Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  I bought at the sale, as souvenir of this sad adventure, the harp on which Marie used to play, a marquetry cabinet which had belonged to the count, and a few other articles of small value, which I begged the curé to accept. According to the count’s wishes, as expressed in his will, the price of the house and of its contents (with the exception of all the family portraits, which were to be burned) was left to the commune of — , to be employed in the assistance of its poor.

  I left the village full of sad reflections on the mournful tale I had heard. I had sent to my home the marquetry cabinet.

  One day, as I was examining the latter very minutely, I discovered a drawer with a double bottom. In this secret place was hidden quite a voluminous manuscript. It was the count’s journal.

  These fragments appeared to me remarkable in their spirit of analysis, and by a succession of adventures, very simple, very natural, and perhaps worthy of interest and study, inasmuch as they portray some facts common to the lives of most men.

  They consist of the following fragmentary sketches, which I will try to give as nearly as possible in all their simplicity and curious scepticism. The memoirs seem to include a period of about twelve years.

  Although they relate the life of this inconnu from the age of twenty, and seem by the last date to have been continued until the day preceding his death, one can see by the note that the story of the first seven years was written by the count only about five years before his death, while the history of the last five years constitutes a journal written almost day by day, and according to the circumstances.

  The handwriting of this journal was fine, correct, and often hastily current, as though the hand and mind had been carried away by the rush of memories. At other times it was calm and distinct, as though traced by an iron hand. On the margins were an infinite number of portraits and silhouettes sketched with a pen with much facility and grace, which must have been excellent likenesses. Finally, interpolated here and there were many letters in various handwritings, which were evidently intended to verify the truth of the statements in this singular manuscript.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE BEREAVEMENT.

  I WAS TWENTY years old, and had just returned from a long sojourn in England and in Spain, where I had gone under the guidance of my tutor, a good, modest, firm, and enlightened man.

  On my return to Serval, our country-seat, where my father had been living for many long years in retirement, I found him seriously ill. Never in my life will I forget the sight of him on my arrival.

  The château, which was extremely secluded and overlooked a straggling village, raised itself in solitary grandeur on the confines of a great forest. It was a vast Gothic edifice built of bricks which had become black with age. The interior was composed of vast echoing apartments, which were but dimly lighted by their long diamond-paned windows.

  The servants were all in mourning for my mother, who had died while I was still absent. They were almost all elderly retainers of the house, and nothing could have been more lugubrious than the sight of them walking silently about in those immense gloomy rooms, where their figures were scarcely perceptible against the red or dark green hangings which covered the walls of that ancient habitation..

  On descending from the carriage I was received by my father’s valet de chambre, who said not a word, but his eyes were filled with tears. I followed him, and traversed a long gallery which had been the terror of my childhood’s nights as it had been the joy of its days. I found my father in his study. He tried to raise himself to embrace me, but his strength failed him, and he could only stretch out his arms to me in welcome. He appeared to me frightfully changed; when I had quitted him he was still alert and vigorous; I found him weak and broken down. His tall frame was bent, he had become very thin, he was pale and expressionless, except that a nervous smile, caused by the continuity of his sufferings, gave to his naturally severe face an indescribable expression of habitual pain.

  I had always greatly feared my father. His mind was vast, serious, meditative, concentrated, and occasionally coldly ironical. His knowledge was prodigious on every sort of subject. His character was masterful. In manner he was grave, thoughtful, and taciturn, but extremely cold. High principled to a striking degree, his devotion to me was extreme in every act of his life, but he was never demonstrative. Thus he had inspired me with a profound and timid veneration, a respectful gratitude, rather than a confiding and expansive affection, such as I felt for my mother.

  Having quitted the service while still young, in spite of the wishes of Napoleon, who admired his iron will and indefatigable activity, my father had almost always resided at his château, but, strange as it may seem, he received no company. The Reign of Terror in’93 had so thinned the ranks of our family that, with the exception of a sister of my father, we had no near relations, simply some very distant connections whom we never saw. Now that my age and experience permit me to appreciate and compare my souvenirs, I can say that my father remains in my mind as the only really misanthropic man I have ever met; for he was not one of those misanthropists who like to live among men for the pleasure of telling them how despicable they are, but he was a misanthropist who had positively fled society, and broken off all connection with his kind. I have searched in vain among my childish memories to find that my father possessed a single friend, or even what might be called an intimate acquaintance.

  My mother, my aunt, and my cousin Hélène, who was three years younger than I, were the only persons who, from time to time, came to see us. This is no exaggeration, my mother has assured me of the fact; during the thirty years’ residence of my father at Serval, not a single visitor ever came near the place.

  My father was a great hunter, but always went alone; he was passionately fond of horses and extended agriculture. These occupations, as well as my education, which he personally superintended, until he gave me a tutor, and sent me to see the world, filled up his whole leisure. Then his fortune was considerable, and as he never would consent to have an intendant, he, with the assistance of my mother, whose sense of order was extremely keen, attended to the administration of his property himself; the rest of his time was taken up with reading, scientific experiments, and long, solitary walks.

  When I started for that fatal voyage, during which I was to lose my mother, she had seen in a dream a warning of her death, and had told me about it; but we hid it from my father, not because she feared him, but because, having always had a certain awe of his superiority, she dreaded his severe sarcasm, which never spared any poetical, exaggerated, or romantic sentiment.

  I was thus prevented from taking a last farewell of my mother. I say nothing of my grief; she was the only person in the world to whom I had ever dared to tell everything freely and confidentially.

  My aunt and her daughter Hélène had come to reside at Serval after my mother’s death, almost in spite of my father, whose habitual need of solitude and silence seemed to become stronger as he became more and more feeble.

  I led in those days a most distressing and harrowing life. Every morning my father would send for me to come to his bedside; his valet de chambre would then bring him the great strong box, where were kept the books containing the administration of our property, and day by day he would explain to me the state of affairs with an icy clearness which chilled me to the heart. One day he made me read aloud his will, with the same appearance of insensibility. My voice was choked with the effort I made to suppress my sobbing; he did not even seem to notice it. He would generally end this sort of initiation into the future management of the fortune he meant to leave me by some counsels he would give me in a brief manner, a long silence following each sentence.

  These conversations revealed the most direct and exact judgment, and the deepest and truest knowledge of the miseries, or, as he said, the moral necessities of the human race, for a very striking trait of my father’s character was the calm and disinterested manner with which he could discuss the inherent weaknesses of our species
. According to his idea, we were obliged to admit that certain facts, certain low and selfish instincts, from which even noble minds could not escape, were the consequences of our moral organisation. He thought it as idle to hide or deny this defect as it would be to blame men for being attainted by it.

  Thus, if any one ever asked of him a favour, he would generally consider that he would in return only receive ingratitude; nevertheless, he would render the service with the most perfect benevolence.

  To sum up all, the moral sense of the conversations I had with him, and which on his part consisted of short, concise, and decided phrases, affirmed that the pivot on which everything turned was gold, since the noblest characters when pressed by need would descend to the lowest degradation, even to infamy, — it was necessary to remain rich so as to be sure of remaining honest; that there was an object in every sacrifice; that every man was corruptible, but that the time or the price of each man varied according to the nature of the individual; that all friendship had its negative pole, and that, therefore, it would be folly to count on a sentiment which would assuredly fail you in your need; and, to conclude, I should, according to these direful maxims, count myself as fortunate in the fact that I had neither brother nor sister, and was thus free from the guilt of venial fratricide, man being so constituted that he scarcely ever sees anything in fraternity but a diminished inheritance; “for,” said my father, “there are very few, even of the purest souls, who can deny having thought, at least once in a lifetime, in calculating the fortune that they were to divide, ‘If I were the only one!’”

  I can not express how these axioms, in one sense strictly true perhaps, but of an affirmation so exaggerated and so disheartening, filled me with dismay, when I heard them coldly stated as a proposition by my dying father.

  My tutor, who was a man of good sense, but of mediocre intellect, had never in his life started any philosophical discussion in my presence. Upon such subjects my mind had thus far remained unawakened and inert, but, being prepared by education and by a precocious habit of reflection due to my solitary life, and the experience I had gained by travel, was ready to receive the germs of any idea, good or bad, which the ardour of my imagination would inevitably cause to expand.

  It was thus that these discouraging and bitter sentiments took deep root and became the sole source of all my thoughts. Later in life I was enabled to modify them, to graft on them, so to speak, other ideas, but the later buds partook of all the bitterness of the original sap.

  After one of these melancholy seances with my father, which generally lasted about two hours, he would allow himself to be dressed, or rather to be wrapped in warm and very light clothing (for his old wounds had become open and heavy clothing caused him to suffer cruelly); then, seated in a bath-chair, he would have himself rolled up and down in the sunny paths of the park.

  Through a strange caprice, my father, who had hitherto taken the greatest pleasure in keeping this park in luxurious beauty, prohibited, so soon as he believed himself to be seriously ill, every one from making the most necessary and ordinary improvements.

  Nothing can be imagined more desolate than the aspect of these wide driveways, which were now taken possession of by grass and weeds; of these arbours and bowers of elm-trees, which, formerly clipped so symmetrically, were now abandoned and left to grow in every wild way; of these great flower beds, where all the dead summer flowers, that should have been pulled up by the roots at the beginning of autumn (for it was now that season), were still displaying their tall blackened stems.

  Nothing, I repeat, could have been more dismal than this spectacle of neglect and ruin around a house which was still inhabited. My father had even forbidden any one to make the most ordinary repairs to the house itself. If a shutter was unhinged or a chimney blown down by a storm, it was allowed to remain just as the wind had left it. After his airing, which my father generally took in silence, his head bowed on his breast, while beside him walked either I, my aunt, or Hélène, he would be taken into his study. I can see the room still, lighted by its three great windows which opened on the park, its numerous old family portraits, its pictures and priceless curiosities. A great black bookcase filled one entire side of the room; from the ceiling swung a great chandelier of rock-crystal. But what gave the place its look of utter desolation was the same sort of neglect which devastated the park.

  The pictures and the furniture were heavy with dust; a valet de chambre having once dared to dust a few articles, my father had flown into such a rage that the dust was allowed to settle where it pleased from that day, and the spiders to spin their webs where they pleased.

  My father would remain there alone during two or three hours, after which we would go and take him out for a second promenade, which was the only time when he would seem to arouse himself from the sullen apathy into which he had fallen.

  The object of our promenade was to go to a vast enclosure where some horses were allowed to run at liberty. There were, I believe, seven or eight, of which three were old hunters which had been favourite mounts during many years; the others were carriage horses, also very old. As soon as my father had known that it would in future be impossible for him to either ride or drive, he had caused his horses to be turned loose in this enclosure; one of the clauses of his will expressly ordered that these horses were to remain at liberty and never to be worked any more until their death.

  As I said before, it was on these occasions alone that my father ever had anything to say. He would sometimes speak of one of his hunting parties, where a certain horse had distinguished himself; he would recall some road that another had travelled over with surprising speed; then, the promenade over, he would return home to dine. Although for quite a long time he had only been able to take the lightest nourishment, he insisted that his table, of which he was rather vain, should be served with the same dainty abundance as when he was in health, but he never partook of anything. My aunt and Hélène assisted at these silent repasts, where we were waited on by the old white-headed servants, dressed in their funereal black. My father never spoke at meal-times, and as we had noticed how the least noise seemed to disex tress him, we confined our conversations to exchanging a few remarks spoken in an undertone.

  After dinner, which was soon over, we would go into the parlour, and, getting out the chess-board, I would sit down to it opposite my father. I would arrange the chessmen and we would begin the pretence of a game; for my father was entirely too absent-minded to really play any more. At long intervals he would push one of his men from one square to another on the board, and for the form of it I would advance one of mine, — all this was done in perfect silence; for it was a sort of mechanical occupation rather than an amusement that my father sought in this simulation of chess-playing. While we were so occupied my aunt would read and Hélène seat herself at the piano for about an hour’s time.

  This musical hour, except the visit to the horses’ pound, was the only other incident of our daily life which appeared to make any impression on my father; for as he continued to push about his pieces in an aimless way, he would say to Hélène, in his low and penetrating voice: “Hélène, I should like you to play such or such an air for me.”

  Sometimes, though very rarely, he would ask her to repeat the same piece for him two or three times, when he would place his elbows on the chess-board, and, hiding his head in his two hands, would seem lost in meditation.

  One day, only after having asked a second time for a song, I noticed when he raised his venerable head, where suffering had marked such deep lines, that his eyes were filled with tears.

  The airs which he liked best to have Hélène repeat to him were few in number and very old-fashioned. I remember among others “Pauvre Jacques,” the cavatina of “Don Juan,” one of the Beethoven symphonies, and two or three romances by Paësiello. One of these last, a simple, sweet, and sad melody called “La Mort d’Elvire,” seemed to affect him more profoundly than any of the others, so that he would say, after a deep sig
h, “That is enough, Hélène. Thank you, my child.” And as soon as the music ceased, a deep silence would fall on us.

  It would be impossible to describe the melancholy thoughts which the daily repetition of such a scene caused to spring up in my mind. I would listen with rapt attention to those old songs, whose simple rhythm suited so well the freshness and purity of Hélène’s voice.

  The room in which we assembled in the evenings was called the salon of the Crusader, because above the great fireplace of carved stone was the representation of one of our ancestors, who bore the holy cross. This apartment was very large, and its walls were all tapestried with dark red damask.

  As my father’s eyesight was very bad, we had two lamps, covered with green silk shades, placed on the piano in a manner to light the music desk only; thus, while the rest of the room remained in almost total obscurity, Hélène, seated at the piano, shone out in beautiful clearness.

  I can still see her beautiful blonde hair, her pretty throat, which looked so white against her large black fichu. And I can see my father as he sat by the chessboard, his head bowed in meditation, only visible in the red and dancing light reflected from the fire on the hearth.

  Towards ten o’clock my father would ring for his servants, who then assisted him to his own rooms, whither I accompanied him, and helped him to his bed.

  I slept in the room next to his, and very often in the night, being restless and agitated, I would get up to listen to his breathing. I would creep up cautiously to his bedside, but always found him with wide-open eyes, whose gaze was fixed on mine, for he never slept. This frightful insomnia, which the doctors attributed to the abuse of opium, and which they attempted in every manner to overcome, this continuous insomnia was what caused him to suffer the most The tears still come into my eyes when I recall the tone of calm resignation with which he would say to me, “I am not asleep, I am not in need of anything, — go and rest yourself, my child.” I sometimes shudder as I remember that for a period of seven months my father never slept a moment. Each day and each night he waited for the end, which he could see was slowly approaching. I have already said that his knowledge was almost universal; for this reason, although he had no practical knowledge of medicine, he was, unfortunately, sufficiently acquainted with its principles to understand and judge with certainty of his own condition.