The next morning the first question that occurred to my mind was: “What
shall I do?”
I had no occupation. I had studied medicine and law without being able
to decide on either of the two careers; I had worked for a banker for
six months, and my services were so unsatisfactory that I was obliged
to resign to avoid being discharged. My studies had been varied but
superficial; my memory was active but not retentive.
My only treasure, after love, was reserve. In my childhood I had devoted
myself to a solitary way of life, and had, so to speak, consecrated my
heart to it. One day my father, solicitous about my future, spoke to me
of several careers among which he allowed me to choose. I was leaning on
the window-sill, looking at a solitary poplar-tree that was swaying
in the breeze down in the garden. I thought over all the various
occupations and wondered which one I should choose. I turned them all
over, one after another, in my mind, and then, not feeling inclined to
any of them, I allowed my thoughts to wander. Suddenly it seemed to
me that I felt the earth move, and that a secret, invisible force was
slowly dragging me into space and becoming tangible to my senses. I
saw it mount into the sky; I seemed to be on a ship; the poplar near my
window resembled a mast; I arose, stretched out my arms, and cried:
“It is little enough to be a passenger for one day on this ship floating
through space; it is little enough to be a man, a black point on that
ship; I will be a man, but not any particular kind of man.”
Such was the first vow that, at the age of fourteen, I pronounced in the
face of nature, and since then I have done nothing, except in obedience
to my father, never being able to overcome my repugnance.
I was therefore free, not through indolence but by choice; loving,
moreover, all that God had made and very little that man had made. Of
life I knew nothing but love, of the world only my mistress, and I
did not care to know anything more. So, falling in love upon leaving
college, I sincerely believed that it was for life, and every other
thought disappeared.
My life was indolent. I was accustomed to pass the day with my mistress;
my greatest pleasure was to take her through the fields on beautiful
summer days, the sight of nature in her splendor having ever been for me
the most powerful incentive to love. In winter, as she enjoyed society,
we attended numerous balls and masquerades, and because I thought of no
one but her I fondly imagined her equally true to me.
To give you an idea of my state of mind I can not do better than compare
it to one of those rooms we see nowadays in which are collected and
mingled the furniture of all times and countries. Our age has no impress
of its own. We have impressed the seal of our time neither on our houses
nor our gardens, nor on anything that is ours. On the street may be seen
men who have their beards trimmed as in the time of Henry III, others
who are clean-shaven, others who have their hair arranged as in the time
of Raphael, others as in the time of Christ. So the homes of the rich
are cabinets of curiosities: the antique, the gothic, the style of the
Renaissance, that of Louis XIII, all pell-mell. In short, we have every
century except our own--a thing which has never been seen at any other
epoch: eclecticism is our taste; we take everything we find, this for
beauty, that for utility, another for antiquity, still another for its
ugliness even, so that we live surrounded by debris, as if the end of
the world were at hand.
Such was the state of my mind; I had read much; moreover I had learned
to paint. I knew by heart a great many things, but nothing in order, so
that my head was like a sponge, swollen but empty. I fell in love with
all the poets one after another; but being of an impressionable nature
the last acquaintance disgusted me with the rest. I had made of myself
a great warehouse of odds and ends, so that having no more thirst after
drinking of the novel and the unknown, I became an oddity myself.
Nevertheless, about me there was still something of youth: it was the
hope of my heart, which was still childlike.
That hope, which nothing had withered or corrupted and which love had
exalted to excess, had now received a mortal wound. The perfidy of my
mistress had struck deep, and when I thought of it, I felt in my soul a
swooning away, the convulsive flutter of a wounded bird in agony.
Society, which works so much evil, is like that serpent of the Indies
whose habitat is under a shrub, the leaves of which afford the antidote
to its venom; in nearly every case it brings the remedy with the wound
it causes. For example, the man whose life is one of routine, who has
his business cares to claim his attention upon rising, visits at
one hour, loves at another, can lose his mistress and suffer no evil
effects. His occupations and his thoughts are like impassive soldiers
ranged in line of battle; a single shot strikes one down, his neighbors
close the gap and the line is intact.
I had not that resource, since I was alone: nature, the kind mother,
seemed, on the contrary, vaster and more empty than before. Had I been
able to forget my mistress, I should have been saved. How many there
are who can be cured with even less than that. Such men are incapable of
loving a faithless woman, and their conduct, under the circumstances,
is admirable in its firmness. But is it thus one loves at nineteen when,
knowing nothing of the world, desiring everything, one feels, within,
the germ of all the passions? Everywhere some voice appeals to him. All
is desire, all is revery. There is no reality which holds him when the
heart is young; there is no oak so gnarled that it may not give birth to
a dryad; and if one had a hundred arms one need not fear to open them;
one has but to clasp his mistress and all is well.
As for me, I did not understand what else there was to do but love,
and when any one spoke to me of other occupations I did not reply. My
passion for my mistress had something fierce about it, for all my life
had been severely monachal. Let me cite a single instance. She gave me
her miniature in a medallion. I wore it over my heart, a practice much
affected by men; but one day, while idly rummaging about a shop filled
with curiosities, I found an iron “discipline whip” such as was used
by the mediaeval flagellants. At the end of this whip was a metal plate
bristling with sharp iron points; I had the medallion riveted to this
plate and then returned it to its place over my heart. The sharp points
pierced my bosom with every movement and caused such strange, voluptuous
anguish that I sometimes pressed it down with my hand in order to
intensify the sensation. I knew very well that I was committing a folly;
love is responsible for many such idiocies.
But since this woman deceived me I loathed the cruel medallion. I can
not tell with what sadness I removed that iron circlet, and what a sigh
escaped me when it was gone.
“Ah! poor wounds!” I said, “you will soon heal, but what balm is there
for that other deeper wound?”
I had reason to hate this woman; she was, so to speak, mingled with the
blood of my veins; I cursed her, but I dreamed of her. What could I do
with a dream? By what effort of the will could I drown a memory of flesh
and blood? Lady Macbeth, having killed Duncan, saw that the ocean would
not wash her hands clean again; it would not have washed away my wounds.
I said to Desgenais: “When I sleep, her head is on my pillow.”
My life had been wrapped up in this woman; to doubt her was to doubt
all; to deny her, to curse all; to lose her, to renounce all. I no
longer went out; the world seemed peopled with monsters, with horned
deer and crocodiles. To all that was said to distract my mind, I
replied:
“Yes, that is all very well, but you may rest assured I shall do nothing
of the kind.”
I sat in my window and said:
“She will come, I am sure of it; she is coming, she is turning the
corner at this moment, I can feel her approach. She can no more live
without me than I without her. What shall I say? How shall I receive
her?”
Then the thought of her perfidy occurred to me.
“Ah! let her come! I will kill her!”
Since my last letter I had heard nothing of her.
“What is she doing?” I asked myself. “She loves another? Then I will
love another also. Whom shall I love?”
While thinking, I heard a far distant voice crying:
“Thou, love another? Two beings who love, who embrace, and who are not
thou and I! Is such a thing possible? Are you a fool?”
“Coward!” said Desgenais, “when will you forget that woman? Is she such
a great loss? Take the first comer and console yourself.”
“No,” I replied, “it is not such a great loss. Have I not done what I
ought? Have I not driven her away from here? What have you to say to
that? The rest concerns me; the bull wounded in the arena can lie down
in a corner with the sword of the matador ‘twixt his shoulders, and die
in peace. What can I do, tell me? What do you mean by first comer? You
will show me a cloudless sky, trees and houses, men who talk, drink,
sing, women who dance and horses that gallop. All that is not life, it
is the noise of life. Go, go, leave me in peace.”