Adolphe

by Benjamin Constant

  I think, I confess, that there may be found in Adolphe an object more useful, and, I may venture to say so, more elevated.

  I have not wished merely to prove the danger of those irregular connexions, where we are usually so much the more shackled as we think ourselves more free. Such a demonstration might well have had its utility. It was not, however, my principal idea.

  Independently of those established connexions which society tolerates and condemns, there is in the mere habit of borrowing the language of love, and of giving to oneself, or of exciting in others, transient emotions of the heart, a danger which has not hitherto been sufficiently appreciated. We engage in a career of which we are unable to foresee the end: we know neither what we may inspire, nor what we expose ourselves to experience. We give, in sport, blows of which we calculate neither the force, nor the reaction on ourselves; and the wound which seems slight may be incurable.

  Even coquettes do an immensity of ill, though men, more vigorous, more distracted from sentiment by imperious occupations, and destined to serve as a centre for what surrounds them, have not, in the same degree as women, the noble and the dangerous faculty of living in another and for another. But how much more cruel becomes this artifice, which at first sight might be deemed only frivolous, when it is exercised on weak beings, having no real life but in the heart, no deep interest but in the affections, without activity to occupy them, without career to command them, confiding by nature, credulous by an excusable vanity, feeling that their sole existence is to give themselves up without reserve to a protector, and led incessantly to confound the need of protection with the need of love!

  I speak not of the positive ills which result from intimacies formed and broken, from the subversion of conditions, from the rigour of public judgement, and from the malevolence of that implacable society, which seems to have found pleasure in placing women over an abyss, in order to condemn them, if they fall into it. There is in these considerations only vulgar evils. – I speak of those sufferings of the heart, of that wretched amazement of a mind deceived, of that surprize with which it learns that confidence becomes a fault, and sacrifices crimes even in the eyes of him who has received them. I speak of that dread which seizes her when she sees herself abandoned by him who swore to protect her; of that distrust which succeeds to a confidence so entire, and which, forced to direct itself against the being who was elevated above all others, extends itself therefore to the rest of the world. I speak of that esteem driven back upon itself, and which knows not where it may place itself.

  Even to men themselves, it is not an indifferent matter to do this ill. Almost all of them believe themselves more corrupt, more thoughtless than they are. They expect to be able easily to break the intimacy which they carelessly contract. In the distance, the image of grief appears vague and indistinct, like a cloud which they may pass through without difficulty. A system of unfeeling vanity – a fatal gift, which bequeathes to the folly of the generation which arises the corruption of the generation which has grown old – a mockery become common, but which seduces the mind by satirical combinations, as if any combination could change the basis of things – all that they hear, in a word, and all that they say, seems to arm them against the tears which do not yet flow. But when these tears do flow, nature returns into their breasts, in spite of the factitious atmosphere with which they had surrounded themselves. They feel that a being which suffers because it loves, is sacred. They feel that even in their heart, which they believed not to be engaged in the affair, are deeply sunk the roots of the sentiment which they have inspired; and if they wish to overcome that which they habitually call weakness, it is necessary that they descend into this miserable heart, that they crush there whatever is generous, that they tear asunder whatever is faithful, that they immolate whatever is good. They succeed; but it is by smiting with death one portion of their soul; and they arise from this achievement, having deceived confidence, braved sympathy, abused weakness, insulted morality by rendering it the excuse of obduracy, having prophaned every expression and trampled under foot every sentiment. Thus they survive their better nature, perverted by their victory, or ashamed of that victory, if it have not perverted them.

  Some have asked me what Adolphe should have done, to experience and to cause less of affliction? His situation and that of Ellenor [sic] were without resources; and that is precisely what I have desired. I have shown him tormented, because he loved Ellenor but feebly; he would not have been less tormented, if he had loved her more. He suffered by her, from want of sentiment; with sentiment more ardent, he would have suffered for her. Society, disapproving and disdainful, would have poured all its venom on the love which its recognition had not sanctioned. It is the never having commenced such connexions which is necessary for the happiness of life: when we have once entered on that career, we have no longer but the choice of evils.

  PREFACE

  to the Third Edition

  IT is not without some hesitation that I have agreed to the reprinting of this little work which was published some ten years ago. Had I not been almost sure that a pirated edition was projected in Belgium, and that this edition, like most of those circulated in Germany and sent into France by Belgian pirates, would be padded out with additions and interpolations in which I had no hand, I should never have bothered with this story, which was written with the sole purpose of proving to one or two friends staying in the country that it was possible to infuse a kind of interest into a novel with characters numbering only two and a situation remaining the same throughout.

  Once I was embarked on the work I wanted to develop some further ideas which occurred to me and struck me as being not without a certain utility. What I wanted to describe was the pain inflicted upon even the hardest hearted by the suffering they cause to others, and the illusion which makes them think they are more fickle and corrupt than they really are. From a distance the picture of the grief one causes looks vague and indistinct, like a mist easy to walk through, and one is led on by the approbation of a quite artificial society which substitutes rules for principles and conventions for emotions, which hates scandal because it is a nuisance and not because it is immoral, for it gladly welcomes vice when there is no scandal involved. One thinks that ties thoughtlessly formed can be painlessly broken. But when one sees the agony resulting from such broken ties, the pain and bewilderment of a soul deceived, the mistrust that follows such utter confidence and, when forced to turn against the one person who stands apart from the rest of society, extends to society as a whole; when one sees esteem turned back upon itself and not knowing where else to find an object, then indeed one feels that there is something sacred in a heart that suffers because it loves; one discovers how deep are the roots of a passion one thought one inspired but did not share. And if one rises above what is called weakness, it is by dint of destroying every bit of generosity one has, tearing to pieces all fidelity, sacrificing everything noble and good. One recovers from such a victory, applauded by the friendly and indifferent alike, having dealt a death-blow to part of one’s soul, set all sympathy at nought, taken advantage of weakness and offended morality by using it as a pretext for harshness; and one outlives one’s better nature, ashamed or perverted after such a miserable success.

  Such was the picture I sought to draw in Adolphe. I do not know whether I have been successful, but what might incline me to believe I had at any rate a certain quality of truth is that almost all my readers whom I have met have referred to themselves as having been in my hero’s position. It is true that a kind of gratified vanity showed through the regret they displayed at all the pain they had caused; they enjoyed representing themselves as having been pursued, like Adolphe, by the unrelenting affection they had inspired, and as victims of the measureless love somebody had conceived for them. I think that for the most part they were maligning themselves, and that had their vanity left them alone their consciences might have rested in peace.

  However that may be, everything to do with Ad
olphe has become a matter of supreme indifference to me. I set no store by this novel and repeat that my sole object in allowing it to reappear before a public which has probably forgotten it, even if it ever knew it, has been to declare that any edition containing matter different from what is in this present one is nothing to do with me and I am not responsible.

  NOTE BY THE PUBLISHER

  MANY years ago, when I was travelling in Italy, I was held up by the flooding of the Neto in the little Calabrian village of Cerenza, and had to stay at an inn. There was in the same inn a stranger who had been obliged to stay there for the same reason. He was very silent and looked sad. He showed no impatience. Now and again, as he was the only man in the place to whom I could talk, I grumbled to him about the delay in our journey. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said, ‘whether I am here or anywhere else.’ According to our host, who had talked to a Neapolitan servant who looked after the stranger but did not know his name, he was not travelling out of curiosity, for he never went to see ruins, picturesque places, monuments or people. He read a good deal, but never continuously, he went for walks in the evening, always alone, and often spent whole days sitting motionless with his head in his hands.

  Just when the roads were reopened and we could have set off, the stranger fell seriously ill. I felt bound in ordinary human decency to stay on and look after him. There was only the one village doctor at Cerenza and I wanted to send to Cozenze for better qualified help. ‘It is not worth it,’ said the stranger; ‘this man is exactly what I need.’ He was right, and probably more right than he thought, for the man cured him. ‘I didn’t think you were so clever,’ he told him almost peevishly as he dismissed him. He then thanked me for my care and set off.

  Some months later, at Naples, I received a letter from our host at Cerenza, with a box found on the Strongoli road, the road that the stranger and I had taken, but separately. The innkeeper who had sent it to me felt sure that it belonged to one of us. The box contained a quantity of very old letters either unaddressed or on which the addresses and signatures were illegible, a woman’s portrait and a notebook containing the anecdote or story you are about to read. The stranger to whom these things belonged had gone without leaving me any way of writing to him, and I kept them for ten years, not quite knowing what I ought to do with them, until I happened to mention them quite by chance while talking to some people in a German town, one of whom begged me to let him have the manuscript which was in my possession. A week later the manuscript was returned to me with a letter that I have put at the end of this story because it would be meaningless if it were read before the story itself.

  This letter persuaded me to publish now by telling me for certain that publication cannot offend or compromise anybody. I have not changed a single word of the original, and even the suppression of proper names is not my doing; they were indicated in the manuscript, as they still are here, by initials only.

  Chapter One

  I WAS twenty-two and had just finished my studies at the University of Göttingen. My father, a minister under the Elector of —, proposed sending me on a tour of the most interesting European countries, after which I was to be appointed to the staff of his department and trained to succeed him eventually. Although I had led a very dissipated life, I had, by dint of hard study, won distinctions beyond those of my fellow-students which had given my father hopes that were probably very exaggerated.

  These hopes had made him very indulgent towards my many peccadilloes. He had never let me suffer the consequences of my foolish conduct, but had always honoured my requests for money and sometimes anticipated them.

  Unfortunately his treatment of me was noble and generous rather than affectionate. I was very much aware of all his claims to my gratitude and respect, but there had never been any real understanding between us because there was something cynical in his cast of mind which clashed with my temperament. At that time all I wanted was to give myself up to the kind of primitive and impulsive reactions which lift the soul out of the common rut and make it look upon everyday things with disdain. In my father I found, not indeed a censor, but a detached and caustic observer who would begin a conversation with a pitying smile and soon lose patience and cut it short. I cannot recall ever having had one hour’s serious talk with him in the first eighteen years of my life. His letters were affectionate and full of sensible and sympathetic advice, but no sooner were we in each other’s presence than there came over him a sort of reserve which I could not account for and which had a chilling effect on me. At that time I did not know what shyness was – that inner suffering which dogs us even into old age, which takes our deepest feelings and rams them back into our hearts, which freezes the words on our lips, distorts everything we try to say, and only lets us express ourselves in general terms and more or less bitter sarcasm, as though we meant to take revenge on our very emotions for the pain we feel through not being able to communicate them. I did not realize that my father was shy even in front of his own son, and that many a time, after a long wait for some sign of affection from me which his own apparent coolness seemed to discourage, he left me with tears in his eyes and complained to others that I did not love him.

  The constraint I felt with him had a great influence upon my character. I was as reserved as he was, but more emotional because I was younger, and I cultivated the habit of keeping all my experiences and plans to myself, relying upon myself alone for the carrying out of those plans, and considering the opinions, interest, help and even the very presence of others as an embarrassment and an obstacle. I got into the way of never speaking about what was in my mind and only putting up with conversation as a tiresome necessity, and then I enlivened it with a perpetual flippancy which made it less irksome and helped me to conceal my real thoughts. Hence a certain inability to let myself go which my friends criticize to this day, and a difficulty in talking seriously which I still find hard to overcome. The result of all this was a passionate desire for independence and at the same time complete impatience with ties holding me down and an insurmountable terror of forming new ones. I was only at ease when quite alone, and to this day the effects of this mental attitude are so strong that when I have to choose between two courses of action, even in the most unimportant matters, I am upset by the presence of onlookers and my instinct is to run away and do my thinking in peace. And yet I was not as profoundly self-centred as such characteristics would seem to suggest: it is true that I was only interested in myself, but even that interest was not strong. Without being aware of it I nursed in the depths of my being a longing for emotional experience, but as this found no satisfaction it alienated me from all the things which one by one aroused my curiosity. This universal apathy of mine had been deepened by the thought of death which had haunted me from my earliest years. I have never understood how men can so lightly cast it out of their minds. When I was seventeen I had witnessed the death of an aged woman whose remarkable and highly original mind had begun to influence my own. Like so many others this woman had begun her career by sallying forth to conquer society, rejoicing in the possession of moral toughness and a powerful mind. But she did not understand the ways of the world and, again like so many others, through failing to adapt herself to an artificial but necessary code of behaviour, she had lived to see her hopes disappointed and her youth pass joylessly away, until at last old age had overtaken but not subdued her. In a castle near one of our estates she lived on in disillusioned retirement, her only resource being her intellect, with which she analysed everything. For close on a year we had had endless talks together, in which we had considered life in all its aspects and death as the inevitable end of all. After having talked so much with her about death I saw death strike her down before my eyes.

  This event had filled me with a sense of the uncertainty of destiny and a vague pensiveness which never left me. My favourite authors were the poets who dwelt upon the transitoriness of human life. I felt that no objective was worth striving for. It is somewhat strange that this impressio
n has grown weaker in exact proportion to the passing of the years. Perhaps it is that hope has an element of doubt in it, and that when hope is withdrawn a man’s career takes on a more austere but less uncertain quality. Or perhaps it is that life seems all the more real as illusions are dispersed, just as a rocky pinnacle stands out more clearly on the horizon when the clouds melt away.

  On leaving Göttingen I went to the little town of D—. This town was the seat of a prince who, like most German princes, ruled over his little territory with a gentle hand, protecting the enlightened men who came to live there, granting absolute freedom of opinion to all, but, being obliged by ancient custom to limit his acquaintance to his courtiers, perforce gathered round him only men who for the most part were dull and mediocre. I was welcomed at this court with the curiosity naturally inspired by any stranger who comes and breaks into the restricted circle of monotonous etiquette. For several months nothing struck me as at all worthy of attracting my attention. I was grateful for the kindness shown to me, but at times I was prevented from taking advantage of it by my shyness, and at others I found such pointless activity wearisome and preferred solitude to the insipid amusements I was invited to share in. I had no strong dislike for anybody, but few people aroused my interest, and lack of interest is what people take offence at, for they ascribe it to affectation or spite and do not want to believe that you are simply bored by them. At times I tried to stifle my boredom and took refuge in stony silence, but this silence was taken for haughtiness. At other times, when I was tired of my own silence, I ventured on a few pleasantries, and once my wit began to move it carried me beyond all bounds. I would find myself disclosing in a single day all the silly things I had been observing for a month. The recipients of these sudden and involuntary bursts of confidence did not relish them at all, and they were right, for I was merely indulging an urge to talk, and not really confiding in them. The woman who had first developed my ideas had inspired in me an insurmountable aversion from all hackneyed phrases and dogmatic formulae. So when I heard stupid people holding forth complacently about established and incontrovertible principles of morality, behaviour, and religion (which people of that type usually put in the same class), I felt moved to contradict them, not that I would necessarily have held opposite views myself, but because such ponderous, unshakeable convictions exasperated me. In any case some warning instinct made me mistrust general axioms uttered without any reservations, so innocent of any shade of distinction. Fools keep their moral code in a compact and indivisible whole so that it may interfere as little as possible with their actions and leave them their freedom in all matters of detail.