"Dear boy!" she murmured, as she withdrew.
I stopped on the threshold of the door opposite, turned around, and
watched her gentle and still erect figure disappear.
I felt an indescribable sensation, similar, without doubt, to that which
I should have felt had the entire house collapsed about me in an
explosion. In me, about me, all fell, sank irresistibly into an abyss.
*XI.*
Who has not at times heard some unfortunate being say: "In one hour I
lived ten years." It is something inconceivable. Well, I understand
it. During that short interview with my mother, so peaceful apparently,
had I not lived ten years? The acceleration of the inner life of man is
the most prodigious and frightful phenomenon there is in the world.
What must be done? I was seized by frenzied desires to flee far away in
the night, or to run to my room and lock myself in, to remain alone to
contemplate my ruin, to review its extent. But I was able to resist.
It was on that night that the superiority of my nature was revealed, was
able to shake off every atrocious torture of my most virile faculties.
And I thought: "It is absolutely necessary that none of my actions
should seem singular or inexplicable, either to my mother or to my
brother, or anyone else in this house."
I stopped before the door of Juliana's room, powerless to repress the
physical trembling that shook me. But the sound of a footstep in the
corridor determined me to resolutely enter.
Miss Edith emerged from the alcove, on tiptoe. She made me a sign to
make no noise, and said, in a low voice:
"She is going to sleep."
And she went out, softly closing the door behind her.
The lamp burned with a tranquil and even light, suspended from the
centre of the ceiling. Across a seat was thrown the amaranthine cloak;
on another, the black satin corset, the corset that, at the Lilacs,
Juliana had removed during my brief absence; across another chair, the
gray gown, the same that she had worn with so much distinction in the
beautiful forest of flowering lilacs. The sight of these objects upset
me so that I felt a new desire to flee. But I walked toward the alcove,
and drew aside the curtains. I saw the bed; I saw the dark spot on the
pillow made by the hair, but not the face; I saw the form of the body
huddled up beneath the covers. In my mind the brutal truth presented
itself with the most ignoble reality. "She has been possessed by
another." And a series of odious physical visions passed before the
eyes of my soul, those eyes that I had not the power to close. And
these were, not only the visions of the things accomplished, but also
those that must necessarily take place. I was forced to see, with
inexorable precision, what was about to happen to Juliana--my Dream! my
Ideal!
Who could have imagined a more cruel punishment? And all was true, all
was _certain_!
When the pain exceeds the strength, one instinctively seeks in doubt a
momentary extenuation of the intolerable suffering; one thinks: "Perhaps
I am mistaken, perhaps my misfortune is not such as it appears to be,
perhaps this excess of pain is groundless?" And to prolong the respite,
one's perplexed intelligence is applied to gain a more exact idea of the
reality. But I, I had not a single moment of doubt, I had not a single
moment of incertitude.
It is impossible for me to explain the phenomenon that developed in my
consciousness, which had become extraordinarily lucid. It seemed that,
spontaneously, by a secret process realized in the dark sphere of the
inner being, all the unperceived symptoms that had connection with the
horrible thing were cooerdinated to form a logical idea, complete,
rational, definite, irrefutable; and now, that idea manifested itself
all at once, surged up in my consciousness with the rapidity of a
fragment of cork which, no longer retained at the bottom of water by
hidden bonds, floats to the surface, there to remain, insubmersible.
Every symptom, every proof, was there, in perfect order. No effort was
needed to find them, to choose them, to group them. Insignificant and
distant facts were illuminated by a new light; fragments of recent life
regained their color. The unaccustomed aversion of Juliana for flowers,
for odors, her strange agitations, her ill-dissimulated nauseas, her
sudden pallors, that sort of continual preoccupation visible between her
eyebrows, the great fatigue indicated by certain positions; and besides,
the pages marked by the nail in the Russian book, the reproach of the
old man to the Count Besoukhow, the supreme question of the little
Princess Lisa, and that gesture with which Juliana had taken the book
from my hands; and then the scenes at the Lilacs, the tears, the sobs,
the ambiguous phrases, the sibylline smiles, the almost mournful ardors,
the volubility of language, almost insane, the evocation of death--all
these signs grouped themselves around my mother's words, were engraved
in the centre of my soul.
My mother said: "_It is impossible to be mistaken_. Up to within two or
three days ago, Juliana had denied it, or, at least, _pretended that she
was not certain_.... Knowing how easily you are alarmed, she begged me
to say nothing to you." The truth could not be more evident.
Henceforth, everything was certain!
I entered the alcove and approached the bed. The curtains fell behind
me; the light became feebler. Anxiety suspended my respiration, and all
my blood stood still in my arteries, when I came to the bedside and bent
over to see more closely Juliana's head, almost hidden by the sheet. I
do not know what would have occurred, at this moment, had she raised her
face and spoken.
Was she asleep? The forehead only, as far as the eyebrows, was visible.
I remained there for several minutes, standing, expectant. But was she
asleep? She was motionless, lying on her side. From the mouth, hidden
by the sheet, not the slightest sound of respiration could be heard.
The forehead only, as far as the eyebrows, was uncovered.
What countenance would I have shown had she perceived my presence? The
hour was poorly chosen to interrogate her, for explanations. If she had
suspected that I knew all, to what extremities might she not have been
carried during the night? I was therefore constrained to simulate
tenderness, I was compelled to affect perfect ignorance, to persist in
the expression of sentiments that, a few hours ago, at the Lilacs, had
been spoken in the most gentle words. "This evening, to-night, in your
bed--you will see how kind I will be. I will put you to sleep. All
night long you will sleep on my heart."
On looking around me distractedly, I discovered on the carpet the
slender and polished shoes, on the back of a chair the long, ash-colored
silken hose, the satin garters, another object of secret elegance, all
things that my lover's eyes had already delighted in. And the jealousy
of my senses gnawed me so furiously that it was a miracle that I
restrained myself from throwing myself on Juliana, from awakening her,
from reviling her with the absurd and coarse words which this sudden
rage inspired in me.
I withdrew, tottering, and left the alcove. I thought, with blind
fright: "How will it end?"
I was inclined to go away. "I will go down--I will tell my mother that
Juliana is asleep, that her slumber is very calm; I will tell her that I
need rest. I will take refuge in my room. And to-morrow morning..."
But I remained where I was, perplexed, incapable of crossing the
threshold, assailed by a thousand fears. I turned again toward the
alcove by an abrupt movement, as if I had felt a look fixed on me. It
seemed to me that the curtains were waving; but I was mistaken. And
yet, through the curtains, something like a magnetic shadow came and
penetrated me, something against which I was without resistance. I
reentered the alcove with a shudder.
Juliana still lay in the same attitude. Was she asleep? The forehead
alone, as far as the eyebrows, was uncovered.
I sat down near the bedside, and waited. I looked at that forehead,
white as the sheet, delicate and pure as a host, that _sister's_
forehead, which I had so many times religiously kissed, which my
mother's lips had so many times touched. Not the slightest stain could
be perceived on it. It seemed the same as it ever was. Yet, henceforth,
nothing in the world could remove the stain which my soul's eyes saw on
that white brow!
Certain words which I had spoken in the exaltation of intoxication
recurred to my memory: "I will watch over you, I will read on your face
the dreams that you will dream." I thought also: "She repeated at every
moment: 'Yes, yes.'" I wondered: "What life does she lead internally?
What are her projects? What resolutions has she made?" And I looked at
her forehead. And, ceasing to consider my own pain, I applied all my
powers to picture to myself her pain, to understand her pain.
Truly, her own despair must be frightful, ceaseless, limitless. My
punishment was also her punishment, and perhaps more fearful punishment
still for her than for me. Over there at the Lilacs, in the alley, on
the bench, in the house, she had certainly felt the sincerity of my
words, she had certainly read my sincerity in my face, she had believed
in the greatness of my love.
"_You were in the house, while I sought you afar off_! Oh! tell me, is
not this confession worth all your tears? Do you not wish you had shed
even more, many more, so as to purchase this certitude?"
"Yes, many more."
That is what she had replied, with a sigh that, really, had appeared to
me divine.
"_Yes, many more!_"
She would have liked to shed other tears, she would have liked to suffer
another martyrdom as the price of this avowal! And, when she saw at her
feet, more passionate than ever, the man so long lost and wept for, when
she saw opening before her an unknown paradise, she had felt herself to
be impure, she had the physical sensation of her impurity, she had held
my head on her breast. Ah! it is truly incomprehensible why her tears
have not burned my face, that I have been able to drink them without
being poisoned.
I relived our entire day in an instant; I saw again all the changing
expressions, even the most furtive, that had appeared on Juliana's face
since our arrival at the Lilacs; I understood them all. A great light
illuminated me. Oh! when I spoke to her of the morrow, when I spoke to
her of the future--what terrors that word _to-morrow_, coming from my
lips, must have had! And to my memory recurred the short dialogue that
we had had on the threshold of the balcony, facing the cypress. She had
repeated in a very low voice, with a feeble sigh: "Die!" She had spoken
of approaching death. She had asked: "What would you do if I died
suddenly? If, for instance, I died _to-morrow_?" Later on, in our
room, she had cried, pressing me close: "No, no, Tullio; we must not
speak of the future. Think of to-day, of the passing hour!" By such
actions, by such words, did she not betray a resolution of death, a
tragic design? It was evident that she had resolved to kill herself,
that she would kill herself, perhaps this very night even, before the
inevitable _to-morrow_, since there was no other resource for her.
When the fright that the thought of this imminent peril caused me had
subsided, I reflected: "What would have the gravest consequences,
Juliana's death, or her preservation? Since the ruin is irremediable,
and the abyss bottomless, an immediate catastrophe would, perhaps, be
better than an indefinite continuation of the frightful drama." And, in
imagination, I accompanied the phases of that new maternity, saw the new
being procreated, the intruder who bore my name, who would be my heir,
who would usurp my mother's caresses and those of my daughters, of my
brother. "Assuredly, death only can interrupt the fatal course of these
events. But would the suicide remain secret? By what means would
Juliana take her life? If it were proved that death were voluntary,
what would my mother and brother think? What a blow that would be to my
mother! And Maria? And Natalia? And what would I do, myself?"
The truth is that I could not bring myself to conceive of my own
existence without Juliana. I loved the poor creature even in her
impurity. Excepting that sudden attack of anger which carnal jealousy
had provoked in me, I had never yet felt against her any emotion
whatever of hate, or of rancor, or of contempt. No thought of vengeance
had crossed my soul. On the contrary, I felt a profound compassion for
her. I accepted, since the beginning, all the responsibility of her
fall. A proud and generous sentiment sustained me, exalted me: "She
bent her head beneath my blows, she kept silent, she set me an example
of virile courage, of heroic abnegation. Now, it is my turn. I must
render her the same. I must save her, at any price." And this nobility
of soul, this good impulse, came to me from her.
I drew closer to look at her. She still remained motionless in the same
attitude, with her forehead uncovered. I thought: "Is she asleep?" And
if, on the contrary, she were pretending to be asleep, to remove every
suspicion, to make believe that she is quiet, that she may be left
alone? Assuredly, if it is her project not to live until the morrow, she
is seeking by every means to favor its execution. She simulates
slumber.
"If her sleep were real, she would not be so quiet, so calm, with such
superexcited nerves as she has. I must shake her." But I hesitated.
"If she were really asleep? Sometimes, after a great output of nerve
force, even in the midst of the rudest moral anxieties, one sleeps a
leaden slumber, like a syncope. Oh! that she may slumber until
to-morrow! And to-morrow, that she may arise recovered, be strong
enough to support the explanation that has become inevitable between
us!" I looked fixedly at that brow, white as the sheet, and, on bending
over a little more, I remarked that it was dotted with perspiration. A
bead of perspiration glistened on the eyebrow. And that bead suggested
to me the idea of the cold sweat that indicates the action of narcotic
poisons. A sudden flash of suspicion came upon me. "Morphine!"
Instinctively, my glance turned to the night table, on the other side of
the bed, to look for the small bottle marked with the skull and
cross-bones, familiar symbols of death.
There, on the table, were a water bottle, a glass, a candlestick, a
handkerchief, several glistening pins; that was all. I made a rapid and
complete examination of the alcove. Anguish choked my throat. "Juliana
has morphine; she always has on hand a certain quantity of it in a
liquid state for her injections. I am sure that she has had the idea of
poisoning herself. Where has she hidden the little bottle?" Engraved
in my mind I had the image of the small glass vial that I had seen in
Juliana's hands, ornamented with the sinister label that pharmacists
use, in order to indicate a toxic. My excited imagination suggested to
me: "And if she has already drunk it? That sweat..." I trembled on my
seat, and I felt the agitation of a rapid debate. "But when? How? She
has not been left alone. It requires only an instant to empty a bottle.
Yet, without doubt, she would have vomited.... And that attack of
convulsive vomiting, just now, when she arrived at the house?
Premeditating suicide, she had doubtless carried the morphine with her.
Was it not possible that she had drunk it before arriving at the
Badiola, in the carriage, in the dark? In fact, she had prevented
Federico from going for the doctor." I understood but imperfectly the
symptoms of morphine poisoning. In my ignorance, that white and moist
brow, that perfect immobility, overwhelmed me. I was on the point of
arousing her. "But if I am mistaken? She will awake, and what will I
have to say to her?" It seemed to me that the first word, that the
first look exchanged between us, must produce on me an extraordinary
effect, of an unforeseen, unimaginable violence. It seemed to me that I
would not have the power to control myself, to dissimulate, and that on
looking at me she would divine immediately that I knew all. And then?
I strained my ear, hoping and fearing my mother's coming. And then (I
would not have trembled so strongly on raising the edge of a shroud to
see the face of a dead person), I slowly uncovered Juliana's face.
She opened her eyes.
"Ah! Is it you, Tullio?"
Her voice was natural. And I most unexpectedly could speak.
"Were you asleep?" I said, avoiding her eyes.
"Yes, I dozed off."
"Then I awoke you.... Forgive me. I wished to uncover your mouth. I
feared that your breathing might be impeded--that the coverlid would
suffocate you."
"Yes, that is true. I am warm now, too warm. Remove one of the
coverings, please."
I rose to remove one of the covers. It is impossible for me to define
the state of consciousness in which I accomplished these acts, in which
I pronounced and heard these words, while present during these
incidents, and which happened as naturally as if there had been no
change, as if around us there had been no adultery, no disenchantment,
remorse, jealousy, fear, death, every human atrocity.
"Is it very late?" she asked me.
"No; it is not yet midnight."
"Is mother in bed?"
"No, not yet."
After a pause:
"And you--are you not going to bed? You must be tired."
I knew not what to answer. Should I reply that I would remain? Ask her
permission to stay? Repeat to her the tender words that I had spoken in
the armchair, in _our_ room, at the Lilacs? But, if I remained, how
would _I_ pass the night? There, on the chair, watching her, or else in
the bed, near her? What attitude should I take? Should I be able to
dissimulate to the end?
She went on:
"You had better go, Tullio--to-night.... I need nothing. All I want is
rest. If you remain, it would not do me any good. You had better go,
Tullio, to-night."
"But you might want something."
"No. And, besides, Cristina stays with me."
"I will lie on the sofa."
"Why should you upset yourself? You are very tired: that can be seen in
your face. And, besides, if I knew you were there I could not sleep.
Be good, Tullio! To-morrow morning, early, you may come and see me. We
both need rest, now, complete rest."
Her voice was low and caressing, without any unusual intonation.
Excepting her persistence in persuading me to retire, she exhibited no
other indication of the fatal preoccupation. She seemed crushed, but
calm. From time to time she closed her eyes, as if slumber weighted
down her eyelids. What should I do? Leave her? But it was precisely
her calm that frightened me. Such a calm could only come to her from
the fixity of her resolution. What to do? Everything considered, my
very presence during the night would have been useless if she had
prepared for suicide and provided herself with the means. She could,
without any difficulty, have put her project into execution. Was that
means really morphine? And where had she hidden that little vial?
Beneath her pillow? In the drawer of the night table? How could I look
for it? I should have to speak, to say unexpectedly: "I know that you
want to kill yourself." But what a scene would follow! I could not
have kept silent about the rest. And what a night that would have been!
So many perplexities exhausted my energy, dissolved it.
My nerves were unstrung. The physical fatigue rapidly increased. My
entire organism arrived at that condition of extreme weakness in which
the functions of the will are on the point of being suspended, in which
the actions and reactions cease to correspond, or cease to accomplish
their end. I felt myself incapable of resisting any longer, of
combating, of accomplishing no matter what necessary act. The sensation
of my weakness, the sensation of the fatality of what had happened and
what was about to happen, still paralyzed me; my being seemed to be
struck by a sudden torpor. I felt a blind desire to hide myself again
from the last and obscure consciousness of my being. In short, my
anguish led to this desperate thought: "Come what will, I, too, have the
resource of death."
"Yes, Juliana," I said, "I will leave you in peace. Sleep. We will see
one another to-morrow."
"You can scarcely keep your eyes open."
"No, it is true, I am very tired. Good-by; goodnight."
"Will you not give me a kiss, Tullio?"
A shudder of instinctive repugnance passed through my body. I
hesitated.
At that moment my mother entered.
"What! you are awake?" she cried.
"Yes, but I'm going to sleep again immediately."
"I have been to see the children. Natalia is not asleep. She said: 'Has
mamma come back?' She wanted to come..."
"Why did you not tell Edith to bring her to me? Is Edith already in
bed?"
"No."
"Good night, Juliana," I interrupted.
I approached her, and bent over to kiss the cheek that she offered me,
raising herself a little on her elbow.
"Good night, mother, I am going to bed. My eyes are closing with
sleep."
"Won't you take something? Federico is still waiting for you
down-stairs."
"No, mother; I do not care for anything. Good night."
I also kissed my mother's cheek, and I left hastily, without glancing at
Juliana; I collected the little strength left me, and scarcely had I
crossed the threshold than I began to run to my room, fearing to fall
before I reached the door.
I threw myself on my bed face down. I was seized by that spasm which
precedes great paroxysms of tears, when the suffocation of anguish is
about to burst out, when the tension is about to be relaxed. But the
spasm was protracted, and the tears did not come. It was horrible
suffering. An enormous weight bore my members down, a weight that I
felt, not at the surface, but within, as if my bones and muscles had
become masses of lead. And my brain still thought on! And my
consciousness still remained vigilant!
"No, I must not leave her. No, I must not agree to let her leave me
thus. When my mother retires, she will kill herself--that is sure. Oh,
the sound of her voice, when she expressed the desire to see Natalia!"
A hallucination suddenly seized upon me. My mother left the chamber.
Juliana sat up in bed, and listened intently. Then, certain at last of
being alone, she took the bottle of morphine from the night table. She
did not hesitate a second, but with a determined gesture emptied it at
one gulp, covered herself again with the bedclothes, and lay on her back
to await the end.... The imaginary vision of the cadaver acquired such
an intensity that, like one demented, I arose. I made three or four
turns in the room, hurt myself against the furniture, stumbled over the
carpet, with terrified gestures. I opened a window.
The night was calm, filled with the monotonous and continuous croaking
of frogs. The stars were twinkling. The Great Bear scintillated before
me, very brightly. Time passed.
I remained for several minutes at the balcony, in contemplation, my eyes
fixed on the great constellation that, to my troubled sight, seemed to
come nearer. I did not really know what I expected. My mind wandered.
I had a singular sensation of the space of that immense sky. Suddenly,
during a sort of irresolute suspension, as if, in the depth of
unconsciousness, some obscure effluvium had acted on my being, there
spontaneously surged up in me the question that I had not as yet
understood: "_What have you done to me?_" And the vision of the
cadaver, for an instant forgotten, reappeared before my eyes.
My horror was such that, without knowing what I wished to do, I turned
about, left the room precipitately, and directed my steps towards
Juliana's room.