"My dear Gilbert," said he unreservedly, "I do not claim that I am
a perfect man; but I am certainly what might be called a good sort
of fellow, and I possess, in the bargain, a certain delicacy of
conscience which sometimes inconveniences me. Without flattery,
you are, my dear Gilbert, a man of great merit. Very well! I am
using you unjustly, for you are at an age when a man makes a name
and a career for himself; and these decisive years you are spending
in working for me, in collecting, like a journeyman, the materials
of a great work which will bring neither glory nor profit to you.
I have a proposition to make to you. Be my coadjutor; we will
compose this monumental work together; it shall appear under our
two names, and I give you my head upon it, shall make you famous.
We agree upon nearly all questions of fact, and as to our
difference in ideas. . . Mon Dieu! we are neither of us born
quibblers; we shall end in agreeing, and even supposing we do not
agree, I will give you carte blanche; for, to speak frankly, an
idea is not just the thing I should be ready to die for. What say
you to it, my dear Gilbert? We will not part until the task is
finished, and I fancy that we shall lead a happy life together."
In spite of his persuasions, I have not consented; he has only
drawn from me a promise that I will give him an answer within a
month. Stephane, Stephane, how awkward I shall be, if I do not
make this happy incident instrumental in accomplishing your
deliverance! The day will come when I can say to your father: For
the sake of your health, for the sake of your repose, of your
studies, of the work we have undertaken together, send this child
away from your house; his presence troubles and irritates you.
Send him to some school or college. By a single act you will make
two persons happy. Gracious Heaven, the stronghold will be hard to
take! But by dint of patience, skill and vigilance . . . have I
not already carried a fortress by storm--Stephane's heart? No, I
do not despair of success. But it will cost me dear, this success
that I hope for! To see him leave this house, to be separated from
him forever! At the very thought my heart bleeds.
August 16th.
Doctor Vladimir will leave us during the early part of next month.
I shall not be sorry. Decidedly this man does not please me. The
other day at the table, he looked at Stephane in a way that alarmed
me.
August 18th.
The sky is propitious for my nocturnal excursions. Not a drop of
rain has fallen for six weeks. The north wind, which sometimes
blows violently in the daytime, abates regularly in the evening.
As to the vertigo, no return of it. Oh! the power of habit!
August 19th.
What a misfortune! Day before yesterday Stephane, in crossing a
vestibule in front of the great hall, impelled by some odd motive,
gave vent to a loud burst of laughter. The Count started from his
chair and his face became livid. To-day Soliman was sold. A horse
dealer is coming directly to take him away. Ivan, whom I just met,
had great tears in his eyes. Poor Stephane, what will he say?
August 20th.
It is very singular! Yesterday I expected to find him in a state
of despair. He was gay, smiling.
"I was sure," said he, "that I should pay dearly for that unlucky
burst of laughter.
"My father is mistaken; it was not a burst of gayety, but purely
nervous spasm which seized me while thinking of certain things, and
at a moment when I was not at all merry. However, besides life,
there were but two things left to take from me, my horse and my
hair, and thank God, he was not happily inspired in his choice, and
has not struck me in the most sensitive place."
"What! between Soliman and your hair."
"Isn't it beautiful?" said he quickly.
"Magnificent without any doubt!" I answered, smiling.
"I've always been a little vain of it," continued he, waving his
curls upon his shoulders; "but I value it more since I know it
pleases you."
"Oh! for that matter," I replied, "if you had your head shaved, I
should not love you any the less."
This answer, I don't know why, seemed to affect him deeply. During
the rest of the evening he was thoughtful and gloomy.
August 24th.
I thought it glorious to be able to communicate to him the
overtures which his father has made me, and the project they
suggested to me. I said to him:
"What a joy it would be to me to release you from this prison, and
yet with what bitter sadness this joy would be mingled! But
wherever you go, we will find some means of writing and of seeing
each other. The friendship between us is one of those bonds which
destiny cannot break."
"Oh, yes!" replied he in a sarcastic tone, "you will come to see me
once a year, upon my birthday, and will be careful to bring me a
bouquet."
He burst into a fit of laughter which much resembled that of the
other day.
August 30th.
How he made me suffer yesterday! I have not recovered from it yet.
What! was it he--was it to me? God! what bitterness of language;
what keen irony! Count Kostia, you make a mistake--this child is
really yours. He may have the features and smile of his mother,
but there is a little of your soul in his. What grievances can he
have against me? I can imagine but two. Sunday last, near three
o'clock, we were both at the window. He commenced a very animated
speech by signs, and prolonged it far beyond the prudential limits
which I have prescribed to him. He spoke, I believe, about
Soliman, and of a walk which he had refused to take with Ivan. I
did not pay close attention, for I was occupied in looking round to
see that no one was watching us. Suddenly I saw on the slope of
the hill big Fritz and the little goat girl, to whom he is paying
court, seated on a rock. At the moment I was about to answer
Stephane, they raised their eyes to me. I began then to look at
the landscape, and presently quitted the spot. Stephane could not
see them from his window, and of course did not understand the
cause of my retreat. The other grievance is, that for the first
time three days have passed without my paying him a visit; but day
before yesterday the wind was so violent that it overthrew a
chimney nearby, . . . and it was to punish me for such a grave
offense that he allowed himself to say that I was no doubt an
excellent botanist, an unparalleled philanthropist, but that I
understood nothing of the refinements of sentiment.
"You are one of those men," said he, "who carry the whole world in
their hearts. It is useless for you to deny it. I am sure you
have at least a hundred intimate friends."
"You are right," I replied; "it is even for the hundredth one that
I have risked my life."
September 7th.
During the last week, I have seen him three times. He has given me
no cause for complaint; he works, he reflects; his judgment is
forming, not a moment of ill-humor; he is calm, docile, and gentle
as a lamb. Yes, but it is this excess of gentleness which disturbs
me. There is something unnatural to me, in his condition, and I am
forced to regret the absence of those transports, and the
childishness of which I have endeavored to cure him. "Stephane,
you have become too unlike yourself. But a short time since, your
feet hardly touched the ground; lively, impetuous, and violent,
there came from your lips by turns flashes of merriment or of
anger, and in an instant you passed from enthusiasm to despair; but
in our recent interviews I could scarcely recognize you. No more
freaks of the rebellious child; no more of those familiarities
which I loved! Your glances, even, as they meet mine, seem less
assured; sometimes they wander over me doubtfully, and from the
surprise they express, I am inclined to believe that my figure must
have grown some cubits, and you can no longer take it in at a
glance. And then those sighs which escape you! Besides, you no
longer complain of anything; your existence seems to have become a
stranger to you. It must be that without my knowledge--" Ah!
unhappy child, I will know. You shall speak; you shall tell
me. . . .
September 10.
Heavens! what a flood of light! Father Alexis, you did not tell me
all! The more I think of it. . . . Ah! Gilbert, what scales
covered your eyes! Yesterday I carried him that copy of the poem
of the Metamorphoses, which I had promised him. A few fragments
that I had repeated to him had inspired him with the desire of
reading the whole piece, not from the book, but copied in my hand.
We read it together, distich by distich. I translated, explained,
and commented. When we arrived at these verses: "May you only
remember how the tie which first united our souls was a germ from
which grew in time a sweet and charming intimacy, and soon
friendship revealed its power in our hearts, until love, coming
last, crowned it with flowers and with fruit--" At these words he
became agitated and trembled violently.
"Do not let us go any further," said he, pushing the paper away.
"That is poetry enough for this evening."
Then leaning upon the table, he opened and turned the leaves of his
herbarium; but his eyes and his thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly
he rose, took a few steps in the room, and then returning to me:
"Do you think that friendship can change into love?"
"Goethe says so; we must believe it."
He took a flower from the table, looked at it a moment and dropping
it on the floor, he murmured, lowering his eyes:
"I am an ignoramus; tell me what is this love?"
"It is the folly of friendship."
"Have you ever been foolish?"
"No, and I do not imagine I ever shall be."
He remained motionless for a moment, his arms hanging listlessly;
at length, raising them slowly, he crossed his hands over his head,
one of his favorite attitudes, raised his eyes from the ground, and
looked steadily at me. Oh! what a strange expression! His wild
look, a sad and mysterious smile wandering over his lips, his mouth
which tried to speak, but to which speech refused to come! That
face has been constantly before me since last night; it pursues me,
possesses me, and even at this moment its image is stamped in the
paper I am writing on. This black velvet tunic, then, may be a
forced disguise? Yes, the character of Stephane, his mind, his
singularity of conduct,--all these things which astonished and
frightened me are now explained. Gilbert, Gilbert! what have you
done? into what abyss. . . And yet, perhaps I am mistaken, for how
can I believe-- There is the dinner bell. . . I shall see HIM
again!