Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY
(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)
By ALFRED DE MUSSET
BOOK 3.
PART V
CHAPTER I
SWEET ANTICIPATIONS
Having decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris; the necessary
preparations required time, and we took a furnished apartment for one
month. The decision to leave France had changed everything: joy, hope,
confidence, all returned; no more sorrow, no more grief over approaching
separation. We had now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of
eternal love; I wished, once for all, to make my dear mistress forget all
the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proof
of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigitte
pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice and
leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion she
exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love; at last my good angel had
triumphed, and admiration and love resumed their sway in my heart.
Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go and bury
ourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we found pleasure
in that very uncertainty; while glancing over the map we said "Where
shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew?"
How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon her
smiling face, a face that laughed at the future, although still pale from
the sorrows of the past! Blissful projects of future joy, you are
perhaps the only true happiness known to man! For eight days we spent
our time making purchases and preparing for our departure; then a young
man presented himself at our apartments: he brought letters to Brigitte.
After their interview I found her sad and distraught; but I could not
guess the cause unless the letters were from N------, that village where
I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only relatives lived.
Nevertheless, our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient
to get away; at the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest.
When I arose in the morning and the sun was shining through our windows,
I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated with
happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for
Brigitte that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightest
words made me tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternated
between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with
horror and disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scattered about
in disorder--albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much.
We went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervals I would
stop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler, saying that
she had to do all the work, and that I was good for nothing; and all
sorts of projects flitted through our minds. Sicily was far away, but
the winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very pretty with its
painted houses, its green gardens, and the Apennines in the background!
But what noise! What crowds! Among every three men on the street, one
is a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the Middle Ages
living in the midst of modern life. How can any one endure those grilled
windows and that horrible brown color with which all the houses are
tinted?
What could we do at Rome? We were not travelling in order to forget
ourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the
season was over, and although we did not care for the world of fashion,
still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled. But Spain? Too
many restrictions there; one travels like an army on the march, and may
expect everything except repose. Switzerland? Too many people go there,
and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions; but in
that land are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on God's earth:
the azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the whiteness of the
snows on the summits of glaciers.
"Let us go, let us go!" cried Brigitte, "let us fly away like two birds.
Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we met each other only yesterday.
You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that some
leagues distant, in a certain little town, you loved a certain Madame
Pierson; what passed between you and her I do not know. You will not
tell me the story of your love for another! And I will whisper to you
that not long since I loved a terrible fellow who made me very unhappy;
you will reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never to speak
of such things."
When Brigitte spoke thus I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;
I caught her in my arms and cried:
"Oh, God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble.
I am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth; die, all memories of
the past; die, all cares and regrets! Oh, my, good, my brave Brigitte!
You have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I shall never
love again. Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured
me; but now you alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to
save me, for I bear in my heart the wound of all the evil I have done
you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You love
me still. If you ever return to that home under whose lindens I first
met you, look carefully about that deserted house; you will find a
phantom there, for the man who left it, and went away with you, is not
the man who entered it."
"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her face, all radiant with love, was
raised to heaven; "is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious
world in which you have grown old before your time, yes, my child, you
shall really love. I shall have you as you are, and, wherever we go you
will make me forget the possibility of a day when you will no longer love
me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always be
thankful for it."
Finally we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting place in
the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could
already breathe the air which floats over its surface, and the odor of
the verdure-clad valley; already I beheld Lausanne, Vevey, Oberland, and
in the distance the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of
Lombardy. Already oblivion, repose, travel, all the delights of happy
solitude invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, we
looked at each other in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment
of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a
long journey, the mysterious and indescribable vertigo which has in it
something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of pilgrimage. Are there
not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that
vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in
the simple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?
Suddenly Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head in silence. When I
asked her whether she was in pain, she said "No!" in a voice that was
scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and
resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she
was going to be happy, and that I would consecrate my life to her, she
shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her she turned pale,
and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that
nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our plans,
she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me and told
her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about
my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as if involuntarily. Finally,
I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our places were
marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and placed it in
her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed, and fell unconscious at my
feet.