HÉLÈNE
In recalling these souvenirs of my past life, I have no other aim than
the firm determination, if that be possible, of reviewing, as a cold and
disinterested spectator, the scenes of my most secret thoughts, as well
as the struggles of my instincts, whether good or evil; not to be
ashamed to own up to a single one of them, no matter how base or paltry.
I believe myself to be neither better nor worse than the common run of
men, and what gives me the courage to admit everything to myself is the
conviction that possesses me, that, should the greater number of men ask
themselves the same questions, and reply to them with the same
frankness, their answers would in most instances be the same as mine.
To go back to the death of my father: my grief was most profound, but it
was not my predominating sentiment at the first. My first sensation was
a sort of terrified stupefaction at finding myself, at twenty-two years
old, perfectly free, and master of a large fortune. My next feeling was
an inexplicable anguish at the idea that from henceforth I was without
any natural protector. Come vice or virtue, glory or obscurity, my life
from henceforth would interest no one; besides, the eccentric life my
father had led, isolated for so long from all the world, had placed me
almost in the position of a stranger to that society which my rank and
fortune entitled me to enter. The future seemed to extend itself before
me like a vast desert crossed by a thousand paths, but no souvenir, no
interest, nor even any family or caste patronage could I claim which
might show me which of these paths was the right one.
As in all else, thanks to the lapse of time, this impression was fated
to be modified and then radically altered; but the transition was a long
one.
Some time later this timidity gave place to, or rather was mingled with,
a tinge of pride, as I considered that all the great domains of our
family belonged to me alone, and that, though the responsibility of
their regency might be burdensome, it would be its own compensation.
When still very young I had mechanically acquired a habit of
self-interrogation, so when I perceived that my profound affliction had
begun to take on these first tints of personality, I shuddered as I
remembered those terrible words of my dying father, "You are generous
and kind, you love me tenderly, and yet, sooner or later after my death,
you will begin to miss me less and less, then you will be entirely
consoled, and finally you will forget me altogether."
I have heard stories giving many examples of men to whom a tragic and
premature end had been foretold, and who, goaded by some unexplainable
fatality, had taken upon themselves the task of realising these sad
predictions. It is the same way, I believe, with certain thoughts which
are repugnant, even hateful to you, against which you struggle vainly,
and to which you finally succumb; thus it was with the prediction of my
father; I fought against it a long time, but at last I was conquered.
But this struggle was certainly one of the most distressing periods of
my life. To recognise little by little the uselessness of our grief, to
become cruelly convinced of this formidable vulgarity, that those
feelings which nature has most deeply rooted in our hearts can fade,
wither, die, and disappear under the icy breath of time,--ought not such
thoughts to cut us to the quick? Are they not heart-breaking? Such were
the thoughts which caused me to curse my ingratitude, but my curses were
in vain.
It was the month of January, for I had remained all the winter at
Serval, with my aunt and Hélène. Every morning I mounted my horse and
went for a long ride in the forest, where I would spend three or four
hours. The gray, cloudy, foggy weather pleased me, the wide driveways
covered with snow, or littered with dead leaves, which the wind
scattered hither and thither, had a dreary aspect which suited the
colour of my thoughts. Leaving the reins loose on my horse's neck, I
would ride along in a state of utter abstraction, scarcely thinking of
anything,--of the future, of the road I meant to follow,--making no
plans whatever, for I was still too much dazzled by my newly attained
importance. I had lived for so long a time entirely dependent on my
father, having no will but his, making no plans but his; even during my
long voyage his will, represented by that of my tutor, had governed me
so incessantly that the absolute and perfect freedom I now enjoyed was
both overpowering and alarming. After one of these long rides I would
return to find Hélène and her mother awaiting me; we would talk about
my father, and my aunt would try to persuade me to overcome the
repugnance I felt in attending to business; but as all these business
transactions reminded me too cruelly of the many conversations I had
with my father on these subjects, I could not bring myself yet to
consider all these details, but left them to the charge of my tutor.
At the end of the third month my grief had lost much of its bitterness.
I began, so to speak, to awake and look around me, my ideas became
clearer and more definite as to the use I was to make of my newly
acquired liberty,--this freedom which still disturbed and made me
anxious, but which alarmed me no longer.
The thread of our thoughts does not always escape exterior and purely
physical influences. I was beginning to find this out. Springtime was
approaching, and I felt as if with the dreary winter the first
bitterness of my sorrow would pass away, and that vague projects and
sweet hopes for the future would blossom with the smiling foliage of
May.
We were now getting on towards the middle of April; since my father's
death I had never been able to make up my mind to visit the village
cemetery, in which stood our family monument, so fearful was I of the
cruel impression such a visit would have upon me. One day, as I deplored
my weakness, Hélène said to me, "Try to be more courageous, Arthur;
come, I will go with you."
As Hélène's mother was not very well, she could not go with us; so we
set forth together. My emotion was so violent that I was trembling and
could scarcely stand. Hélène, who was, perhaps, quite as much unnerved
as I, showed it less. When we arrived at the entrance door of the vault,
I fainted away.
When I came to myself, I saw Hélène kneeling beside me. I felt her
warm tears fall on my cheek, for she was holding my head in her two
hands. For the very first time, strange as it may seem, in spite of the
sacredness of the place, in spite of the heartrending thoughts with
which I was prepared to be overcome, for the first time in my life I was
struck with Hélène's beauty. This first sensation passed rapidly as a
dream, and my deep sadness again possessed me. I remained weeping for a
long time, and then we returned to the château.
After that I went with Hélène almost daily to the cemetery, and,
instead of my sharp and violent grief, I began to indulge in a sweet
melancholy, which was not without a certain charm. I began to admit to
myself with a sense of pleasure that I was ineffably grateful for the
memory of my father, and I blessed him with pious admiration for having
been able to show me always such deep and far-seeing affection, having
such terrible convictions as he had on the forgetfulness of the living
for those who are no longer among them.
Emerging from my state of stupor, I began at length to appreciate the
splendid position that he had made for me, and I promised that I would
remain eternally grateful to him, but after awhile, as I began to
contemplate my position in all its brilliancy, I would sometimes
tremble, as I thought I discovered in the depths of my mind a frightful
reaction of egotistic satisfaction.
I have told what a long time it was before I began to notice Hélène's
beauty. Though this may have been strange, you must remember that she
had always seemed to me like a sister. When I had started on my travels
she was at a convent school, almost a child; and during the last few
months of my father's life I had been so cruelly preoccupied with his
sufferings, and Hélène had shown such a devoted and filial affection
for him, that the sort of fraternal feeling I cherished for her had
never changed.
Hélène was three years younger than I; she was blonde and pale; her
manner was kindly, but cold, and her large blue eyes, her aquiline nose,
her large, fine forehead often bent forwards, gave her an imposing and,
at the same time, a melancholy expression. As a child she had always
been quiet; hers was a silent and self-contained nature, indifferent to
the joys and pleasures of her age; always very sedentary and very
nonchalant, she laughed seldom, and dreamed a great deal. Her eyebrows
were of a darker shade of blonde than her magnificent hair,--they were
thick, and perhaps too well marked. Her foot was charming, and her hand,
though rather long, was of antique beauty; her tall, slight, and willowy
figure was remarkably perfect, but she held herself very badly, and
almost always, through indolence, kept her white and round shoulders
bowed forwards, in spite of her mother's continual scoldings. As to her
mind, I had never paid any attention to it before; she had always shown
herself thoughtful and solicitous in the affection she evinced towards
my father, and, as I have said, her behaviour to me was always of a
sisterly kind.
She was altogether of an affectionate and tender nature, charitable and
benevolent towards every one, but she was very proud and high-spirited
at times, and extremely susceptible to the slightest allusion she
suspected any one about to make on the subject of her poverty. I very
well remember that, before my father's death, Hélène had sulked at me
for quite a long time because I had been stupid and thoughtless enough
to say before her that young girls without fortunes were almost always
from their birth destined for gouty old fellows who were tired of
society, and wanted some nice young girl of good family who would be
willing to pass the rest of her life in their peevish society.
Hélène's mother, who was my father's sister, was a weak, heedless
woman, but she was good, witty, and very _distinguée._ Her husband held
for a long time a high diplomatic position, but being very prodigal, a
gambler, loving display and all that was luxurious, in his desire to
represent his country as sumptuously as possible, he had entirely wasted
his own fortune as well as that of his wife; so that the latter was left
at his death, if not in absolute poverty, at least in honourable but
poor circumstances.
I had never in my life taken into consideration the disproportion of
fortune that existed between Hélène and myself. Neither did I think
about it at all, when I began to notice her beauty, for I believe that
one of the most salient traits of the young who find themselves rich
without any labour is to try to colour everything with a golden tinge
reflected from their own gay prism.
From the moment when I saw that Hélène was beautiful, without
attempting to analyse the sentiment I was perhaps already beginning to
feel, I became quite another being; I shortened the duration of my
horseback rides, I began to be very careful as to my toilet, and often
felt ashamed when I remembered my former negligent ways in regard to
dress.
My aunt had a friend who was also a widow and the mother of a daughter
about Hélène's age. This daughter was threatened with serious lung
trouble, which caused her mother the greatest alarm and distress. I had
heard my aunt speak of her poor friend, and instinctively feeling that I
would have more opportunities of being alone with Hélène, were our
family circle larger, I asked my aunt to invite her friend and her
daughter to come to Serval, and remain for some time where the air was
perfectly pure. My aunt accepted this invitation joyfully, and very soon
Madame de Verteuil and her daughter, a poor child of eighteen, not at
all pretty, but with such a look of suffering resignation as to be
deeply interesting, came to live with us at the château.