by Eugène Sue
Why was it that such a scene, so calm and peaceful, should have affected me so painfully? Hélène was thoughtfully leaning on my arm. After a long silence she said: “I do not know how to explain it, but I seem to be chilled to the heart.”
Absorbed as I was by the sad thoughts I was faying to conceal from Hélène, this community of impressions struck me forcibly. “It is only nervousness,” said I; “it is because of this dark and dismal weather.” After this we continued our walk in silence.
In truth, I am ashamed to avow the cause of my discontent; it was childish, weak, even silly. It was the first time in my life that I was taken possession of by that insurmountable desire for independence and solitude, whose influence I so often felt in after life, sometimes even in the midst of the utmost gaiety and dissipation. I loved Hélène, almost to adoration; every moment spent away from her was torture to me, and yet on that day, without any reason, and not out of spitefulness, Hélène having been as sweet and affectionate towards me as she always was, for some unknown reason I felt that I was really unhappy. It made me wretched to think that I should be obliged to appear in the salon that evening to be polite to my guests, and to reply to the tender appeals of Hélène.
After being so impressed by the melancholy aspect of nature, it would have been pleasant to be able to spend my evening in dreaming, meditating, reading, in the midst of profound silence, one of my favourite books; but, above everything, I wanted to be entirely alone.
Nothing was to prevent my going to my own rooms and remaining there; but I knew that there were people in the house. I should have to give some reason for my behaviour; I should have to answer questions, kindly ones, no doubt, as to my state of health, but which would be intolerable to me; therefore, I made up my mind that I was a perfectly miserable being because I would not be able to spend my evening all alone.
I only cite this puerile fact for the reason that this capricious and strange desire for solitude, amid the happy life I was then leading, was so unusual at my age that it now seems to me to have been an inherited taste. While on this theme, I remember that my mother told me how, before his retirement to Serval, when, on account of his position, my father was obliged to see a great deal of society in Paris, that on reception days his moroseness and habitual misanthropy would take possession of him to an extraordinary degree; and yet, when he would once force himself to make the plunge, if I may say so, no one could receive with more grace, more entire politeness, more delicate and perfect tact. It was, my mother said, as though all these three or four hours of hypocrisy, that he knew he would have to go through with, worked him up to a frightful state of exasperation beforehand; and yet, when remarking on his gracious and noble face, his charmingly affable and dignified manners, strangers would suppose that he could never be contented to live except in the world of society, where he appeared to such rare and excellent advantage.
But I must return to that sad November day, when, for the first time, I experienced that extraordinary desire for isolation.
We at last reached the château.
As I was going up to my room to dress, one of my aunt’s maids told me that my aunt begged me to come to her room for a few moments. I had no reason to dread such an interview, and yet I felt a great weight at my heart. I hastened to my aunt’s room; she was seated beside her work-table, on which I noticed an open letter; I noticed also that she had been weeping.
“My friend,” she said, “there are very wicked and very infamous people in this world. Read this.” Then she handed me the letter, and replaced her handkerchief over her eyes.
I read. It was an anonymous and “friendly” warning to Hélène’s mother, charitably informing her that my familiar intimacy with her daughter had brought irreparable ruin to her reputation. In a word, she was given to understand, by means of the confused phraseology usual in such cases, that Hélène was “looked upon as my mistress,” and that, by her unpardonable weakness and carelessness, my aunt had countenanced the odious rumour.
It was false, absolutely false; it was a horrible calumny; but I was stunned, for I saw in an instant that appearances would give a terrible credit to the accusation.
I felt as if I were wakened from a dream. I have told how I allowed myself to be swept on by the current of this sweet and chaste affection with neither forethought nor reflection, with all the delightful inconsistency of happiness. This letter put the reality before my eyes and I was crushed.
My first movement was noble and generous. I tore up the letter, saying to my aunt, “Believe me, the reputation of my cousin Hélène shall be vindicated in the most satisfactory manner.”
My aunt smiled sadly, and said to me, “My friend, you must feel that after such rumours we must live separate lives; to remain at Serval any longer would be to justify these calumnies. I know my daughter, and I know the purity of your sentiments; this is sufficient for me. But, my child, appearances are against us; the confidence I so legitimately have in your honour would be called weakness and carelessness. I should have remembered, alas! that the purest life has always been at the mercy of those who desire to cover it with disgrace. You know our position. Hélène is poor; she has nothing in the world but her good name. May it please God that these frightful lies have not gone so far as to do fatal and irreparable injury!”
“Has Hélène been told of this?” I asked my aunt “No, my friend; but she is of sufficiently strong mind to be told everything without concealment.”
“Well, then, my aunt, promise me to be gracious enough not to tell her until to-morrow.”
My aunt consented to my request and I went up to my own room.
You may readily suppose that my vague and passing wish for solitude quickly vanished now that I was in real mental distress.
The dinner was a sad affair; afterwards we returned to the salon. Hélène loved her mother too well and was also too fond of me not to perceive at once that we were worried; besides, I had not, in those days, enough dissimulation to hide my resentment.
A thousand confused ideas were working in my brain; I could come to no decision; I recalled my long talks with Hélène, our frequent solitary walks, which were authorised by the familiarity of relationship and dated from our childhood; I thought of our simple pleasures, the involuntary preference I had always shown for Hélène’s society; when walking she always had my arm; when on horseback I was always at her side; in fact I never quitted her. I saw then that to the most unprejudiced eyes such persistent attention must have gravely compromised Hélène. Then again, I remembered the thousand looks and signals arranged beforehand between us, mute and amorous language not destined to escape the notice of the visitors we received. Fatal charm of first love, so engrossing as to leave us no thought except of ourselves! stupefying atmosphere in which we had been living so happy and so free from all care, and which we foolishly believed was impenetrable to the idle gaze of the world!
As the veil with which until then my conduct had been hidden was gradually raised, I began to understand my inconceivable thoughtlessness, and, like all young people, I began to exaggerate my imprudence still more. I saw Hélène’s future life ruined; because, as she was without worldly goods, the irreproachable purity of her life was doubly precious to her. Then in a transport of joy I remembered her love, the sweet and devoted affection which dated from her childhood, her serious and noble qualities, her kindness, her beauty, her exquisite elegance. Finally, I thought of how Hélène, though perfectly innocent, might appear guilty in the eyes of the world, and how, as it was through my fault that this blight might fall on her reputation, the only possible reparation which was worthy of my offering and of her acceptance was the offer of my hand.
Then I beheld myself living peacefully and happily in our old château at her side, living as we had always lived, — what a marvellously calm and radiant horizon! As I contemplated such a future my soul seemed to expand and become more noble. A voice seemed to say to me: “Thou art on the threshold of life; two ways are open be
fore thee: the one mysterious, vague, indefinite; the other fixed and assured. In one the past allows you to judge as to what the future will be, it is the beginning of a happiness which only depends on you to follow. See what a sweet and smiling existence, — the serenity of a country life, family souvenirs, a peaceful home. Thou art rich enough to live surrounded by all the prestige of luxury and amid the benedictions of those to whom thou may’st bring help and comfort; Hélène has loved thee since her infancy, thou lovest her. See, there is thy happiness; lay hold upon it. If this chance escapes thee thy life shall be given over to all the storms of thy passions.”
It was with ecstasy that I listened to this species of revelation, and for a moment happiness seemed assured to me should I decide to pass my life thus at the side of Hélène.
These convictions were so tranquillising that my face beamed with joy, my features bore the impress of the purest felicity; I was so transported with my happiness that I cried out in response to my most secret thoughts:
“Oh, yes, Hélène, all this shall come to pass; this is my life’s destiny.”
Imagine the astonishment of my aunt, of Madame de Verteuil, of Sophie and Hélène, on hearing this sudden and unintelligible exclamation.
“Arthur, you have gone mad,” said my aunt.
“No, my good aunt, never in my life have I said a wiser thing.” Then I added, “Remember your promise.” And kissing Hélène’s hand, I said to her as I said every evening, “Bon soir, Hélène.” Then I left the salon and went to my own room.
I have told how for a long time I had not dared to open the frame containing my father’s portrait; but my happiness made me so brave that I found myself courageous enough to look upon that face which had so terrified me.
And, besides, I thought that on such a solemn moment in my life I should take counsel with my father; so, trembling in spite of my resolution, I opened the frame of the portrait.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PORTRAIT.
IT WAS NIGHT; the light from the candles shone brightly on the portrait. Why was it that, in spite of my joyful state of mind caused by my decision in regard to Hélène, — why should I feel so suddenly overcome with sadness as soon as I beheld the austere face of my father? Never had his sad and gloomy nature impressed me more powerfully. His high and bare forehead was preeminent; the deep-set eyes, overshadowed by their thick gray eyebrows, stared at me with piercing fixedness; the high cheek-bones, the hollow cheeks, the proud and severe expression of the mouth, even the dark colour of the vestments, hardly distinguishable from the background, — all was as I had last seen it and produced the same effect on me. I could see nothing but that pale face shining out of the obscurity.
I knelt down and remained a long time in meditation.
When I raised my head something quite natural in itself frightened me so badly that I shivered involuntarily. I fancied I saw, or rather I really did see, something like a brilliant tear roll down the cheeks of the portrait, and then fall in a cold drop on my hand, which was placed on the frame.
No words can express my terror; I remained for some moments paralysed with fright.
Then, overcoming this childish alarm, I went nearer to the portrait, and discovered that the combined heat and moisture of the room had caused a sort of dew to form on the canvas, which had been kept closed for such a length of time. I smiled sadly at my fright, but the impression had been so violent, that I could not get over my resentment. As I became more calm, I seated myself before the portrait.
Little by little my long conversations with my father returned to my mind; so did his cold-blooded maxims, and his doubts as to the reality and duration of any earthly affection. As I had so recently felt my heart expand and dilate with pleasure, so now I felt it contracting with agony. The remembrance of my indifference, of my forgetfulness, disgusted me with myself; but wishing to escape from the circle of these bitter fancies, I attempted to consult my father mentally on the decision. I had just arrived at the point of marrying Hélène. Still thinking of that future which appeared so smiling and beautiful, I fixed my eyes on that pale and mute visage, and wildly demanded of it an answer to my questionings. I implored its approval of my resolution, but its imperturbable and disdainfully sad smile froze my blood.
“I love Hélène with the deepest, purest love,” I cried, extending my hands towards the portrait. “I am not deceived as to my feelings; the noble and generous resolution I have taken will certainly secure my own and Hélène’s happiness, — is it not true, my father?” And I waited eagerly for an answer from these motionless features, believing in that momentary hallucination that I would receive a sign of affirmation.
But the white and wrinkled forehead bowed not; then I thought I could hear from the most secret recesses of my heart the steady voice of my father, saying:
“You loved me once with this profound, unchanging love; I have done more for you than Hélène has, I have given you both life and fortune. And it is in the enjoyment of that fortune I am forgotten! Poor child!” Overcome with terror, I continued; “But Hélène loves me sincerely, does she not, father?” And as I steadfastly gazed on the motionless figure, whose silence so overpowered me, I repeated in my anxiety:
“Do you not believe in her love? I am, then, mistaken in what I suppose to be the love I bear to her, since you stare upon me thus, oh, my father!”
“Did I not warn you against trusting in the admirations your fortune would excite, and tell you never to trust to deceitful appearances?”
“But, great God! what deception can Hélène be capable of, — such a noble and candid young girl, she who always loved you as a father and me as a brother? Has she not given herself freely to me, confiding in my love, careless of all the rest, and so absorbed by it that she has even recklessly exposed her reputation — her sole treasure — to the evil tongue of slander?”
Alas! pardon, oh, my father! Perhaps it was but a base and sordid instinct of my own which I mistook for your answer. Doubtless, ashamed to acknowledge my own baseness, I was willing to attribute to your influence the vile, infernal thought, this first horrible doubt which has come to trouble for ever the smiling and pure stream of my beliefs; pardon, father, pardon once more, if in that moment when, overcome with anguish, I asked you, “What reason can Hélène have for feigning love for me?” my brutal selfishness answered, “Your fortune, for Hélène is poor!”
Since that fatal day, constantly tormented by an incessant and absorbing idea, for ever tortured by doubt, — that two-bladed sword which wounds both him who wields it, and him against whom it is raised, — I have persistently sought, and, to my sorrow, generally believed myself to have discovered, the most infamous motives hidden under the most innocent appearances, the most odious projects under the most expansive and generous devotion. I have very often, alas! pitilessly killed with a word the tenderest and sweetest enthusiasms; but never, O God! never can I forget the grievous, heartrending shock with which scepticism tore out from my heart its sacred and primal faith.
From that instant, it was as though a funereal crêpe was banded over my eyes, disfiguring everything I looked at. Hélène’s face, so candid and pure, now seemed filled with falseness and cupidity. The blackest plot was unfolded to my view: my aunt’s carelessness was a base calculation; that letter, drawing her attention to the rumours in circulation, was a part of the scheme; then, with a cruel pride, I applauded myself for having been so clever as to discover and overturn this shameless compact into which they had all entered against me; they had taken me, then, for their dupe.
Then, by a swift and inexplicable reaction, all my love was turned to hatred and despite; the tenderest effusions appeared to me as disgraceful pretences. Oh, shame! Oh, grief! my execrable doubting went so far as to disbelieve in the childish affection that Hélène had demonstrated when in the convent; and in my secret heart I even dared to accuse Madame de Verteuil and her daughter with being the accomplices of Hélène and her mother, and to have invented that epi
sode in order to blind me the more surely.
Certainly the supposition of so base a deception was odious and stupid; it was horrible and incredible to be thus possessed with doubt when barely twenty-three years old; when, in all my life so far, no bitter experiences, no past deceptions justified me in such scepticism!
Alas! it was a sorry benefit, for one cannot deny that, when clothed in such a cuirass of doubt, and armed with such wise distrust, one braves with impunity the false-hoods and deceits of the world. But, as the steel corselet, while protecting you from the enemy’s sword, renders you insensible to the warmth of a friendly hand, so unbelief, that iron armour, so cold and polished, protects you from the deceitfulness of a scoundrel, but makes you, alas! impenetrable to the ineffable belief in pure affection.
Since now I can analyse and get to the root of the influences, instincts, or natural organisation, which were the causes of this sudden germination and development in my mind of the distrust henceforth to be the centre around which all my thoughts were to gravitate, no matter in how apparently indubitable a position I might be, I can remember my father telling me frequently: “I am glad to see that you distrust your own motives. When we can distrust ourselves, we can defy others, and in this there is great wisdom.”
Then, by a singular contrast, my mother, blinded by maternal pride, which sublime egotism is to women what personality is to men, after vainly attempting to work me up to a fit of self-glorification, would say, sadly: “My poor, dear child, I am in despair when I see how little confidence you have in yourself; by dint of distrusting yourself, you will lose your belief in others, and that will be a terrible misfortune.”