The six months allowed by my father had expired; I had to think about going. Ellenore did not object to my departure, nor even try to delay it, but she made me promise that I would come back to her in two months or else let her join me; I solemnly swore it should be so. What undertaking would I not have entered into at a time when I could see her fighting against herself and controlling her grief? She could have insisted on my not leaving her, and I knew in my heart that her tears would not have been disobeyed. I was grateful to her for not using her power; it seemed to make me love her the more. And it was only with the keenest regret that I was tearing myself away from one so exclusively devoted to me. There is something so deep in attachments of long standing. Without our realizing they become such an intimate part of our existence. At a distance and in cold blood we resolve to break them, and we think we are impatiently waiting for the moment to carry out the resolution, but when that moment comes it fills us with terror. Such is the strangeness of our unhappy nature that it is heartrending to leave somebody we have been finding no pleasure in staying with.
While I was away I wrote regularly to Ellenore. I was torn between fear that my letters might give her pain and desire to describe only the emotions I was feeling. I would have liked her to see through me, but see through me without being hurt, and so I was pleased with myself when I had managed to substitute for the word love the terms affection, friendship, or devotion. But then I would suddenly visualize poor Ellenore, sad and lonely with nothing to console her except my letters, and after two coldly thought-out pages would hurriedly add a few impassioned or tender sentences calculated to deceive her afresh. In this way, without saying enough to satisfy her I always said enough to mislead her. What a strange kind of deceit whose very success turned against me, prolonged my agony and was altogether unendurable!
I anxiously counted the days and hours and mentally tried to delay the passage of time, for the approaching moment when I should have to fulfil my promise filled me with foreboding. I could not think of any pretext for getting away, nor could I find any means whereby Ellenore could come and settle in the same town with me. Perhaps – I must be honest – perhaps I did not want such a thing to happen. I compared my quiet, independent life with the life of upheavals, worries and troubles to which passion condemned me. It was so pleasant to be free to come and go, set off and return without anybody paying the slightest attention. After the exhaustion of her love I was, as it were, finding rest in the indifference of others.
But I dared not let Ellenore suspect that I should have liked to abandon our scheme. She had gathered from my letters that it would be difficult for me to leave my father and wrote to me that in consequence she was beginning preparations for her departure. For a long time I did not oppose her decision, but avoided giving her a precise answer on this point. I vaguely indicated that I would always be delighted to know – and then I added, to make – her happy. What miserable ambiguities, what tortuous language! I deplored its obscurity but dreaded making it any clearer. At length I made up my mind to express myself openly, telling myself that I must, stirring up my conscience against my own weakness, strengthening my resolution with the thought of her peace of mind in order to keep the vision of her grief at bay. I strode up and down my room rehearsing aloud what I intended to say. But scarcely had I written a few lines before my mood changed: I was no longer considering the meaning my words must convey but the effect they could not fail to produce, and, my hand being controlled against my will as if by some supernatural power, all I did was advise her to wait for a few months. I had not said what was in my mind. My letter showed no signs of sincerity. The arguments I invented were feeble because they were not the genuine ones.
Ellenore’s answer was passionate: she was outraged at my desire not to see her. What was she asking for? To live near me without anyone’s knowledge. What had I to fear from her presence in a secret retreat in the depths of a big city where nobody knew her? She had given up everything for me, her fortune, her children, her good name, and she asked for nothing in return but to wait for me like a humble slave, spend a few minutes with me each day, enjoy the moments I could spare her. She had resigned herself to a separation of two months, not that she thought it was necessary but because it seemed to be my wish, and now that by dint of wearily piling day upon day she had reached the date I prescribed, I was suggesting that she should start the long ordeal all over again! She might have made a mistake, she might have entrusted her life to a hard, soulless man; I was in command of my own actions, but I was not in a position to command her to suffer, thrown over by the man for whom she had left everything.
Ellenore quickly followed this letter in person and let me know she had arrived. I went to her with the firm resolve to show great joy. I was eager to reassure her anxious heart and give her at least momentary peace and happiness. But she had been hurt, and in her mistrust she observed me closely and soon became aware of the efforts I was making, and she inflamed my pride with her reproaches and outrageously criticized my character. She drew such a picture of my despicable weakness that she made me more disgusted with her than with myself. An insane rage took possession of us, we gave up every word of mitigation and forgot every delicacy. It was as though Furies were driving us at each other. All that the most implacable hatred had invented about us we now applied to one another, and the two wretched creatures who alone in the world knew each other and alone were capable of doing each other justice, of understanding and consoling each other, now seemed to be irreconcilable enemies bent on mutual destruction.
We separated after a scene lasting three hours, and for the first time in our lives left each other with no explanation, no attempt to make amends. Scarcely was I away from Ellenore than my anger gave way to profound grief. I was in a kind of stupor, quite dazed by what had happened. I repeated my own words in amazement, found my own behaviour incomprehensible and tried to discover in myself what could have upset my reason.
It was very late and I dared not return to Ellenore. I made up my mind to see her first thing in the morning and went home to my father’s. There was a good deal of company, and in such a crowd of people it was easy for me to keep in the background and hide my agitation. When we were left alone together he said: ‘I am told that Count P—’s former mistress is in the town. I have always left you perfectly free and have never sought to know anything about your love affairs, but it does not look right for you to have an acknowledged mistress at your age, and I give you warning that I have taken steps to make her leave.’ With these words he went out. I ran after him right as far as his room, but he waved me away. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘God knows I did not make Ellenore come here, and God knows I want her to be happy, and to make her so I would agree never to see her again. But mind what you are doing. Thinking to separate me from her you might well bind me to her for ever.’
I sent at once for a manservant who had been with me on my travels and who knew all about my relations with Ellenore. I told him to find out at once, if it could possibly be done, what these steps were that my father had referred to. He was back in two hours. My father’s secretary had disclosed in strict confidence that Ellenore was to receive an order to leave on the following day. ‘Ellenore sent away!’ I cried, ‘Ellenore sent packing ignominiously! She came here for my sake alone, and I have broken her heart, I have cruelly watched her tears flow! Where could the unhappy creature lay her head, alone and wandering in a world which despises her and through my fault? To whom could she confide her sorrows?’ I soon made up my mind what to do, won over the servant with money and promises and ordered a post-chaise for six in the morning at the town gates. I thought out a thousand plans for my eternal union with Ellenore; my whole heart had turned back to her and I was more in love with her than ever before. I was proud to give her my protection, eager to hold her in my arms, passion had flooded back into my soul and I was in a fever of mind, heart and senses that transformed my whole life. Had Ellenore wanted to leave me at that moment I should hav
e died at her feet trying to prevent her.
Daylight came. I rushed to Ellenore. She was in bed and had been weeping all night; her eyes were still moist and her hair disarranged. She was astonished to see me. ‘Come,’ I said, ‘we must go.’ She tried to demur. ‘Let us be going,’ I went on. ‘Have you anybody on earth to look after you and love you? Are not my arms your only refuge?’ She still resisted. ‘I have urgent reasons, as they concern me personally. In heaven’s name come with me.’ I dragged her away. On the journey I smothered her with kisses, held her close to my heart and only answered her questions with embraces. Finally I told her that having realized that my father meant to separate us I had felt I could not be happy without her, that I wanted to devote my life to her and unite us by every kind of tie. At first she was overcome with gratitude, but soon she discovered contradictions in my story. By her persistence she got the truth out of me; her joy vanished and her face clouded over.
‘Adolphe,’ she said, ‘you are deceiving yourself; you are chivalrous and devoting yourself to me because I am being persecuted. You think what you feel is love, but it is only pity.’ Why did she utter those fatal words? Why did she reveal a secret I did not want to know? I made efforts to reassure her, and I may possibly have succeeded, but the truth had flashed through my soul and the impulse had been destroyed. I was set on my sacrifice, but that did not make me any happier, and already a thought had sprung to my mind which once again I was reduced to concealing.
Chapter Six
WHEN we reached the frontier I wrote to my father. My letter was respectful but not without an undertone of bitterness. I resented his having tightened my bonds whilst claiming to break them. I told him that I would only leave Ellenore when she was properly settled and no longer in need of me, and begged him not to persecute her, and by so doing force me to remain tied to her for ever. I waited for his answer before deciding what way of life to adopt. His reply was: ‘You are twenty-four, and I am not going to have recourse to an authority which is almost at an end and which in any case I have never used. I will even conceal your strange behaviour to the best of my ability, and spread it abroad that you went off on my orders and on business of mine. I will contribute generously to your expenses. You will soon realize yourself that the life you are leading is not the one you were made for. Your birth, talents, and fortune destined you for a different position in the world from that of follower of a woman with no settled home or position. Already your letter shows me that you are not pleased with yourself. Do reflect that nothing is to be gained by prolonging a situation one is ashamed of. You are using up the best years of your youth to no purpose, and such a loss is irreparable.’
My father’s letter was like a knife stabbing me over and over again. What he was now saying I had already told myself a hundred times, and a hundred times I had felt ashamed of wasting my life in obscurity and inaction. I would have preferred reproaches and threats: I would have taken pride in standing up to him and felt it was necessary to muster my strength and defend Ellenore from any perils that might assail her. But there were no perils; I was being left perfectly free, and this freedom only made me the less patient in bearing a burden apparently of my own choosing.
We settled in Caden, a little town in Bohemia. I continually told myself that since I had made Ellenore’s fate my responsibility I must not make her unhappy. So I managed to control myself, and kept even the tiniest signs of dissatisfaction locked in my heart, calling upon all the resources of my mind to create an artificial gaiety to conceal my profound melancholy. This effort had an unhoped-for effect upon me. We are such unstable creatures that feelings we pretend to have we really do have in the end. I found myself half forgetting the resentments I was concealing. My everlasting witticisms dispelled my own melancholy, and the assurances of affection I kept making to Ellenore filled my heart with an agreeable emotion almost like love itself.
At times I was haunted by unwelcome memories. When I was alone I indulged in fits of anxiety and conceived countless strange plans to break loose from an environment in which I was out of place. But I thrust these impressions away like bad dreams. Ellenore seemed happy; could I possibly disturb her happiness? Nearly five months went by in this way.
One day I noticed that Ellenore was in a very emotional state and trying not to tell me something that was on her mind. After long pleadings she made me promise not to oppose a decision she had come to, and then admitted that M. de P— had written to her. His lawsuit had been successful; he remembered with gratitude the services she had rendered him in their ten years together. He offered her half his fortune, not indeed to have her back with him, for that was no longer possible, but on condition that she left the ungrateful and perfidious man who had come between them. ‘I have answered him,’ she said, ‘and as you can guess, I have refused.’ I guessed all too well. I was touched, but horrified at the fresh sacrifice Ellenore was making for me. But I dared not raise any objection, for my attempts in that direction had always been so fruitless. I went away to think over the line I should take. I saw clearly that our connexion would have to be severed; it was irksome to me and becoming harmful to her. I was the only obstacle between her and recovery of a respected position and that consideration which in society sooner or later results from wealth. I was the only barrier between her and her children – in fact in my own eyes I had no excuses left. In these circumstances to let her have her own way ceased to be generosity and became culpable weakness. I had promised my father to recover my freedom as soon as I was no longer necessary to Ellenore. And indeed it was time I embarked upon a career, began to lead an active life, to acquire some claim to the respect of men and used my abilities for some worthy purpose. And so I went back to Ellenore, thinking I was unshakeable in my determination to force her not to reject the Count’s offer and, if need be, declare my love for her was dead. ‘My dear,’ I said, ‘we can struggle on for a time against our destiny, but in the end it has to be accepted. The laws of society are stronger than the will of men; the most compelling emotions dash themselves to pieces against the fatality of circumstances. We insist upon listening to our hearts alone, but in vain; sooner or later we are constrained to listen to reason. I cannot go on keeping you in a situation as humiliating for you as for me. I cannot do this for your sake or mine.’ While I was speaking, without looking at Ellenore, I could feel my ideas getting more and more confused and my resolution weakening. Wishing to recover my strength of purpose I hurried on: ‘I shall always be your friend and always have the deepest affection for you. The two years we have had together will never fade from my memory, and will always remain the finest time of my life. But love, that ecstasy of the senses, that unsought-for madness, that forgetting of all one’s interests and duties, this, Ellenore, has gone.’ For a long time I waited for her answer without raising my eyes to look at her. When at length I did look up she was motionless, gazing at all the things around her but seeing nothing. I took her hand; it felt frozen. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ she said, avoiding my touch. ‘Am I not alone, alone in the universe, alone without a soul to understand? What else have you to say? Haven’t you said it all? Isn’t everything over, finished beyond recall? Leave me alone, go away, isn’t that what you want?’ She made as if to leave me, but staggered. I tried to hold her, but she fell senseless at my feet. I raised her up, kissed her, and brought her back to consciousness. ‘Ellenore,’ I cried, ‘come back, back to yourself and me. I love you with true love, with the most tender love, I was lying to you so as to leave you a free choice.’ How inexplicable is the credulity of the heart! These simple words, belied by so many previous ones, gave her back life and confidence; she made me repeat them several times and seemed to breathe them in hungrily. She believed me: she gave herself up to the intoxication of her own love, taking it for ours. Her reply to Count P— was confirmed, and I was more deeply involved than ever.
Three months later there opened up a new possibility of a change in Ellenore’s circumstances. By one of thos
e vicissitudes so common in republics torn by party politics her father was recalled to Poland and his wealth restored. Although he hardly knew his daughter, who had been taken to France by her mother at the age of three, he wanted to have her to live with him. Only the vaguest rumours about Ellenore’s adventures had reached him in Russia, where he had lived throughout his exile. Ellenore was his only child, he was afraid of loneliness and anxious to be looked after and so his sole care was to find out his daughter’s whereabouts, and as soon as he had done so he strongly urged her to go and live with him. She could not have any real fondness for a father she did not remember having seen, but she felt it her duty to obey, for by so doing she would secure a large fortune for her children and regain the social position she had been deprived of by her misfortunes and behaviour. But she declared categorically that she would not go to Poland unless I went with her. ‘I am no longer at the age when the spirit opens to receive new impressions,’ she said. ‘My father is a stranger to me, and if I stay here others will eagerly surround him and he will be just as happy. My children will have M. de P—’s money. I realize that I shall be blamed by all; I shall be considered an ungrateful daughter and a callous mother. But I have gone through too much, and I am no longer young enough to be greatly impressed by public opinion. If my decision is somewhat heartless, you must blame yourself, Adolphe. If I could entertain any illusions about you I might agree to our parting for a time, and the bitterness of our separation would be mitigated by the prospect of a happy and lasting reunion; but you would be only too glad to think I was two hundred leagues away, happy and peaceful, in the bosom of my family and surrounded by luxury. You would write me sensible letters on the subject – I can see them now – and they would break my heart; I refuse to run that risk. Not for me the consolation of telling myself that by dint of sacrificing my whole life I have succeeded in inspiring an attachment worthy of me. Nevertheless you have accepted this sacrifice. Already your distant manner and the formality of our relationship are causing me suffering enough. I passively accept such sufferings as you inflict upon me, but I refuse to face self-inflicted ones.’
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