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 distress 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 sigh, "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 chess-board, 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.
Eight months before his death he astounded the doctors by discussing with them his disease, and showing them his reasons for believing that it would inevitably end fatally,—even the time he probably had to live. And, however, with the terrible conviction that every day was bearing him nearer to the tomb, he never showed the least weakness nor the slightest regret. Never a complaint, never a word in allusion to his approaching end! Silence, always silence! and his life until the day of his death was such as I have described.
The day before this frightful event, he caused me to go through a long and serious examination on the manner in which I was to manage my fortune; this with remarkable lucidity and apparent satisfaction. He then said to me: "I have doubled the means my father left me; this increase of fortune has been my steady object in life, because my constant aim has been your future happiness. Make a good use of these riches if you are able. Remember, my child, that gold is all-powerful: honour and happiness. Above all things, try to live alone; that is the great science of life. If you should find a woman like your mother, marry her, but be on your guard against adorers who will simply be after your fortune; in a word, never trust in any appearances before having sounded their secret depths." Then showing me his great secretary, he added: "You are to have that piece of furniture burned, just as it stands, with all it contains. I have taken out all our family papers, and you should be perfectly indifferent as to the rest. Adieu, my child, I have always been satisfied with your conduct."
And as through my tears I spoke to him of eternity, of my grief if I should have the frightful misfortune to lose him, he faintly smiled and said to me, in his calm and steady voice: "My child, why do you speak to me of these vanities? There is nothing eternal, there is nothing even durable in human feeling, joy and gladness are but transitory emotions,—grief and sadness are still more fleeting. Remember this, my poor child. You are generous and affectionate—you love me tenderly—you are grievously afflicted at the thought of losing me. Your actual grief is really so intense that it hides from you for the time being the coming separation,—and yet this diseased body can not, ought not, to continue to live; sooner or later after I am gone, you will begin to regret me less; little by little you will turn your mind to other thoughts, then you will begin to be consoled,—and after awhile I shall be forgotten!"
"Never," I exclaimed, and, throwing myself on the foot of his bed, I took his hand and covered it with my tears.
He placed his hand, which was already cold, on my forehead, and continued: "Poor dear child! Wherefore deny that which is self-evident,—why try to escape the inexorable law of our race? In this series of changes which, starting at violent grief, ends by forgetfulness, there is nothing as I see it either odious or guilty. Nothing is more natural, nothing is more consistent with our human nature. More than this, one of these days you will be able to enjoy the wealth I am leaving you without the slightest feeling of sadness. You will remember me, I hope and desire, from time to time, but seldom, and without anguish. The remembrance of me will never interfere with your enjoyments, your pleasures, the pursuits of your daily existence; so at last I shall count in your bright young life only as the dust of the old tree, which, having lived its time, now only serves as a nourishment to its young shoots. Nothing is more simple, more human, more natural, I tell you so once more."
"Ah, never believe such a thing as that," I cried out in terror. "This fortune will be hateful to me,—nothing will ever be any consolation to me."
But my father added:
"Make no foolish promises, my son; eighty thousand francs a year can never be hateful, and the most poignant grief is capable of consolation. Do I not know it from my own experience? Did not I feel thus when my father died? Will your sentiments not be the same as mine were? And if you ever have a son, will he not feel the same grief when you die? Believe me, my child, true wisdom consists in being thus able to envisage the inexorable reality of things, and never to indulge in vain hopes. When you once understand this truth, when it once causes the phantom of falsehood to dissolve, then you will neither hate nor despise men for being thus constituted, because you know yourself to be like them,—you will then pity them and help them, for you will often feel greatly unhappy! If you find men ungrateful, alas! look into the depth of your own soul, and you will often see such base ingratitude that you will be enabled to forgive others. Understand this, my poor child, that to forgive all is to know all. Finally, a time will come when the sight of their unknown or hidden vices will be so saddening or repugnant to you that you will do as I did, you will leave them and live alone. Then, my child, instead of having constantly before your eyes the harrowing sight of the moral infirmities of mankind, you will only have your own, and in the contemplation of a splendid nature, in meditation, in the inexhaustible and maternal sweetness of study, you will be able to forget and forgive the sins of our poor humanity."
The day after this conversation, my father was no more.