Indiana (Oxford World's Classics)

by George Sand

  But Indiana had given way more to a movement of shame and anger than to a well thought out determination. I am sure Raymon would have been granted a pardon if he had had a few more moments in which to beg for it. But fate had thwarted his love and his skill, and Madame Delmare sincerely believed that from now on she hated him.

  X

  As for Raymon, it was not out of boastfulness or hurt pride that he aspired more than ever to Madame Delmare’s love and forgiveness. He thought they were unattainable, and the love of no other woman, no other happiness on earth, seemed worthwhile. He was made that way. His life was consumed by an insatiable need for exciting events and emotions. He loved society with its rules and its shackles because it offered him opportunities for struggle and resistance, and if he hated disorder and violence, it was because they promised insipid, easy pleasures.

  Do not think, however, that he was insensitive to Noun’s death. At first he detested himself and loaded his pistols with the very serious intention of blowing his brains out, but a praiseworthy feeling held him back. What would become of his mother . . . his elderly mother, in poor health . . . that poor woman whose whole life had been so troubled and so full of sorrow, who lived only for him, her only asset, her only hope? Must he break her heart, shorten her few remaining days? Definitely not. The best way to atone for his crime was to devote himself henceforth entirely to his mother, and it was with this in mind that he went back to her in Paris and put all his efforts into making her forget the kind of neglect in which he had left her for a great part of the winter.

  Raymon had an incredible sway over everyone around him, for, all in all, he was, despite his faults and youthful peccadilloes, a superior man in society. We have not told you on what his reputation for wit and talent was based, because that was unconnected with the events that we had to relate. But the time has come to tell you that this Raymon, whose failings you have just read about, is one of the men who have had the most power and influence over your thoughts, whatever your opinion may be today. You have read his political pamphlets eagerly and, as you read the newspapers of the day, you have often been beguiled by the irresistible charm of his style and the graceful expression of his courteous, sophisticated reasoning.

  I am speaking of a time that’s already far distant from us, in these days when we no longer count by centuries, nor even by reigns, but by ministries. I am speaking to you of the year when Martignac* was Minister of the Interior, of that period of calm and doubt, thrust right into the middle of our political period, not as a peace treaty, but as an agreed armistice, of those fifteen months of the reign of doctrines which had such a marked influence on principles and behaviour and which perhaps paved the way for the strange outcome of our last revolution. *

  It was at this time that one saw the flowering of young talents, unhappy at being born in days of transition and compromise, for they made their contribution to the conciliatory and flexible attitudes of the period. Never, so far as I know, had one seen skill with words and ignorance or concealment of reality taken to such lengths. It was the reign of prohibitions and I do not know what kind of people abused them most, Jesuits in short gowns or lawyers in long ones. Political moderation had entered into behaviour like good manners, and the first kind of courtesy had the same fate as the second: it served to mask hostile groups and taught them to fight without scandal and without fuss. But it must be said in exoneration of the young men of that period, that they were often taken in tow like small boats by big ships, without knowing where they were being led, proud and happy to cut through the waters and fill their new sails.

  Placed by his birth and fortune amongst the partisans of absolute monarchy,* Raymon conformed to the prevalent views of his day by adhering religiously to the charter;* at least that is what he thought he was doing and what he tried to prove. But agreements which have lapsed can be interpreted in different ways, and that was already the case with the Charter of Louis XVIII as it was with the Gospel of Jesus Christ; it had become no more than a text that everyone liked to declaim about, with no speech having more effect than a sermon. It was a period of luxury and idleness when, on the edge of a bottomless abyss, civilization was falling asleep, greedy to enjoy its last pleasures.

  Raymon, then, had taken up a position on a kind of middle line between the abuse of power and license, a moving territory where upright men were still seeking shelter against the approaching storm, though in vain. To him, as to many other inexperienced minds, the role of conscientious publicist still seemed possible. That was a mistake at a time when there was a pretence of listening to the voice of reason only the better to stifle it on all sides. A man with no political passions, Raymon thought he was not self-interested, and he deceived himself; for society, as it was then organized, was favourable and advantageous to him; it could not be disturbed without the sum of his comfort being diminished, and the perfect stability of a life style, linked to one’s way of thinking, is a marvellous lesson in moderation. What man is so ungrateful to Providence as to reproach it with the misfortunes of others, if it has had only smiles and benefits for him? How could one persuade these young supporters of constitutional monarchy that the constitution was already out of date, that it was a burden on the body politic and wearied it, when they found it weighed lightly on them and they reaped only its advantages? Who believes in poverty when he has no experience of it?

  Nothing is so easy or so common as self-deception when one does not lack intelligence and is familiar with all the subtleties of language. It is like a queen turned into a prostitute who, demeaning and raising herself, plays all parts, who disguises herself and decks herself in finery, dissembles and conceals herself; it is like a litigant who has an answer to everything, who has always foreseen everything, and has a thousand ways of being right. The most honest of men is the one who thinks and acts best, but the most powerful is the one who writes and speaks best.

  Because of his wealth, Raymon did not need to write for money. Raymon wrote because he wanted to and (so he said in all good faith) out of duty. He possessed the rare ability of refuting established facts; this talent had made him a very valuable man to the ministry, which he served much better by his impartial criticism than did its creatures by their blind devotion. He was even more valuable to those elegant young people who were very willing to renounce the absurdities of their old privileges but who also wanted to retain the benefit of their existing advantages.

  Indeed they were very talented, those men who still prevented society from collapsing and who themselves, stranded between two rocks, fought calmly and with ease against the harsh truth which was about to engulf them. To succeed thus in convincing oneself against all probability and in making that conviction prevail for a time amongst men who have none, that is the art which is the most puzzling of all, and beyond the comprehension of a rough, blunt mind which has not studied alternative truths.

  Raymon had then no sooner returned to this society, the element he was born into, than he felt its vital, stimulating influence. The petty interests of love which had preoccupied him gave way for a moment to wider, more brilliant interests. He brought to them the same boldness and the same enthusiasms, and when he saw himself sought after by the most distinguished people in Paris, he felt that he loved life more than ever. Was he guilty for forgetting a secret remorse so as to reap the reward he deserved for services rendered to his country? In his youthful heart, in his active mind, in all his vigorous, healthy being, he felt life overflowing from all his pores, and destiny making him happy in spite of himself. Then he would ask pardon of an angry spirit which, in his dreams, sometimes came to lament, seeking assistance against the terrors of the grave in the affection of the living.

  He had no sooner returned to society life than, as in the past, he felt the need to mingle thoughts of love and plans for love affairs with his political reflections and his intellectual and ambitious dreams. I say ambition, not for honours and money, which did not interest him, but for reputation and aristocrati
c popularity.

  Initially, after the tragic outcome of his double intrigue, he had despaired of ever seeing Madame Delmare again. But as he measured the extent of his loss, his thoughts brooding over the treasure which eluded him, he conceived the hope of recovering it, and at the same time he recovered his determination and his confidence. He calculated the obstacles he would encounter and realized that, to start with, the difficulty to overcome would stem from Indiana herself. So he had to make the husband safeguard the attack. It was not a new idea, but it was a sure one; jealous husbands are particularly suited to this kind of service.

  A fortnight after conceiving the idea, Raymon was on his way to Lagny, where he was expected to lunch. You will not insist on my giving you a factual account of the skilfully rendered services by which he had found the means of making himself agreeable to M. Delmare; I prefer, since I am telling you about the characters of the people in this story, to give you a brief outline of the Colonel’s.

  Do you know what provincial people mean by a decent man? It is someone who does not encroach on his neighbour’s field, who does not demand from his debtors a penny more than they owe him, who lifts his hat to any person who greets him. It is someone who does not rape girls on the public highway, who does not set fire to anyone’s barns, who does not rob anyone in a corner of his estate. Provided he respects religiously the lives and purses of his fellow citizens, nothing else is asked of him. He might beat his wife, ill-treat his servants, ruin his children, that’s no one else’s business. Society only condemns deeds which are harmful to it; private life is not in its domain.

  That was M. Delmare’s moral philosophy. He had never studied any social contract other than this one: Everyone for himself. He treated all emotional sensitivity as feminine childishness and sentimental hairsplitting. A man without intelligence, tact, or education, he enjoyed a more substantial esteem than that which can be obtained by talents and kindness. He was broad-shouldered and strong-fisted; he could handle a broadsword or a rapier perfectly and, what is more, he was extremely touchy. As he did not always understand a joke, he was obsessed by the idea that he was being laughed at. As he could not give a suitable reply, he only had one way of defending himself; that was to impose silence by threats. His favourite epigrams were always concerned with beatings to be given or affairs of honour to be settled. Because of this, provincial people always coupled his name with the epithet brave, because military bravery is evidently to have broad shoulders and a large moustache, to swear loudly and to put one’s hand on one’s sword for the smallest matter.

  May God preserve me from believing that life in military camps turns all men into brutes! But you must let me think that one needs a great reservoir of good breeding to resist those habits of brutal, passive domination. If you have been a serving soldier, you are perfectly familiar with what soldiers call a Colonel Blimp, and you will admit that there are a lot of them amongst the remnants of the old Imperial cohorts.* These men who, when gathered together and urged forward by a powerful hand, performed such magical exploits and grew like giants in the smoke of battle, were, however, no longer heroes when they returned to civilian life but merely soldiers, bold, rough fellows who reasoned like machines; one had to be satisfied if they did not behave in society as in a conquered land. It was the fault of the age, not theirs. Naive souls, they believed the extravagant praise of their glory and allowed themselves to be persuaded that they were great patriots because they were defending their native land, some because they were forced to, others for money and honours. But in any case, how did they defend it, these thousands of men who espoused blindly the mistakes of one single man and who, after saving France, lost it so abjectly? And then, if soldiers’ devotion to their captain seems to you great and noble, so be it; it seems so to me too, but I call that fidelity, not patriotism. I congratulate the conquerors of Spain* but I don’t thank them. As for the honour of the French name, I don’t in the least understand that way of affirming it to our neighbours, and I find it difficult to believe that, at that sad period of our glory, the Emperor’s generals were very imbued with it. But I know I am not allowed to talk impartially of these matters. I say no more; posterity will judge.

  M. Delmare had all the good qualities and all the failings of such men. Childishly simple about some delicate points of honour, he knew very well how to do the best for his own interests without worrying about the benefit or the harm that might be the consequence for others. His only conscience was the law; his only morality was his right. He had one of those unemotional, unshakably honest temperaments which borrow nothing for fear of not being able to repay, and which lend nothing for fear of not recovering the debt. He was the honest man who takes nothing and gives nothing, who would rather die than take a twig from the King’s forest,* but who would kill you there and then for a straw picked up in his own. Useful only to himself, he was harmful to no one. He did not interfere with anything going on around him for fear of being forced to render service to someone. But when he thought his honour required him to do so, no one performed it with greater zeal or more candid chivalry. Trusting as a child and suspicious as a tyrant, he believed a false pledge and was suspicious of a sincere promise. Only formalities mattered to him, as is the case in the military profession. He was so dominated by public opinion that good sense and reason played no part in his decisions, and when he had said ‘That’s the done thing’, he thought he had expressed an argument to which there was no reply.

  His temperament was thus as antipathetic as possible to his wife’s, his heart the least constituted to understand her, his mind the most incapable of appreciating her. But slavery had undoubtedly made her feel a kind of dumb, virtuous aversion for him which was not always fair. Madame Delmare had too many doubts about her husband’s heart; he was only hard and she thought he was cruel. There was more boorishness than anger in his rages, more coarseness than insolence in his manners. He was not naturally nasty; he had moments of pity which made him repentant, and when he repented he was almost sensitive. It was military camp life that had raised brutality to a principle with him. With a less courteous and less gentle wife he would have been timid like a tamed wolf. But Indiana was disheartened by her lot; she made no effort to try to make it better.

  XI

  As he got out of his tilbury in the courtyard at Lagny, Raymon felt his courage fail him. So he was about to re-enter the house which brought back such terrible memories! His reasoning, in agreement with his passions, might enable him to dominate his emotions but not to stifle them, and just then the feeling of remorse was as keen as that of desire.

  The first person who came out to meet him was Sir Ralph Brown and when Raymon saw him in his eternal riding habit, flanked by his dogs and solemn as a Scottish laird, he thought he saw the portrait he had discovered in Madame Delmare’s room come to life. A few moments later the Colonel arrived and lunch was served without Indiana’s making an appearance. As he crossed the vestibule, passed by the billiard room, and recognized the places that he had seen in such different circumstances, Raymon felt so awful that he barely remembered his purpose in coming now.

  ‘Does Madame Delmare definitely not want to come down to lunch?’ the Colonel asked his factotum Lelièvre rather crossly.

  ‘Madame slept badly,’ replied Lelièvre, ‘and Mademoiselle Noun . . . (oh dear, I can’t get that irritating name out of my head) Mademoiselle Fanny, I mean, said that Madame was resting now.’

  ‘Then how is it that I’ve just seen her at her window? Fanny has made a mistake. Go and tell Madame that lunch is served . . . or rather, Sir Ralph, my dear cousin, be so good as to go upstairs and see for yourself if your cousin is really unwell.’

  If the unfortunate name which the servant let slip out of habit made Raymon’s nerves tingle painfully, the Colonel’s expedient gave them a strange feeling of anger and jealousy.

  ‘Into her room!’ he thought. ‘He doesn’t limit himself to putting Sir Ralph’s portrait there; he sends him there in pers
on. That Englishman has rights here which the husband himself seems not to dare to claim.’

  As if he had guessed Raymon’s thought, M. Delmare said:

  ‘Don’t let that surprise you; M. Brown is the family doctor, and then he’s our cousin, a good fellow whom we love with all our hearts.’

  Ralph was away a good ten minutes. Raymon was absent-minded, ill at ease. He didn’t eat; he often looked towards the door. Finally the Englishman reappeared.

  ‘Indiana is really not at all well,’ he said. ‘I’ve advised her to go back to bed.’

  He sat calmly down to lunch and ate with a hearty appetite. The Colonel did likewise.

  ‘It’s definitely a pretext not to see me,’ thought Raymon. ‘These two men are not taken in and the husband is more displeased than worried about his wife’s condition. That’s a good sign and things are going more in my favour than I had expected.’

  The difficulty strengthened his resolve, and the image of Noun was wiped away from the gloomy wainscoting which at first sight had made him freeze with terror. Soon he had only a vision of the slender form of Madame Delmare wandering along it. In the drawing-room he sat down at her loom, studied the flowers of her tapestry (chatting the while and pretending to be preoccupied), touched all the silk threads, and breathed in the fragrance that her little fingers had left on it. He had seen this work already in Indiana’s room; then it had scarcely been begun, now it was covered with flowers which had opened up under her feverish breath and were watered by her daily tears. Raymon felt that he himself was on the verge of tears, and by means of some inexplicable sympathy, as he sadly raised his eyes to the horizon that Indiana habitually studied in her melancholy, he could see in the distance the white walls of Cercy which stood out against a background of brown countryside.

  The Colonel’s voice aroused him with a start.