My memories came back, jumbled at first, but soon much more precise. My pride was involved and I was embarrassed and humiliated by the prospect of seeing once again the woman who had treated me like a baby. I visualized her smiling as I came up to her at the way in which a short absence had calmed a young hothead’s effervescence, and I read into that smile a kind of scorn. Gradually my passion revived. That morning I had got up quite free from thoughts of Ellenore, but an hour after hearing that she was coming back the vision of her was floating before my eyes, holding sway over my heart. I was terrified of not seeing her.
I stayed indoors all day, as it were in hiding, for I was in terror lest the slightest movement on my part might prevent our meeting. And yet nothing could be more certain and straightforward, but I was looking forward to it so intensely that it seemed as if it could not happen. I was tortured with impatience and looked at my watch every minute. My pulse beat so feverishly in my veins that I had to open the window for air.
At last I heard the hour strike for me to set off for the Count’s. And at once my impatience turned into apprehension; I took my time over dressing and no longer felt any hurry to get there. I was so afraid that my expectations would be disappointed and so acutely conscious of the grief I ran the risk of feeling that I would gladly have agreed to postpone the whole thing.
It was getting late when I reached M. de P—’s house. I saw Ellenore sitting at the far end of the room but dared not go up to her, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon me. I went and hid in a corner behind a group of men who were chatting, and from there I watched her. She seemed slightly changed, a little paler than usual. The Count saw me in the sort of retreat to which I had withdrawn, and he came over to me, took my hand and led me to Ellenore. ‘May I introduce,’ he said laughingly, ‘one of the men who was most shocked by your unexpected departure.’ Ellenore was talking to a lady sitting by her, and when she saw me the words died on her lips and she was quite at a loss. I felt not a little awkward myself.
As we could easily be overheard I asked her some quite general questions, and we both recovered some semblance of calm. Supper was announced and I offered her my arm, which she could not refuse to take. ‘Unless you promise to see me here tomorrow at eleven,’ I said as we went along, ‘I shall leave at once, abandon country, family, and father, break off all my connexions, abjure all my obligations and go away, any where, and seek the speediest end to a life you are plaguing for your amusement.’ ‘Adolphe!’ she answered, and then paused. I made as if to go. I do not know what sort of expression I had on my face, but I had never before felt such a violent spasm of pain. Ellenore looked at me with mingled terror and affection. ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I do beg of you…’ She could not finish the sentence as there were many people following us.
I pressed her hand with my arm. We took our places at table.
I should have liked to sit next to Ellenore, but the master of the house had settled it otherwise, and I was put almost opposite her. At the beginning of the meal she was preoccupied. If spoken to she answered pleasantly enough, but soon lapsed into dreaminess. One of her friends was so struck by her silence and depression that she asked her if she was feeling well. ‘No, I have not been feeling very well just lately,’ she replied, ‘and even now I feel anything but my real self.’ I wanted to make a good impression upon Ellenore and, by showing how charming and witty I was, win her admiration and prepare her for the interview she had agreed to give me. So I tried countless ways of holding her attention. I led the conversation round to topics I knew interested her, and our table companions joined in. Her presence inspired me and I managed to catch her ear and soon saw her smile. This so filled my heart with joy and my eyes showed such gratitude that she could not help being touched. Her gloomy preoccupation melted away and she gave up fighting against the secret spell cast over her soul by the sight of the happiness she was giving me. When we rose from table our hearts were in complete harmony as though we had never been parted. ‘You see,’ I said as I gave her my hand to lead her back to the drawing-room, ‘my whole life is in your hands. What have I done that you should take pleasure in making that life a torment?’
Chapter Three
I SPENT a sleepless night. The stage of calculations and intrigues was over and I felt in my heart of hearts that I was really in love. It was no longer the prospect of a triumph that spurred me on; I was possessed to the exclusion of all else by the need to see the woman I loved and enjoy being with her. It struck eleven and I went to Ellenore; she was waiting for me. She wanted to speak, but I asked her to listen to me. I sat down beside her, for I could scarcely find the strength to stand up, and I went on in these terms, though not without frequent pauses:
‘I have not come to appeal against the sentence you have passed, nor do I propose to withdraw a declaration which may have offended you, for I could not even if I wanted to. The love you are rejecting cannot be destroyed; the very effort I am making at this moment to speak to you with some semblance of calm is a proof of the strength of an emotion which distresses you. But the time for talking about that has gone by, and this is not the reason why I have begged you to give me a hearing. On the contrary I have come to ask you to put it out of your mind and let me come and see you as in the past. Set aside the thought of a moment’s madness, and do not punish me because you know a secret I ought to have locked in my heart. You know all about me and this character of mine which people call difficult and uncouth, this heart of mine which is indifferent to all wordly interests, solitary even amidst crowds of men, and yet resentful of the solitude to which it is condemned. My one support has been your friendship, and without it I cannot live. I have got into the habit of seeing you, and you have allowed this pleasant habit to take root and grow. What have I done to deserve losing the one consolation of such a dull and tedious existence? I am miserably unhappy and feel I have not the strength left to endure such prolonged wretchedness. I have no hopes, no requests to make except to see you, but see you I must if I am to go on living.’
Ellenore remained silent. ‘What are you afraid of?’ I went on. ‘What demands am I making? Only what you freely give to all and sundry. Are you afraid of society? But society will be too absorbed in its own solemn round of frivolities to want to peer into a heart like mine. Why should I be anything but prudent? Does not my life depend upon it? Ellenore, listen to this entreaty of mine; you will not go unrewarded. You will feel the charm of being loved in this way, of seeing me near you, concerned with your welfare alone, living only for you, and finding in you any sensation of happiness I am still capable of feeling if once your presence saves me from misery and despair.’
I went on in this way for some time, brushing aside all obstacles and continually turning to my advantage any arguments which might work in my favour. I was so meek and submissive, I was asking for so little, and a refusal would have made me so unhappy!
All this affected Ellenore. She laid down several conditions, agreed to see me, but only occasionally and when many others were present, stipulated that I should never talk of love. I promised whatever she wanted. Each of us was well pleased, for I was happy to have regained the ground I had been in danger of losing, and she to find herself being generous and responsive yet at the same time prudent.
The very next day I took advantage of the permission I had been given, and on the following days I behaved in the same way. Ellenore soon ceased to think about the necessity of my visits being infrequent, and soon nothing seemed more natural than that she should see me every day. Ten years of loyalty on her part had made M. de P— completely trustful and he left Ellenore the greatest freedom. As he had had to fight against public opinion which had tried to exclude his mistress from the society in which he was called upon to live so now he was glad to see Ellenore’s circle widening, for in his view a houseful of guests was the best proof of his victory over people’s prejudices.
Whenever I arrived I could see an expression of pleasure in Ellenore�
�s eyes. If a conversation was to her liking she instinctively looked in my direction, and nothing of interest was said without her calling me in to listen. But she was never alone, and whole evenings passed by without my ever being able to have any private word with her beyond a few snatches of trivial or interrupted talk. So much restraint very soon irritated me and I grew morose, taciturn, moody, and sarcastic. If anyone else spoke to Ellenore alone I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my resentment, and I often rudely broke in. Little did I care whether I gave offence, neither was I always held back by fear of compromising her. She reproached me for my change of attitude. ‘What do you expect?’ I said angrily. ‘I suppose you think you have done a great deal for me, but I am obliged to tell you that you are mistaken. I cannot understand your new way of living at all. You used to live very quietly, you had a horror of tiring social gatherings and avoided those interminable conversations which go on and on for the very reason that they ought never to have been started. But now you keep open house to the whole world. It is as though by asking you to let me come and see you I have obtained permission for the whole universe to share the same favour. I confess that when I used to see how circumspect you were I never expected you would become so frivolous.’
The look of resentment and sadness I thought I could read in Ellenore’s face made me suddenly soften my tone. ‘Dearest Ellenore,’ I pleaded, ‘do I not deserve to be distinguished from the hordes of tiresome people who beset you? Has not friendship its own secrets? Is it not natural for a friend to lose heart and take umbrage amidst the din of the mob?’
Ellenore was afraid that if she showed herself inflexible it might lead to a resumption of the rash behaviour which alarmed her both for herself and for me. The thought of breaking with me did not enter her mind, and she consented to see me sometimes alone.
From that moment the strict rules she had laid down became rapidly slacker. She let me talk of my love and soon grew accustomed to such language. Before long she confessed that she loved me.
I spent some hours at her feet, calling myself the happiest of men and lavishing upon her countless assurances of my love, devotion and undying respect. She told me all she had suffered while trying to tear herself away from me, how many times she had hoped I would guess her secret despite her efforts to keep it hidden, how every little sound she heard seemed to herald my arrival, her embarrassment, fear, and joy when she did see me, and how her self-distrust had made her throw herself into social amusements in order to reconcile prudence with the promptings of her heart by cultivating the crowds of people she had formerly avoided. I made her tell me the most trifling details over and over again, and an episode that had lasted only a few weeks seemed to us like a life-story, for love has a sort of magic which makes up for long-standing memories. All other human affections need a history, but love, like an enchantment, can create a past to surround us with. It gives us, so to speak, the feeling of having lived for years with a person who until recently was almost a stranger. Love is only a single speck of light, yet it seems to illumine the whole of time. A few days ago it did not exist, and soon it will have ceased to be, but so long as it does exist it sheds its radiance upon the time which has preceded it as upon that which is to come.
But this calm was short lived. The haunting memory of her previous frailties had put Ellenore all the more on her guard against her own weakness, whilst my imagination and desires, together with a concept of the art of love, the fatuity of which I hardly noticed myself, all rebelled against this kind of love. Always cowardly, often exasperated, I grumbled, stormed, heaped reproaches upon her. More than once she thought of breaking a tie which was bringing nothing but worry and torment into her life, but each time I placated her with entreaties, disclaimers and tears.
One day I wrote to her in these terms:
‘Ellenore, you do not realize all I am going through. With you or away from you I am equally miserable. During the hours of separation from you I wander to and fro, weighed down by the burden of an intolerable existence. Company I find irksome, but solitude drives me mad. All these people who stare at me with an indifferent eye, who, knowing nothing of what is going on in my mind, look on with dull curiosity and callous astonishment, yet dare to talk to me about some other topic than you, fill my heart with mortal pain. I keep out of their way, but when I am alone I try in vain to find some fresh air to fill my choking lungs. I fling myself down upon the earth that ought to open and swallow me for ever. I rest my head on a cold stone that ought to cool the burning fever which consumes me. I drag myself up that hill from which your house can be seen and there I stay with my eyes fixed on the home I shall never share with you. If only I had met you sooner you might have belonged to me! I might have held in my arms the only being formed by nature for my heart – this heart which has endured so much in its search for you and now has found you too late! When these times of insane despair have at last gone by and the moment comes for seeing you again I set out for your house trembling and afraid that all the passers-by are guessing my innermost feelings. I stop, walk slowly, put off the moment of bliss, bliss which is constantly being threatened and which I always think I am on the point of losing. For it is an imperfect and chequered happiness, and probably at every minute of the day something is working against it: either malignant events, the eyes of jealous onlookers, purely arbitrary caprices of fate or your own will! When I reach your door and open it I am seized by a fresh panic and steal forward like a criminal, begging mercy of everything I meet as though each inanimate object were hostile and begrudged me the moment of felicity that is still to be enjoyed. I am scared by the least sound, and the slightest movement terrifies me; the very sound of my own footsteps makes me recoil. Even when I am within reach of you I still dread some obstacle which might suddenly thrust itself between you and me. At last I see you, see you and breathe again, I contemplate you, I stand like a fugitive who has set foot in some place of sanctuary which will protect him from death. But even then, when my whole being leaps towards you, when I sorely need rest after so many tribulations, need to lay my head in your lap and let my tears flow freely, I have to control myself sternly – even with you I have to live a life of strain with never a moment of abandon when I can let my feelings go! Your eyes are examining me, and you are puzzled and almost offended by my emotion. Some unaccountable reserve has taken the place of those wonderful hours when you did at least own that you loved me. Time flies and new interests absorb you; now you never have them out of your mind and you never postpone the time for me to go. Strangers appear, and so I may no longer look at you. I feel obliged to leave in order to turn away the suspicion that surrounds me. And so I go away more upset, more agonized and frenzied than before. I leave you and relapse into that awful loneliness in which I twist and turn and never find a single soul on whom I can rely or who can give me a moment’s respite.’
Ellenore had never been loved in this way. M. de P—was genuinely fond of her, most grateful for her devotion to him and full of respect for her character, but in his manner there had always been a hint of superiority towards a woman who had openly given herself to him without his having married her. The general opinion was that he might have contracted a more honourable connexion. He never said such a thing to her and possibly never even to himself, but what is unsaid exists none the less, and whatever exists can be guessed. Until now Ellenore had had no conception of passionate emotion, another’s life merged completely in hers, which my very frenzy, my unfairness and reproaches went to prove all the more conclusively. Her resistance had intensified all my sensations and ideas, and now I returned to terrifying bursts of rage, submissiveness, tenderness and idolatrous veneration. I looked upon her as a sacred being and my love was closely allied to religion. And that appealed to her all the more strongly because she was always afraid of being humiliated in the opposite way. In the end she gave herself to me without reserve.
Woe to the man who in the first moments of a love-affair does not believe that it will
last for ever! Woe to him who even in the arms of the mistress who has just yielded to him maintains an awareness of trouble to come and foresees that he may later tear himself away! At the moment when she abandons herself to her passion every woman is in a sense touching and sublime. It is not sensual pleasure, not nature, nor our bodies which corrupt us; it is the scheming to which life in society accustoms us and the reflections to which experience gives rise. I loved and respected Ellenore a thousand times more after she had given herself to me. I walked proudly among men and looked upon them with the eye of a conqueror. The very air I breathed was a pure delight. I eagerly went out to meet nature and thank her for the immense and unhoped-for gift she had deigned to bestow on me.
Chapter Four
THE magic of love – who could ever describe it? Certainty of having found the one being destined for us by nature, sudden light shed upon life itself and apparently explaining its mystery, unsuspected value conferred upon the most trifling circumstances, flying hours whose details elude the memory through their very sweetness, leaving nothing but a long trail of bliss in our souls, fun and laughter that sometimes breaks unbidden into our usual tenderness, such pleasure when together and such hope when apart, detachment from all mundane cares and superiority over everything round us, conviction that henceforth the world cannot harm us in our fastness, mutual understanding that divines each thought and responds to every emotion – the magic of love that none who has known can ever describe!
Urgent business obliged M. de P— to be away for six weeks. I spent this time with Ellenore almost without a break. Her attachment to me seemed to have been strengthened by the sacrifice she had made. She never let me leave her without trying to keep me back. When I went out she asked me when I would return. A separation of two hours she found unbearable, and she settled the exact time of my return with anxious precision. I entered into all this with joy, for I was grateful and happy because of the feeling she showed for me. And yet the affairs of ordinary life cannot be forced to fit in with all our desires. It was sometimes awkward to have my every step marked out for me in advance and all my moments counted. I was obliged to hurry through everything I did and break with most of my acquaintances. I did not know what to say to my friends when they invited me to take part in some social activity which in normal circumstances I should have had no reason for declining. When I was with Ellenore I did not hanker after these pleasures of social life which had never appealed to me very strongly, but I would have liked her to leave me freer to give them up of my own accord. It would have been pleasanter to go back to her of my own free will, without telling myself that time was up and she was anxiously waiting, and without the thought of my happiness at rejoining her being mingled with that of her displeasure. Ellenore was a great joy in my life, of course, but she was no longer an objective, she had become a tie. Moreover I was afraid of embarrassing her by my continual presence, which could not fail to surprise her servants and children who might be watching me. I trembled at the thought of upsetting the whole of her life. It seemed to me that we could not be united for ever, and that I was in duty bound to respect her peace; and so I advised prudence while insisting upon my love. But the more advice of this kind I gave her, the less inclined she was to heed what I said. At the same time I was terribly afraid of hurting her, and as soon as I saw an expression of pain on her face my will became the slave of hers, for I was not happy unless she was pleased with me. If, by dint of insisting upon the necessity of my presence elsewhere for a short time, I did manage to get away, I was haunted by the vision of the suffering I had brought upon her until a feverish remorse came over me which grew and grew until it was irresistible. Then I would rush back to her, overjoyed at the prospect of consoling and pacifying her. But as I drew nearer to her house there crept into my other feelings one of resentment at the strange sway she held over me. Ellenore on her side was uncontrolled. I believe she felt towards me in a way she had never felt towards anybody else before. In her previous relationships her heart had been chilled by an irksome feeling of dependence, but with me she was perfectly at ease because we were on a perfectly equal footing; she had recovered her self-respect by a love free from all calculation and self-interest, for she knew that I was sure she loved me for myself alone. But her giving herself to me thus unreservedly meant that she concealed none of her changes of mood, so that when I came back into her room, resentful at being back earlier than I would have liked, it would be to find her upset or annoyed. For two hours I had been miserable away from her because I thought she might be miserable away from me, and now I had two hours of misery with her before being able to restore her spirits.
Adolphe Page 5
