DARK DAYS.
It was winter, dull winter, when nature rests and green fields are
no more.
There was not much work to do now in the greenhouses at "the
Rohais."
Frank was one evening taking a walk towards the Catel Church.
He had some business to settle with his carpenter, who lived near
"Woodlands."
Presently, a man who had dogged his steps for some time, exclaimed:
"It's you, Mr. Mathers, I thought it was."
Turning round, Frank recognised Jacques, Mr. Rougeant's workman. He
thought his heart had stopped beating, so sudden was the thrill of
satisfaction that shook its tendrils.
"Yes, it is I," he at last answered; and he shook hands with Jacques
as if he had been his most intimate friend.
"He was so glad to see him," he said. "And how are they all at 'Les
Marches,'" he inquired.
"Oh, jolly-like," said the man who had boasted that he could speak
English; "the squire's in a reg'lar good mood this week."
"Indeed!" said Frank.
"Well, you see, it's no wonder after all; the young Miss's engaged
to a young fellow; Tom Soher, I think his name is. I don't like the
look o' the chap. He used to drink and there's no sayin'----."
He stopped short on perceiving Frank who was leaning against the
wall for support; his face of an ashen hue.
Jacques eyed him anxiously. "One'd say you'd be ill," he remarked.
"I don't feel exactly well," said Frank.
"Shall I see you home?"
"No, thank you, I can easily walk there."
"I think I'd better come with you; I know my missus'l be waitin' for
me, but I'll come if you think I must."
"No, thank you," again responded Frank; "there are a great many
people about----. There! I feel slightly better."
"As you like," said Jacques, who by-the-by was not in the least
inclined to accompany the young man.
"I'll go alone," said Frank; "Good-night."
"Good-night, Sir, I hope you'll be better soon," said Jacques, as
each one betook himself towards his home.
Frank was completely weighed down with this piece of unexpected and
unwelcome news. He did not go to the carpenter's residence; he
forgot all about it. He went straight home. How he arrived there,
which road he took, which door he entered by, he did not know; but
he found himself in his bedroom, seated on a chair and gazing into
space in blank despair.
This was the end of everything.
He pictured to himself her lover. He did not know him, but he
succeeded in forming in his mind one of the biggest monsters that
ever inhabited the globe in the shape of man.
And Adele; he knew she must have been forced into it by her father.
"How she must groan under this yoke. To have to listen to that
vicious being with the prospect of one day being his wife." Why had
it come to this, why was the world so formed. Ah! the wicked world
we live in, the abominable, corrupted world. When would the
millennium come. When would all this unhappiness be swept away from
the earth's surface.
Alas! he would die before that time; so would thousands and millions
of others.
What had the world done that it must thus be continually sacrificed.
What had he done. Others were happy; surely no one had ever met such
a deception before. People had to suffer sometimes, but not such
intense, heart-rending suffering as he now endured.
He was full of despair. Before him, there was nothing but darkness.
The more he thought over his misfortunes, the more hopeless life
seemed to be.
The candle was now nearly burnt out, but he heeded it not. He waved
his hand near his face as if to scatter his thoughts. "Why did I
rescue him when he was drowning. (He was thinking of Mr. Rougeant.)
I risked being pulled into the water, I might have been drowned; and
this is the reward." Ah! how humanity must suffer. If there was no
joy, no real happiness on this earth, why live, why continue to
endure all this. Schopenhauer was quite right when he said life was
not worth living. Henceforth, he would be a pessimist. Three cheers
for pessimism!
Ah! the wicked world we live in.
The candle had now burnt itself out but the young man remained
seated, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes gazing at the
floor, and his heart in "kingdom come."
When the clock struck twelve, he awoke. He had fallen asleep and was
a little more composed than before. He undressed and went to bed.
He awoke early in the morning. He was crying. What was the matter
with him. It dawned upon him: he was going to have a fit of
melancholy.
He felt it, but he was powerless to prevent its intrusion. He was
like the man who stands between the rails, and suddenly sees a train
advancing at full speed towards him and remains with his eyes
riveted on the instrument of his destruction, seemingly powerless to
move, till the engine crushes him in its onward course.
When Frank descended to breakfast, old Pierre and his spouse noticed
his wan look. "I think master's going mad," said the man to his
wife, when Frank was out of the room. "I don't know what ails him,
but he seems very pale and strange."
The young man wandered aimlessly. Nothing interested him, not even
his books, these companions which he had cherished so much. He tried
to find pleasure in them. "If I had something to do, something to
occupy my thoughts," he said to himself, "I would be much better.
Work is the balm which heals my wounds, it sets me on my feet again.
I will work, I will study."
He soon found out that work in itself could not heal his wounds.
Then he grew still more despondent. What was the use of working if
work did not bring a reward. It was all very well to toil, but to
work like a slave, without the prospect of utilizing one's power
after having continually striven to acquire it, was discouraging.
He therefore put his books aside and his melancholy grew deeper and
deeper.
One day he was seized with anxiousness for his soul's future. He had
not done what he ought to have done. He greatly frightened Mrs.
Merlin, when he entered the house and exclaimed: "I'm lost; I'm
lost."
"Don't say that, Mr. Mathers," she said. "You have always been a
good man."
"Good!" he exclaimed, his eyes dilated, the muscles of his face
working convulsively; "good, yes, for my sake, because I hoped in my
selfishness to reap ten times the outlay. Don't you see," he
continued, "that I have only worked for my own selfish interest. I
have made sacrifices, because I hoped to reap a rich reward. And
now, I am well punished; I deserve all this, I certainly do. I have
done nothing for others. I have not been altruistic."
The woman stared at him. She knew almost as much about altruism as a
dog does about the celestial sciences. After a few moments of
silence she spoke: "You have been very good to us, you rescued a man
from drowning once at great risk, you----"
"Ha, ha!" he laughed, "fine talk, to come and speak like that to me.
I am going to die, and do you hear;" he added in an undertone,
catching hold of Mrs. Merlin's arm and terrifying her; "I am afraid,
oh, so afraid."
The old woman began to cry. "You must not talk like that," she said,
"you really must not. Why don't you pray?"
"Pray! what is the use; no, not now. I am being punished for my
sins. I must atone, I must atone."
He continued in this sad state for a few days, weighed down with
this strange malady, which, alas, often preys upon our finest
intellects.
Then, a reaction set in, and he began to improve gradually.
He felt quite well at times, then re-assumed his moody ways; rays of
sunshine sometimes darted from behind the clouds. "I wish the sun
would disperse the clouds," he sighed.
One evening, when his head was tolerably clear, he was seized with a
desire to visit his parents' grave.
Without consulting anyone, he immediately proceeded towards the
Foulon. When he came to the iron gate, it was closed. He was
bitterly disappointed. By climbing over it, he would risk being
empaled on the iron spikes, or otherwise injured.
Presently he thought of the wooden wicket situated a little lower
down. He proceeded thither and climbed over it without difficulty. A
stream confronted him. He crossed it on a plank thrown across the
rill. It was very dark, but he did not think of it. He was alone in
this graveyard, but he experienced no fear. He felt happier than he
had done for a long time. "Had he not adopted the pessimistic view
of life."
He walked straight to the grave where his father and mother lay
buried and seated himself near it. Just then, a gentle breeze caused
the stately trees surrounding the graveyard to waft their leafy tops
to and fro. Nature was rocking itself to sleep.
Even as it slumbered, it now and then heaved a sigh, sympathizing
with the lonely man who pondered near his parents' grave.
He soliloquized: "Around me, the dead; beneath that turf, the dead;
above me, beyond those glimmering stars, somewhere in that infinity
of space, in which man with his very limited understanding loses
himself, the departed souls...."
Suddenly, he perceived a white form advancing towards him. If hair
stands on end, Frank's did. His heart beat at a fearful rate. What
could this be? It certainly must be a ghost. "I have laughed at
apparitions, but I am now going to be punished for my incredulity,"
he said to himself.
The ghost moved and came nearer. Frank trembled from head to foot.
When he had recovered sufficient courage to scrutinize this form, it
suddenly disappeared.
The young man fixed his eyes on the place where the ghost had
vanished, for ten minutes; then turned his gaze in another
direction. He soon recovered his senses, and fell into a reverie.
Again he soliloquized: "We all travel towards the grave. We all
shall one day be like these around me. Why work, why trouble
oneself. Why have I taken so much pains about my education? I have
been ambitious, I have worried myself, I have been anxious to
acquire wealth and fame. Here, the rich and the poor, the famous,
the unfamous, and the infamous, the ignorant and the educated, are
resting in the same ground, surrounded by the same scenery. I have
been foolish to worry myself thus.
"Do I not daily meet ignorant and uncivilised people who live a life
of contentment and happiness? Not caring for the future, not
aspiring after getting on in life, living from hand to mouth, they
manage to show a radiant countenance.
"Is ignorance bliss? Perhaps, in one sense; still I would not be
without education.
"What must I do to be happy? I will shut mine eyes to all ambition,
I will live a quiet life. Alas! even as I pronounce these words, my
heart belies them. I cannot annihilate the acute brain which
tortures me. Since all my hopes of happiness seem to shun me, I will
continue in my new religion--pessimism; and when the hour of death
comes, I will smile."
He thought of the hopeful days he had once known. He rose from his
seat, cast a farewell glance on his parents' grave and proceeded
down the gravel walk. He then thought of the ghost which he had
seen, and felt a vague sense of fear. "I am no coward," he muttered
as he straightened himself and tried to assume an air of
indifference. But he felt nervous. He glanced anxiously behind him
every other moment, and increased his pace.
He perceived, among the trees, near the gate over which he had to
pass--a light.
It was as if a thunderbolt had passed through his body.
He looked more attentively. Yes, there was a light, a strange,
fantastic light, dancing amongst the trees. His feverish brain
caused him to lose all power of reasoning.
"What is this?" he said to himself. He felt his heart beating
heavily against the walls of its prison as if trying to escape. His
legs seemed to give way under him. A big lump stuck in his throat.
"It is only an _ignis fatuus_," he said to himself. "No, it cannot
be, it does not burn with a bluish light. Why this terror, why this
fear; it must be the _feu bellanger_."
The light changed. It was approaching.
A sense of horripilation stole over him. A cold perspiration bathed
him.
The light changed again. It really receded this time, but to Frank's
agitated mind, it was simply one of its tactics to induce him to
come nearer.
He suddenly bethought himself of the stream. His terror reached its
climax. "Ah! there it was, waiting for him to pass that way, and
then with a shout of triumph, it would plunge him in."
He remembered old Pierre's words: "Wait till he gets caught." How he
wished he had not mocked him so. Perhaps this _feu bellanger_ was
preparing to revenge itself.
Again, the light approached. It came nearer to him than it had yet
come. The supreme moment had arrived. He already felt himself being
dipped in the stream, with no one to rescue him. Ah! the horror of
being killed by one of the devil's angels.
Here he remembered Pierre Merlin's advice: "Turn your coat sleeves
inside out and put on your garment so." Without a moment's
hesitation he divested himself of his coat. As he was turning the
sleeves, the object of his dread disappeared. A sigh of relief
escaped him.
In a minute, he had bounded over the stream and gate into the road.
He put on his coat, and was proceeding towards his home, when he
perceived the cause of his fears. It was simply a ray of light
coming through the windows of the guardian's house. He could see it
now. A woman was standing on a chair with a small lamp in her hand
seeking for something on a shelf. As she moved the lamp, the
reflection on the trees moved also.
He began to laugh. "The _feu bellanger_, forsooth. How old Pierre
would have smiled if he had beheld him taking off his coat. But the
ghost, _that_ was what puzzled him."
The ghost came bounding over the wicket and passed by him.
It was a white dog.
This adventure had taught him a great lesson. What could he say now,
he, the educated and civilized young man? No wonder if the people
who had been accustomed to hear strange tales from their earliest
infancy, believed in them.
He went home, determined to deal leniently with Pierre in the
future.
"I must have been in a dreadful state of mind to have acted thus,"
he thought. "I have done more than I ever meant to do."
When he came home, he was quite cheerful. He did not say that he had
seen a ghost, neither did he tell the spouses Merlin that he had
nearly been attacked by the _feu bellanger_.
Pierre noticed his joyous look. He gave a wink to his wife as if to
say: "He's taken a glass or two."
It was not so; the shock which he had received had completely
dislodged the last trace of melancholy.