THE AVOWAL
Two months after the arrival of Madame de Verteuil at Serval, the sad
aspect of the ancient house was entirely changed; to my eyes all was
blooming, gay, radiant,--I was in love with Hélène.
Several of our neighbouring landowners, who had been alienated by my
father's misanthropic disposition, made friendly advances towards me,
and I felt so perfectly happy that, with the easy good nature happiness
brings, which really is indifference for all that does not concern our
love, I accepted their kindly visits, and very soon Serval, without
being gay, was at least much more cheerful and lively than it had been
for many a long year.
I was so entirely absorbed in my love that I scarcely gave a thought to
the great change that had taken place in my grief. It was just nine
months since I had lost my father, and already the remembrance of his
death, at first so constant and so bitter, was beginning little by
little to fade away. I had begun by going every morning to the cemetery,
then I went only once in awhile, sometime later I substituted for this
pious visit some few hours spent in meditation before my father's
portrait. I had caused this portrait to be placed in a frame which
closed with two folding panels, thinking it a profanation to leave the
image of those we hold most dear exposed to the gaze of the thoughtless
and indifferent; besides, I considered that such contemplation, from
which we hope to receive elevated and serious thoughts, should be
premeditated and not due to our having by chance given a hasty look at
the beloved face. The frame which contained the portrait became for me,
thus, a sort of tabernacle, which I never opened without a solemn and
pious sense of meditation. But alas! these contemplations, daily at
first, soon became less frequent, from the very fact that my eyes could
not become accustomed to look with indifference on this sacred image,
which I gazed on more and more rarely. I can never explain the almost
frightened impression with which I would unlock the panels: my heart
would beat violently on beholding the pale and stern face of my father,
who seemed to step out of the canvas with his imposing look of calmness
and sadness, and to reproach me for my ingratitude and forgetfulness of
his memory, which, alas! he had predicted.
Then, quite terrified, I would close the frame suddenly, and would weep
bitter tears over my indifference; but these harrowing regrets lasted
but a short time, and I would be overcome with shame as I said to
myself: "For the time being I am grievously distressed, and yet
to-morrow, this evening perhaps, I shall have forgotten him altogether
and shall be smiling and happy in the society of Hélène."
No, nothing can give an idea of the painful resentment such a thought
caused me. It was an insult to my grief, showing me the uselessness of
it, even at the very moment of my truest and most heartbroken despair.
At last, I tell it to my shame, having gone a whole month without
opening the picture-frame, I had the inconceivable cowardice to really
dread a sight of it, so much did I fear this sort of apparition. At a
later day I braved it, however, and you will see how the act,
insignificant as it was, reacted on all my ensuing destiny.
These impressions, which I can now coldly analyse, excited and confused
me at the time; but though I was steeped in the intoxication of a first
love, I could yet feel their painful and deadening influence.
I have said that I loved Hélène; the phases of this love were very
strange, and revealed to me feelings of the most miserable selfishness,
pride, and incredulity, which, until then, had been dormant in my heart.
Never, alas! will I dare to blame my father for having given me those
terrible counsels of which I have spoken. My future happiness was his
most ardent desire, but as certain vigorous wild plants, transplanted
into a soil too poor to nourish them, exhaust it quickly, and fade away
before bearing either flower or fruit, so my moral nature was evidently
not strong enough to profit by such formidable teachings. In the case of
my father, these fierce and sombre convictions blossomed at least with
flowers of benevolence and pardon for all; in my case the generous and
hardy sap was wanting, and the stalk was destined to remain in all the
barren nakedness of its dried-up bark, and never to bring forth a
flower.
Let us return to Hélène, even though some of these recollections now
cause me to blush for shame.
It was my heart's first love, and, like every first love, it was naïf,
thoughtless, careless, allowing itself to float idly on the smiling and
pure stream of passion, lulled by the harmony of the first wakenings of
the heart, and, like the old mythological emblem, with eyes closed for
fear of seeing the horizon.
These three months, with their freedom from all thought of the future,
were, nevertheless, delightful, and it is with delight that I recall the
smallest detail of their happy moments. Soon after the arrival of Madame
de Verteuil and her daughter at Serval, I asked Hélène one day to ride
on horseback, like her friend, who took that exercise for her health. I
had caused two very gentle ponies to be brought from England, for
Hélène was extremely timid. Before I could prevail on her to accompany
Mlle. de Verteuil and myself on one of our excursions outside of the
park limits, it was necessary, in order to overcome her first alarms,
for me to walk beside her pony for quite a long time.
Nothing could be more charming than the little shadows of fear that
would creep over her lovely face, the upper half of which, shaded from
the sun by a large straw hat, was seen in a luminous golden half
obscurity, while her red lips and rosy chin shone in the bright
sunshine. She always wore white dresses and a wide gray moiré sash to
mark the waist, which was so slender and flexible that she would bend
like a reed before the breeze at each jolt of the little black Scotch
pony, whose thick mane and long tail went streaming in the wind.
[Illustration]
I held the bridle, and Hélène, at the least movement of little Black,
would suddenly place her hand on my shoulder. This foolish timidity
caused much merriment to Mlle. de Verteuil, who, much braver than her
friend, and wishing to encourage her, would often gallop off and leave
us alone.
We usually took these promenades on the green turf of a long avenue of
leafy oak-trees. As long as Mlle. de Verteuil remained with us I was gay
and talkative, and Hélène, who was naturally dreamy, would brighten up
and become quite animated; but as soon as Sophie left us we fell into
interminable silences, of which I was quite ashamed, but which seemed to
me perfectly blissful.
I soon afterwards wrote to a friend in London to send me some fine
horses, several grooms, and two or three carriages of different sorts.
My season of mourning was about to end. The arrival of all these
equipages made a sort of little fête at Serval. I had kept it a secret,
and I well remember Hélène's childish and simple pleasure, when one
beautiful evening in August, upon expressing a wish to drive in the
forest, she saw, instead of one of our ordinary carriages, a charming
calèche, with four black horses, harnessed _en d'Aumont_, and mounted
by two little English postilions, dressed in pearl gray velveteen.
She climbed into the chariot, accompanied by her mother and her friend.
I rode beside them on horseback through that magnificent forest, and we
returned slowly to the château, in the beautiful moonlight, which shone
so picturesquely through the long, dark avenues of grand old trees.
While speaking of this drive, I should wish to state that I have never
met with a woman who seemed more in keeping with luxurious surroundings,
or, rather, one who heightened the effect of luxury more than Hélène;
she possessed such stateliness, joined to such an enchanting and
involuntary grace, that it was impossible to think of her except as
constantly surrounded by every object of the best and most cultivated
taste.
Thus without being extraordinarily beautiful, Hélène would have become
one of those rare women, whose dress, equipage or home, we never think
of admiring, no matter how supremely elegant they all may be,--the
pervading woman harmonising and assimilating all these beautiful
accessories. So many people are simply an advertisement of, or a
contrast to, their wealth, and so few know how to cast upon their luxury
that beautiful reflection, which, like a ray of sunshine, embellishes
even the most magnificent object!
One evening, on returning from our drive, and as we were waiting for tea
to be served, Hélène proposed that we should remain without lights in
the salon, and that the windows should be opened so that the soft rays
of the moonlight might shine into the room; to this her mother gave
consent. Nothing was ever more melancholy than this vast apartment thus
illuminated; so that from talking gaily, we gradually all became silent.
My aunt had spoken of my father; this remembrance saddened us all,
though in different ways: my aunt remembered that she had lost a much
loved brother; Madame de Verteuil, in thinking upon his death,
remembered the state of her daughter's health, and the sad fate which
probably menaced her; while I was once more overcome with shame of my
guilty forgetfulness.
We were soon all perfectly silent; I was seated beside Hélène, my head
on my hands. I know not why, but I began to reproach myself for the
display I was already beginning to make. I experienced a puerile remorse
in thinking how, instead of taking our drive in the great heavy carriage
that had belonged to my father, with his faithful old servants seated on
the box, I had been riding in a light, elegant, modern turnout, with
foreigners seated on the backs of my horses. Certainly nothing could be
sillier or more inane than such ideas, and yet they affected me quite
painfully.
After some time passed in reflection, I let my hand fall on to the arm
of my chair, and found that I had placed it on the hand of Hélène; I
blushed, and my heart began to beat strangely. When Hélène felt my
hand, hers became suddenly cold, as though all the blood in her veins
had rushed towards her heart. I dared neither take away my hand nor
press hers, which I could feel growing warmer and warmer until presently
it became burning hot. By the nervous trembling of her beautiful arm I
could count the throbbing of her breast. I was entirely overcome and was
filled with both unutterable joy and sadness.
Oh, ingenuous serenity of first emotion, what can ever replace thee! Oh,
spring, so pure at thy source! How delicious is thy cool freshness when
murmuring peacefully along, furtive and undiscovered, under the tufts of
green leaves; but, alas! how soon does all this charm vanish when,
coming boldly out of the shade and reflecting alike every shore, the
current of thy troubled waters is soiled by the débris they carry
along.
I loved Hélène passionately, I idolised her, and yet, I had not dared
as yet to make her an avowal of my love.
One day when we were out walking with Mlle. de Verteuil, who had been at
the convent school with Hélène, we began by I know not what chance to
speak of anniversaries and fêtes; suddenly Sophie de Verteuil
exclaimed, as she looked towards me: "Do you remember, Hélène, our
great excitement when we were little girls and celebrated _his_ fête?"
Hélène blushed scarlet, and, with a shrug, replied to her friend, "I
don't understand you." The poor child said no more, and we came back
home quite soberly.
The next day, meeting Mlle. de Verteuil in the library, I asked her to
tell me the meaning of those words which had, the day before, made such
an impression on Hélène. After hesitating a long time, she ended by
avowing that, when at the convent, Hélène had every year celebrated my
fête with childish solemnity. The preparations consisted in buying a
great bouquet of flowers, that she tied up with a fine ribbon, on which
she had mysteriously embroidered the initials of my name; after which
she would place the bouquet in an old marble vase, which stood in a
lonely corner of the convent garden; here she would spend the hours of
her recreation in prayer before her shrine, begging God to grant me a
prosperous voyage.
Mlle. de Verteuil never tired in telling me of Hélène's terror of
being surprised whilst embroidering the ribbon, and of her thousand and
one attempts (sometimes unsuccessful) to procure a fine enough bunch of
flowers.
How can I tell how it came about that these childish doings told so
simply by Mlle. de Verteuil filled me with delighted surprise and
touched me to the heart? For before starting on my voyage, during a
short visit that Hélène made to Serval, I had never considered her as
anything but a child.
From the evening when I had, by accident, felt her hand under mine,
Hélène appeared to avoid me; her habitual taciturnity became greater;
her manner, until then sweet and equable, became brusque; she would
remain for hours shut up in her own room with the blinds closed in
perfect obscurity.
I was very unhappy myself; I was restless and preoccupied; I believed
that an avowal on my part was all that was wanting to render Hélène
calm and happy; but a timidity which I was not able to overcome sealed
my lips to such a declaration.
One evening, however, when Hélène was less dejected and less sad than
usual, I went with her for a horseback ride. I vowed to myself that I
would have the courage to tell her of my love,--I would tell it as soon
as we were riding in the great avenue of oaks I have spoken about. We
arrived there,--my heart beat fearfully, but I dared not speak.
Ashamed and mortified, I came to a new decision, and I told myself that
the marble temple at the end of the avenue should be the place where I
would make a second attempt.
When we arrived there, I became dizzy, my heart seemed to stop beating,
I could only say in a choking voice, "Hélène!" then I became dumb.
She turned her great moist eyes on me; she appeared paler than usual;
her bosom heaved; she looked at me as though her gaze would penetrate
the depths of my heart.
"Oh, Hélène!" I began again, and I know not what insurmountable
timidity prevented me from saying a single word more.
She then, with a look of grief and despair I can never forget, cried
out, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable always!"
Then, as if frightened at her own words, she gave a stroke of the whip
to her pony, and dashed off at a gallop. Rooted to the spot, I watched
her as she rode, and saw her rapidly approaching a gate which closed the
end of the avenue. I sat there and shuddered; but she, who was usually
such a coward, jumped her horse over the barrier at a single bound, and
I soon lost sight of her in the depths of the forest.
When I found myself alone, the words uttered by Hélène with so much
bitterness, "Ah, you will never love any one! You will be miserable for
ever!" caused me a grievous sense of pain. I understood now that my
silence had amounted almost to a declaration of love.
Then at last, remembering her confusion and her reticence, I began to
believe that she also loved me, and the sort of avowal she had made
filled me with such delight that, intoxicated with joy, I wandered about
here and there like a crazy man, with no thought, no plan for the
future, but happy,--oh, who can tell how happy?--ineffably happy and
radiantly proud.
At last, night having come, I returned to the château. On entering the
parlour, Hélène was there; her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shone
with a strange light; seated at the piano she was playing very slowly,
and with great expression, "The Last Thought," by Weber, that musical
phrase of so much sweetness and melancholy. When Hélène saw me she
said, "Come, admit that I frightened you, did I not?" And, without
waiting for me to answer, she stopped playing the morceau, as though
fearing it might betray the sadness of her thoughts. She began a
brilliant waltz, singing to the music from time to time with a voice
which was noticeably tremulous.
Her mother and Mlle. de Verteuil looked at each other, as stupefied as
myself by this sudden access of gaiety, which was so unlike Hélène.
Hélène paid no attention, but continued playing her waltz with all the
noisy liveliness of a child.
Somehow all this unnatural joyfulness wounded and shocked me, so wild
did Hélène appear. In fact, after this spasmodic behavior had gone on
about half an hour, she became suddenly very pale and then fainted away.
A week after this scene Hélène knew of my love and had acknowledged
her love for me.