This is what Gilbert wrote in his journal six weeks after his
arrival at Geierfels:
A son who has towards his father the sentiments of a slave toward
his master; a father who habitually shows towards his son a dislike
bordering on hatred--such are the sad subjects for study that I
have found here. At first I wished to persuade myself that M.
Leminof was simply a cold hard character, a skeptic by disposition,
a blase grandee, who believed it a duty to himself to openly
testify his scorn for all the humbug of sentiment. He is nothing
of the kind. The Count's mind is diseased, his soul tormented, his
heart eaten by a secret ulcer and he avenges its sufferings by
making others suffer. Yes, the misanthrope seeks vengeance for
some deadly affront which has been put upon him by man or by fate;
his irony breathes anger and hatred; it conceals deep resentment
which breaks out occasionally in his voice, in his look and in his
unexpected and violent acts; for he is not always master of
himself. At certain times the varnish of cold politeness and icy
sportiveness with which he ordinarily conceals his passions, scales
off suddenly and falls into dust, and his soul appears in its
nakedness. During the first weeks of my residence here he
controlled himself in my presence, now I have the honor of
possessing his confidence, and he no longer deems it necessary to
hide his face from me, nor does he try any longer to deceive me.
It is singular, I thought myself entirely master of my glances, but
in spite of myself, they betrayed too much curiosity on one
occasion. The other day while I was working with him in his study,
he suddenly became dreamy and absent, his brow was like a
thundercloud; he neither saw nor heard me. When he came out of his
reverie his eyes met mine fixed upon his face, and he saw that I
was observing him too attentively.
"Come now," said he brusquely, "you remember our stipulations; we
are two egotists who have made a bargain with each other. Egotists
are not curious; the only thing which interests them in the mind of
a fellow-creature, is in the domain of utility."
And then fearing that he had offended me, he continued in a softer
tone:
"I am the least interesting soul in the world to know. My nerves
are very sensitive, and let me say to you once for all, that this
is the secret of all the disorders which you may observe in my poor
machine."
"No, Count Kostia, this is not your secret!" I was tempted to
answer. "It is not your nerves which torment you. I would wager
that in despite of your cynicism and skepticism, you have once
believed in something, or in some one who has broken faith with
you," but I was careful not to let him suspect my conjectures. I
believe he would have devoured me. The anger of this man is
terrible, and he does not always spare me the sight of it.
Yesterday especially, he was transported beyond himself, to such an
extent that I blushed for him. Stephane had gone to ride with
Ivan. The dinner-bell rang and they had not returned. The Count
himself went to the entrance of the court to wait for them. His
lips were pale, his voice harsh and grating, veiled by a hoarseness
which always comes with his gusts of passion. When the delinquents
appeared at the end of the path, he ran to them, and measured
Stephane from head to foot with a glance so menacing that the child
trembled in every limb; but his anger exploded itself entirely upon
Ivan. The poor jailer had, however, good excuses to offer:
Stephane's horse had stumbled and cut his knee, and they had been
obliged to slacken their pace. The Count appeared to hear nothing.
He signed to Ivan to dismount; which having done, he seized him by
the collar, tore from him his whip and beat him like a dog. The
unhappy serf allowed himself to be whipped without uttering a cry,
without making a movement. The idea of flight or self-defense
never occurred to him. Riveted to the spot, his eyes closed, he
was the living image of slavery resigned to the last outrages.
Indeed I believe that during this punishment I suffered more than
he. My throat was parched, my blood boiled in my veins. My first
impulse was to throw myself upon the Count, but I restrained
myself; such a violent interference would but have aggravated the
fate of Ivan. I clasped my hands and with a stifled voice cried:
"Mercy! mercy!" The Count did not hear me. Then I threw myself
between the executioner and his victim. Stupefied, with arm raised
and immovable, the Count stared at me with flaming eyes; little by
little he became calm, and his face resumed its ordinary
expression.
"Let it pass for this time," said he at last, in a hollow voice;
"but in future meddle no more in my affairs!"
Then dropping the whip to the ground, he strode away. Ivan raised
his eyes to me full of tears, his glance expressed at once
tenderness, gratitude, and admiration. He seized my hands and
covered them with kisses, after which he passed his handkerchief
over his face, streaming with perspiration, foam, and blood, and
taking the two horses by the bridles, quietly led them to the
stable. I found the Count at the table; he had recovered his good
humor; he discharged several arrows of playful sarcasm at my
"heresies" in matters of history. It was not without effort that I
answered him, for at this moment he inspired me with an aversion
that I could hardly conceal. But I felt bound to recognize the
victory which he had gained over himself in abridging Ivan's
punishment. After dinner he sent for the serf, who appeared with
his forehead and hands furrowed with bloody scars. His lips bore
their habitual smile, which was always a mystery to me. His master
ordered him to take off his vest, turn down his shirt, and kneel
before him; then drawing from his pocket a vial full of some
ointment whose virtues he lauded highly, he dressed the wounds of
the moujik with his own hands. This operation finished, he said to
him:
"That will amount to nothing, my son. Go and sin no more."
Upon which the serf raised himself and left the room, smiling
throughout. Ivan's smile is an exotic plant which I am not
acquainted with, and which only grows in Slavonic soil, a strange
smile,--real prodigy of baseness or heroism. Which is it? I am
sure I cannot tell.
In spite of my trouble, I had been able to observe Stephane at the
beginning of the punishment. At the first blow, a flash of
triumphant joy passed over his face; but when the blood started he
became horribly pale, and pressed one of his hands to his throat as
if to arrest a cry of horror, and with the other he covered his
eyes to shut out the sight; then not being able to contain himself,
he hurried away. God be praised! compassion had triumphed in his
heart over the joy of seeing his jailer chastised. There is in
this young soul, embittered as it is by long sufferings, a fund of
generosity and goodness; but will it not in time lose the last
vestiges of its native qualities? Three years hence will Stephane
cover his eyes to avoid the sight of an enemy's punishment? Within
three years will not the habit of suffering have stifled pity in
his breast? To-morrow, to-morrow perhaps, will not his heart have
uttered its last cry!
Since you have no tender words for him, Count Kostia, would that I
could close his ears to the desolating lessons that you give him!
Do you not see that the life he leads is enough to teach him to
hate men and life, without the necessity of your interference? He
knows nothing of humanity, but what he sees through the bars of his
prison; and imagines that there is nothing in the world but
capricious tyrants and trembling, degraded slaves. Why thus kill
in his heart every germ of enthusiasm, of hope, of manly and
generous faith?
But may not Stephane be a vicious child, whose perverse instincts a
justly provoked father seeks to curb by a pitiless discipline? No,
a thousand times no! It is false, it is impossible; it is only
necessary to look at him to be satisfied of this. His face is
often hard, cold, scornful; but it never expresses a low thought, a
pollution of soul, or a precocious corruption of mind. In his
quiet moods there is upon his brow a stamp of infantile purity. I
was wrong in supposing that his soul had lost its youth.
Alas! with what cruel harshness they dispute the little pleasures
which remain to him. In spite of his jests over the periwinkles,
he has a taste for flowers, and had obtained from the gardener the
concession of a little plot of ground to cultivate according to his
fancy. The Count, it appears, had ratified this favor; but this
unheard-of condescension proved to be but a refinement of cruelty.
For some time, every evening after dinner, Stephane passed an hour
in his little parterre; he plucked out the weeds, planted, watered,
and watched with a paternal eye the growth of his favorites.
Yesterday, an hour after the sanguinary castigation, while his
father was dressing Ivan's wounds, he had gone out on tiptoe. Some
minutes after, as I was walking upon the terrace, I saw him
occupied. with absorbing gravity, in this great work of watering.
I was but a few paces from him, when the gardener approached,
pickax in hand, and, without a word, struck it violently into the
middle of a tuft of verbenas which grew at one end of the plot of
ground. Stephane raised himself briskly, and, believing him
stupid, threw himself upon him, crying out:
"Wretch, what are you doing there?"
"I am doing what his excellency ordered me to," answered the
gardener.
At this moment the Count strolled toward us, his hands in his
pockets, humming an aria, and an expression of amiable good humor
on his face. Stephane extended his arms towards him, but one of
those looks which always petrifies him kept him silent and
motionless in the middle of the pathway. He watched with wild eyes
the fatal pickax ravage by degrees his beloved garden. In vain he
tried to disguise his despair; his legs trembled and his heart
throbbed violently. He fixed his large eyes upon his dear,
devastated treasures; two great tears escaped them and rolled
slowly down his cheeks. But when the instrument of destruction
approached a magnificent carnation, the finest ornament of his
garden, his heart failed him, he uttered a piercing cry, and
raising his hands to Heaven, ran away sobbing. The Count looked
after him as he fled, and an atrocious smile passed over his lips!
Ah! if this father does not hate his son, I know not what hatred
is, nor how it depicts itself upon a human face. Meantime I threw
myself between the carnation and the pickax, as an hour before
between the knout and Ivan. Stephane's despair had rent my heart;
I wished at any cost to preserve this flower which was so dear to
him. The face of Kostia Petrovitch took all hope from me. It
seemed to say:
"You still indulge in sentiment; this is a little too much of it."
"This plant is beautiful," I said to him; "why destroy it?"
"Ah! you love flowers, my dear Gilbert;" answered he, with an air
of diabolical malice. "I am truly glad of it!"
And turning to the gardener, he added:
"You will carefully take up all these flowers and place them in
pots--they shall decorate Monsieur's room. I am delighted to have
it in my power to do him this little favor."
Thus speaking, he rubbed his hands gleefully, and turning his back
upon me, commenced humming his tune again. He was evidently
satisfied with his day's work.
And now Stephane's flowers are here under my eyes, they have become
my property. Oh! if he knew it! I do not doubt that M. Leminof
wishes his son to hate me; and his wish is gratified. Overwhelmed
with respect and attentions, petted, praised, extolled, treated as
a favorite and grand vizier, how can I be otherwise than an object
of scorn and aversion to this young man? But could he read my
heart! what would he read there, after all? An impotent pity from
which his pride would revolt. I can do nothing for him; I could
not mitigate his misfortunes or pour balm into his wounds.
Go, then, Gilbert, occupy yourself with the Byzantines! Remember
your contract, Gilbert! The master of this house has made you
promise not to meddle in his affairs. Translate Greek, my friend,
and, in your leisure moments, amuse yourself with your puppets.
Beyond that, closed eyes and sealed mouth; that must be your motto.
But do you say, "I shall become a wretch in seeing this child
suffer"? Well! if your useless pity proves too much of a burden,
six months hence you can break your bonds, resume your liberty, and
with three hundred crowns in your pocket, you can undertake that
journey to Italy,--object of your secret dreams and most ardent
longing. Happy man! arming yourself with the white staff of the
pilgrim, you will shake the dust of Geierfels from your feet, and
go far away to forget, before the facades of Venetian palaces, the
dark mysteries of the old Gothic castle and its wicked occupants.