited the colour of my thoughts. Leaving the reins loose on my horse’s neck, I would ride along in a state of utter abstraction, scarcely thinking of anything, — of the future, of the road I meant to follow, — making no plans whatever, for I was still too much dazzled by my newly attained importance. I had lived for so long a time entirely dependent on my father, having no will but his, making no plans but his; even during my long voyage his will, represented by that of my tutor, had governed me so incessantly that the absolute and perfect freedom I now enjoyed was both overpowering and alarming. After one of these long rides I would return to find Hélène and her mother awaiting me; we would talk about my father, and my aunt would try to persuade me to overcome the repugnance I felt in attending to business; but as all these business transactions reminded me too cruelly of the many conversations I had with my father on these subjects, I could not bring myself yet to consider all these details, but left them to the charge of my tutor.
At the end of the third month my grief had lost much of its bitterness. I began, so to speak, to awake and look around me, my ideas became clearer and more definite as to the use I was to make of my newly acquired liberty, — this freedom which still disturbed and made me anxious, but which alarmed me no longer.
The thread of our thoughts does not always escape exterior and purely physical influences. I was beginning to find this out. Springtime was approaching, and I felt as if with the dreary winter the first bitterness of my sorrow would pass away, and that vague projects and sweet hopes for the future would blossom with the smiling foliage of May.
We were now getting on towards the middle of April; since my father’s death I had never been able to make up my mind to visit the village cemetery, in which stood our family monument, so fearful was I of the cruel impression such a visit would have upon me. One day, as I deplored my weakness, Hélène said to me, “Try to be more courageous, Arthur; come, I will go with you.”
As Hélène’s mother was not very well, she could not go with us; so we set forth together. My emotion was so violent that I was trembling and could scarcely stand. Hélène, who was, perhaps, quite as much unnerved as I, showed it less. When we arrived at the entrance door of the vault, I fainted away.
When I came to myself, I saw Hélène kneeling beside me. I felt her warm tears fall on my cheek, for she was holding my head in her two hands. For the very first time, strange as it may seem, in spite of the sacredness of the place, in spite of the heartrending thoughts with which I was prepared to be overcome, for the first time in my life I was struck with Hélène’s beauty. This first sensation passed rapidly as a dream, and my deep sadness again possessed me. I remained weeping for a long time, and then we returned to the château.
After that I went with Hélène almost daily to the cemetery, and, instead of my sharp and violent grief, I began to indulge in a sweet melancholy, which was not without a certain charm. I began to admit to myself with a sense of pleasure that I was ineffably grateful for the memory of my father, and I blessed him with pious admiration for having been able to show me always such deep and far-seeing affection, having such terrible convictions as he had on the forgetfulness of the living for those who are no longer among them.
Emerging from my state of stupor, I began at length to appreciate the splendid position that he had made for me, and I promised that I would remain eternally grateful to him, but after awhile, as I began to contemplate my position in all its brilliancy, I would sometimes tremble, as I thought I discovered in the depths of my mind a frightful reaction of egotistic satisfaction.
I have told what a long time it was before I began to notice Hélène’s beauty. Though this may have been strange, you must remember that she had always seemed to me like a sister. When I had started on my travels she was at a convent school, almost a child; and during the last few months of my father’s life I had been so cruelly preoccupied with his sufferings, and Hélène had shown such a devoted and filial affection for him, that the sort of fraternal feeling I cherished for her had never changed.
Hélène was three years younger than I; she was blonde and pale; her manner was kindly, but cold, and her large blue eyes, her aquiline nose, her large, fine forehead often bent forwards, gave her an imposing and, at the same time, a melancholy expression. As a child she had always been quiet; hers was a silent and self-contained nature, indifferent to the joys and pleasures of her age; always very sedentary and very nonchalant, she laughed seldom, and dreamed a great deal. Her eyebrows were of a darker shade of blonde than her magnificent hair, — they were thick, and perhaps too well marked. Her foot was charming, and her hand, though rather long, was of antique beauty; her tall, slight, and willowy figure was remarkably perfect, but she held herself very badly, and almost always, through indolence, kept her white and round shoulders bowed forwards, in spite of her mother’s continual scoldings. As to her mind, I had never paid any attention to it before; she had always shown herself thoughtful and solicitous in the affection she evinced towards my father, and, as I have said, her behaviour to me was always of a sisterly kind.
She was altogether of an affectionate and tender nature, charitable and benevolent towards every one, but she was very proud and high-spirited at times, and extremely susceptible to the slightest allusion she suspected any one about to make on the subject of her poverty. I very well remember that, before my father’s death, Hélène had sulked at me for quite a long time because I had been stupid and thoughtless enough to say before her that young girls without fortunes were almost always from their birth destined for gouty old fellows who were tired of society, and wanted some nice young girl of good family who would be willing to pass the rest of her life in their peevish society.
Hélène’s mother, who was my father’s sister, was a weak, heedless woman, but she was good, witty, and very distinguée. Her husband held for a long time a high diplomatic position, but being very prodigal, a gambler, loving display and all that was luxurious, in his desire to represent his country as sumptuously as possible, he had entirely wasted his own fortune as well as that of his wife; so that the latter was left at his death, if not in absolute poverty, at least in honourable but poor circumstances.
I had never in my life taken into consideration the disproportion of fortune that existed between Hélène and myself. Neither did I think about it at all, when I began to notice her beauty, for I believe that one of the most salient traits of the young who find themselves rich without any labour is to try to colour everything with a golden tinge reflected from their own gay prism.
From the moment when I saw that Hélène was beautiful, without attempting to analyse the sentiment I was perhaps already beginning to feel, I became quite another being; I shortened the duration of my horseback rides, I began to be very careful as to my toilet, and often felt ashamed when I remembered my former negligent ways in regard to dress.
My aunt had a friend who was also a widow and the mother of a daughter about Hélène’s age. This daughter was threatened with serious lung trouble, which caused her mother the greatest alarm and distress. I had heard my aunt speak of her poor friend, and instinctively feeling that I would have more opportunities of being alone with Hélène, were our family circle larger, I asked my aunt to invite her friend and her daughter to come to Serval, and remain for some time where the air was p
erfectly pure. My aunt accepted this invitation joyfully, and very soon Madame de Verteuil and her daughter, a poor child of eighteen, not at all pretty, but with such a look of suffering resignation as to be deeply interesting, came to live with us at the château.
CHAPTER VI.
THE AVOWAL.
TWO MONTHS AFTER the arrival of Madame de Verteuil at Serval, the sad aspect of the ancient house was entirely changed; to my eyes all was blooming, gay, radiant, — I was in love with Hélène.
Several of our neighbouring landowners, who had been alienated by my father’s misanthropic disposition, made friendly advances towards me, and I felt so perfectly happy that, with the easy good nature happiness brings, which really is indifference for all that does not concern our love, I accepted their kindly visits, and very soon Serval, without being gay, was at least much more cheerful and lively than it had been for many a long year.
I was so entirely absorbed in my love that I scarcely gave a thought to the great change that had taken place in my grief. It was just nine months since I had lost my father, and already the remembrance of his death, at first so constant and so bitter, was beginning little by little to fade away. I had begun by going every morning to the cemetery, then I went only once in awhile, sometime later I substituted for this pious visit some few hours spent in meditation before my father’s portrait. I had caused this portrait to be placed in a frame which closed with two folding panels, thinking it a profanation to leave the image of those we hold most dear exposed to the gaze of the thoughtless and indifferent; besides, I considered that such contemplation, from which we hope to receive elevated and serious thoughts, should be premeditated and not due to our having by chance given a hasty look at the beloved face. The frame which contained the portrait became for me, thus, a sort of tabernacle, which I never opened without a solemn and pious sense of meditation. But alas! these contemplations, daily at first, soon became less frequent, from the very fact that my eyes could not become accustomed to look with indifference on this sacred image, which I gazed on more and more rarely. I can never explain the almost frightened impression with which I would unlock the panels: my heart would beat violently on beholding the pale and stern face of my father, who seemed to step out of the canvas with his imposing look of calmness and sadness, and to reproach me for my ingratitude and forgetfulness of his memory, which, alas! he had predicted.
