"It is necessary that you should live."
"Impossible, Tullio," she cried. "Impossible! Have you thought of what
will happen if I live?"
"I have thought of it. It is necessary that you should live."
"What horror!"
And she started violently--an instinctive gesture of fright.
"Listen, Tullio. Henceforth you know everything; henceforth suicide can
no longer serve me to hide my shame from you, nor keep me from appearing
before you. You know all, and here we are together, and we can still
look at one another, we can still speak to one another! The question is
an entirely different one. I no longer seek to elude your vigilance in
order to kill myself. On the contrary, I wish you to help me in
disappearing in the most natural way possible; without awakening any
suspicion around us. I have two poisons--morphine and corrosive
sublimate. But perhaps poisons are useless; it is difficult to conceal
poisoning. And it is necessary that my death should seem to be
involuntary, caused by accident, by a mishap. You understand? It is
the only way out of it. The secret will remain between us two."
She began to speak rapidly, firmly and deliberately, as if she argued in
order to persuade me to consent to some desirable compact and not to a
compact of complicity in the execution of an extravagant project. I let
her go on. A sort of singular fascination rooted me to the
spot--constrained me to look at and listen to the fragile and pale
creature, possessed by such impetuous waves of moral energy.
"Listen, Tullio. I have an idea. Federico told me of your insane ride,
of the danger that you incurred on the bank of the Assoro. He told me
everything. I thought, trembling: 'Who knows what mental torture made
him incur such peril?' Then, as I thought of it, it seemed to me that I
understood. It was like a prophetic revelation. My soul seemed to see a
vision of all the pain that awaited you, pain against which nothing
could guard you, pain that would grow day by day, inconsolable,
intolerable. Ah! Tullio, it is certain that you have already felt this
pain, and that you also foresee your powerlessness to bear it. There is
but one means of salvation for you, for me, for our souls, for our love.
Yes, let me say it--our love; let me still believe in your words of
yesterday; let me repeat that I love you now as I have never loved you
before. And it is precisely for that, precisely because we love each
other, that I must disappear from the world, that you must no longer see
me."
An extraordinary moral elevation heightened her voice and entire person.
A great thrill passed through me; a fugitive illusion seized upon my
mind. For a moment, I really believed that my love and that of this
woman were on an equal plane, of the same ideal, measureless height,
freed from human misery, freed from all sin, irreproachable. I felt, for
several moments, the same sensation that I had felt at the beginning,
when the actual world had seemed to me to have completely vanished.
Then, as always, the inevitable phenomena occurred: this state of
consciousness ceased to be mine, it became objective, became a stranger
to me.
"Listen," she went on, lowering her voice, as if she feared to be
overheard. "I have told Federico that I have a great desire to revisit
the woods, the charcoal-burners, the entire country. To-morrow morning,
Federico will not have the leisure to accompany us because he must
return to Casal Caldore. We two will go, alone. Federico has told me
that I can ride Favilla. When we are on the cliff--I will do what you
did this morning. An accident will happen. Federico told me it is
impossible to be rescued from the Assoro. Will you?"
Although her speech was connected, she seemed a prey to a kind of
delirium. An unaccustomed flush tinged her cheeks; her eyes had an
extraordinary lustre.
The vision of the sinister river flashed rapidly through my mind.
She repeated, bending toward me:
"Will you?"
I arose, and took her hands. I wished to calm her fever. Immense pity
oppressed me. My voice was gentle, grew kind, trembled with
affectionate emotion.
"Poor Juliana! Do not torment yourself thus. You are suffering too
much; your grief has deprived you of your reason, poor soul. You must
be brave; you must not think of the things you have just said. Think of
Maria, of Natalia. As for me, I have accepted the punishment. It is a
punishment that I have well deserved for all the wrongs that I have done
you. I accept it; I will bear it. But you must live. Promise me,
Juliana, in the name of Maria, in the name of Natalia, in the name of
the tenderness that you bear for my mother, in the name of all that I
told you at the Lilacs, promise me that you will in no way seek to kill
yourself."
She kept her head down. Then, all at once, freeing her hands, she
seized mine, and began to kiss them furiously; and I felt on my skin the
warmth of her mouth, the warmth of her tears. And, as I attempted to
disengage myself, she fell from her seat on her knees, without freeing
my hands, sobbing, showing me an agonized face over which the tears
rolled in streams, in which the contraction of the mouth revealed the
inexpressible spasm that convulsed her entire being.
And I, incapable of raising her, incapable of uttering a word,
suffocated by a cruel attack of anguish, overcome by the violence of the
spasm that contracted that poor, pallid mouth, forgetful of all rancor,
of every pride, without any other sensation than that of the blind
terror of life, without seeing in myself and in this crushed woman
anything else than human suffering, the eternal human suffering, the
disaster of inevitable infractions, the weight of brute flesh, the
horror of pitiless fatalities that attach themselves to the very roots
of our being and the infinite physical sorrow of our love, I fell also
on my knees before her, by an instinctive desire to prostrate myself, to
take the same humble attitude as this creature who suffered and who made
me suffer. And I burst into sobs; and, once more, after so long a time,
our tears mingled, burning tears, alas! but powerless to change our
destiny.
*XVI.*
Who will ever be able to describe in words the sensation of stupor and
of desolate aridity which, in man, succeeds tears uselessly shed,
paroxysms of useless hopelessness? Tears are a temporary phenomenon;
each crisis ends in calm, every attack is brief; and, afterwards, man
finds himself exhausted, his heart arid, more than ever convinced of his
own impotence, corporeally stupid and sad, with the impassable reality
before him.
I was the first to cease weeping; I was the first to open my eyes to the
light; I was the first to notice my posture and Juliana's, and of the
surrounding objects. We were still on our knees, one facing the other,
on the carpet. A few sobs still shook her. The candle was burning on
the table, and every now and then its tiny flame flickered and bent as
if under the breath of a breeze. In the silence my ear perceived the
slight sound of a watch which was somewhere in the room. Life rolled
on; time passed. My soul was empty and solitary.
After the violence of the emotion had subsided, after the intoxication
of the pain had become dissipated, our attitudes signified nothing any
more, had no longer a _raison d'etre_. I must rise, raise up Juliana,
say something, definitely close this scene; but I felt for all this a
strange repugnance. It seemed to me that I had become incapable of the
slightest physical or moral effort. I was vexed at being there, at
having to submit to these necessities, at meeting with these
difficulties, at not having the strength to leave my position. And a
sort of deep rancor against Juliana began to stir confusedly in the
depths of my being.
I arose. I assisted her to arise. Each of the sobs that, from time to
time, still shook her, increased in me this inexplicable rancor.
It is then quite true that certain germs of hate are dissimulated at the
bottom of every sentiment which unites two human creatures; that is to
say, which connects two egoisms? It is then quite true that these germs
of inevitable hate disturb our most affectionate moments, our best
impulses? All there is beautiful in the soul bears in itself a latent
germ of corruption, is condemned to become corrupted.
I said (and I feared that involuntarily the tone of my voice was not
sufficiently gentle):
"Be calm, Juliana. The moment has come to be courageous. Come, sit
down. Be calm. Will you have a drink of water? Will you smell some
salts? Answer!"
"Yes, give me a little water. You will find it in the alcove on the
night table."
Her voice was still tearful; and she dried her face with a handkerchief,
seated on a low divan, facing the large mirror of a closet. She had not
ceased sobbing convulsively.
I entered the alcove to get the glass. I perceived the bed in the
shadow. It was already made; a corner of the covers was raised and
thrown back, a long white night-dress was laid close to the pillow.
Immediately my subtle and keen sense of smell detected the slight
perfume of the batiste, a faint odor of orris and violet, so familiar to
me. The sight of the bed, the odor of the familiar perfume, disturbed me
deeply. I hastened to pour out the water, and I left the alcove to take
the glass to Juliana, who was waiting.
She swallowed a few mouthfuls, a little at a time, while I, standing
before her, attentively observed the movement of her mouth.
"Thank you, Tullio," she said.
She gave me back the glass, still half full. As I was thirsty, I drank
the water which remained. That mechanical action sufficed to increase
my agitation. I sat down, in my turn, on the divan. And we remained
silent, both absorbed in our reflections, separated only by a short
distance.
The divan with our figures was reflected in the mirror of the closet.
We could see each other's faces without looking at one another, but
rather confusedly, because the light was feeble and vacillating. On the
vague surface of the glass I intently examined Juliana's silhouette,
which, in its immobility, gradually acquired a mysterious aspect, the
disquieting fascination of certain women's portraits obscured by time,
the intensity of fictitious life possessed by beings born of a
hallucination. And, gradually, this distant image seemed to me more
living than the real person. Gradually I saw in that image the caressing
wife, the voluptuous woman, the mistress, the unfaithful one.
I closed my eyes. The Other rose up before me. One of my usual visions
appeared.
I thought: "Up to now, she has made no direct allusion to her fall, to
the circumstances of her fall. She has uttered only one significant
phrase: 'Do you think the sin is grave _when the soul has not
consented?_' And what did that mean? It was only one of those subtle
distinctions to which one has usually recourse to excuse and extenuate
one's treason and infamy. I suffered a nameless torture. The furious
desire to know all racked my soul; the material visions exasperated me.
The Other, since the instant in which he had risen in my thoughts, had
not ceased for a moment to beset my mind. Was it Filippo Arborio? Had I
guessed correctly?"
Suddenly I turned toward Juliana. She looked at me. But the question
choked in my throat. I lowered my eyes, bent my head, and with the same
spasmodic resistance that I should have felt on plucking a fragment of
my flesh from some part of my body, I dared to ask her:
"The name of _that man?_"
My voice, trembling and hoarse, frightened even myself.
At this unexpected demand, Juliana started, but remained silent.
"You do not answer?" I insisted, forcing myself to repress the anger
that was on the point of invading me, that blind anger which, on the
previous night, already had passed over my mind like a whirlwind.
"Ah! My God!" she moaned, despairingly; and she sank down in a heap on
the divan, burying her face in the cushion. "My God! My God!"
But I wished to know; I wished, at any cost, to tear the avowal from
her.
"Do you remember," I went on, "do you remember that morning when I
entered your room unexpectedly, early in November? Do you remember? I
entered without knowing why, perhaps because I heard you singing. You
were singing the air from 'Orphee'; you were preparing to go out. Do
you remember? I saw a book on your dressing-table, I opened it, I read
on the fly-leaf a dedication. It was a novel, _The Secret_. Do you
remember?"
She remained with her face buried in the cushion, and made no reply. I
stooped over her. I trembled with a chill like that which precedes a
fever. I added:
"It is perhaps he?"
She did not answer, but she raised her head with a motion of despair.
She seemed distracted. She made a gesture as if about to throw herself
on me, then stopped, crying:
"Have pity! Have pity! Let me die! What you are making me suffer is
worse than a thousand deaths. I have borne everything, I am capable of
bearing everything; but not that, no, I cannot, I cannot. If I live it
will mean for us both a constant martyrdom--a martyrdom that will daily
become more terrible. And you will begin to hate me, all your hate will
be vented on me. I am sure of it, sure. I have already felt the hate
in your voice. Have pity! Let me die!"
She seemed distracted. She had a furious desire to seize hold of me;
but not daring she twisted her hands in an effort to control herself,
her whole body convulsed. I seized her by the arms, and drew her toward
me.
"So I am to know nothing?" I said to her, speaking almost on her mouth,
now distracted myself, carried away by a cruel instinct that made my
hands rough.
"I love you, I have always loved you, I have always been yours. I
expiate by this hell a moment's weakness--do you understand? _One
moment's weakness_! That is the truth. Cannot you feel that it is the
truth?"
Once more, overwhelmed by the weight of our misfortune, I clasped the
poor trembling creature to my heart and silently kissed away her
scalding tears.
*XVII.*
The external indications of Juliana's condition were not yet visible.
The tie that bound the infant to the mother must be very frail. How was
it that the violent emotions of the day at the Lilacs and of the
following night had not sufficed to provoke a liberating crisis?
Everything was against me, everything conspired against me. And my hate
became more savage. To prevent the birth of the child, such was my
secret design.
And I considered the future with a sort of divining clear-sightedness.
Juliana would give birth to a boy, sole heir of our ancient name. The
son who was not mine would grow up without accident; he would usurp the
love of my mother and my brother; he would be caressed, adored; he would
be preferred to Maria and to Natalia, my own creations. The force of
habit would dull Juliana's remorse; she would abandon herself without
restraint to her maternal feeling. And the son who was not mine would
grow up under her protection, surrounded by her assiduous cares; he
would become robust and handsome; he would become capricious like a
little despot; he would reign in my house. By degrees these visions
became particularized. Such or such an imaginary spectacle took the
shape and motion of an actual scene; such or such a trait of that
imaginary life was impressed so strongly in my consciousness that it
retained there for some time the characteristics of an effective
reality. The child's traits were modified to infinity; his acts, his
gestures, were diversified without cease. At times I represented him to
myself as being thin, pale, taciturn, with a large, heavy head bent on
his chest; at other times I saw him all rosy, plump, gay, chattering,
graceful and coaxing, particularly affectionate toward me, very good; at
other times, on the contrary, he was nervous, bilious, a little
spiteful, full of intelligence and evil instincts, rough with his
sisters, cruel to animals, incapable of tenderness, undisciplinable.
This last image ended by dominating all the others, eliminated them by
becoming more lasting, fixed itself into a precise type, became animated
with an intense chimerical life, ended by taking a name: the name that I
had long since chosen for the male heir, my father's name, Raymond.
That little perverse phantom was a direct emanation of my hate, and he
bore against me a hostility equal to that I had for him. He was an
enemy, an adversary, with whom I was about to begin a struggle. He was
my victim, and I was his. I could not escape from him; he could not
escape from me. We were both shut in as it were in a circle of iron.
He had gray eyes like Filippo Arborio. Among the various expressions of
his face one struck me above all, in an imaginary scene that often arose
before me. This scene is as follows: I entered a room filled with
darkness, with strange silence. I thought I was alone there. All at
once, on turning round, I perceived Raymond looking at me fixedly with
his gray and wicked eyes. Suddenly the temptation to commit the crime
assailed me so strongly that, so as not to throw myself on the malefic
being, I took to flight.
*XVIII.*
Between Juliana and me the compact appeared concluded. She lived. We
both continued to live, simulating and dissimulating. Like
dipsomaniacs, we had two alternate lives: the one tranquil, made up
entirely of gentle appearances, of filial tendernesses, pure affection,
reciprocal complaisances; the other agitated, feverish, troubled,
uncertain, hopeless, a prey to a fixed idea, forever pursued by a
menace, precipitated toward an unknown catastrophe. There were rare
moments when my soul, seeking to avoid so much misery, to free itself
from the curse that enveloped it like a thousand tentacles, burst forth
with an aspiration toward the highest ideal of goodness, a glimpse of
which I had more than once had. My memory recalled to me the singular
words of my brother at the entrance to Assoro forest on the subject of
Giovanni di Scordio: "_You will do well, Tullio, not to forget that
smile._" And that smile on the old man's withered mouth acquired a
profound significance, became extraordinarily luminous, exalted me like
the revelation of a supreme verity.
Almost always, during these rare moments, I also saw another smile, that
of Juliana lying ill on her pillows, that unexpected smile, which
decreased, decreased, without disappearing. And the remembrance of the
distant peaceful afternoon when I had intoxicated the poor invalid with
deceptive transports, the recollection of the morning when she rose for
the first time and when, in the middle of the room, she had fallen into
my arms, laughing and panting, the recollection of the truly divine
gesture with which she had offered me love, indulgence, peace, dreams,
forgetfulness, all that there is beautiful and all that there is good,
caused me hopeless regrets and infinite remorse. The sweet and terrible
question that Andre Bolkonsky had read on the dead face of the Princess
Lisa, I read unceasingly on the still living face of Juliana. "What
have you done to me?" No reproach had issued from her lips; she had not
attempted to lessen the gravity of her sin, to interpose any one of my
own infamies; she had been humble before her executioner; not a drop of
bitterness had tinged her words. And yet her eyes repeated to me, "What
have you done to me?"
A strange sacrificial ardor suddenly fired me, impelled me to take up my
cross. The grandeur of the expiation seemed worthy of my courage. I
felt in myself a superabundance of strength, a heroic soul, an inspired
intelligence. On going toward the sorrowful sister, I thought: "I will
find the kind words that will console her, I will find the fraternal
tones that will alleviate her pain, that will clear her brow." But
directly I entered her presence, I could no longer speak; my lips seemed
sealed with an infrangible seal, all my being seemed stricken by a
malefice. The internal light suddenly died out, as if extinguished by
an icy wind of unknown origin. And in the shadows began to move vaguely
that dull rancor which I had so often felt and which I was powerless to
repress.
It was the symptom of an attack. I stammered a few incoherent words. I
avoided Juliana's eyes, and I fled from the room.
*XIX.*
It is unbelievable how much energy she displayed in dissimulating before
those who were ignorant of the facts. She still succeeded in smiling!
My known anxiety for her health furnished me with a pretext that
justified a certain sadness that I could not succeed in disguising.
This anxiety, shared by my mother and by my brother, resulted in the
coming event not being looked upon as cause for rejoicing, as the
previous births had been, and everyone avoided making the usual
allusions or predictions. I was grateful for that.
Finally, Dr. Vebesti arrived at the Badiola.
His visit reassured us. He said Juliana was very much run down; he
noticed in her a slight nervous irritability, an impoverishment of the
blood, a general disturbance of the nutritive functions; but he affirmed
that the progress of the gestation presented no notable anomaly, and
that, when the general condition was improved, delivery could take place
under normal conditions. Besides, he gave us to understand that he
placed considerable confidence in Juliana's exceptional temperament,
whose extraordinary power of resistance he had had occasion to test in
the past. He prescribed careful hygiene and a reconstructive diet,
approved of the stay at the Badiola, recommended regularity, moderate
exercise, and tranquillity of mind.
"I count particularly on you," he said to me, seriously.
It was a disappointment to me. I had placed in him a hope of salvation,
and, lo, I had lost it. Before his arrival, I nourished this hope: "If
he would only declare it necessary, in order to preserve the mother, to
sacrifice the still formless child! If he would only declare it
necessary, in order to avoid a certain catastrophe at the completion of
the term, to have recourse to extreme measures and suppress the child!
Juliana would be saved, she would get well; and I too would be saved, I
should feel as if reborn. It would be possible, I believe, to almost
forget, or at least to be resigned. Time heals so many wounds, and work
consoles so many sorrows! I could, I believe, gradually recover my
peace, and turn over a new leaf, follow my brother's example, become
better, become a man, live for others, embrace the new religion. I
believe that my very sorrow could help me in regaining my dignity. The
man to whom it is given to suffer more than others is also _worthy_ of
suffering more than others. Is not that a verse from my brother's
evangel? There is, then, an election for pain. Giovanni di Scordio,
for instance, is one of the elect. To possess such a smile is to
possess a divine gift. I could, I believe, merit that gift." Such had
been my hope. By a curious contradiction, I had hoped by my expiatory
fervor to obtain a diminution of my punishment!
In fact, though I wished to be regenerated by my suffering, I was afraid
to suffer, I had an atrocious fear of facing actual pain. My soul was
already exhausted; although it had caught a glimpse of the true road and
had been agitated by Christian aspirations, it stole away by an oblique
path that led straight to the inevitable abyss.
While speaking with the doctor, when showing a slight incredulity at his
reassuring predictions, by manifesting anxiety, I found the means of
conveying my thoughts to him. I made him understand that I desired him,
at any cost, to free Juliana from all danger, and that, if it were
necessary, I would renounce this new offspring without regret. I begged
him to speak to me frankly.
He reassured me a second time. He declared to me that, even in a
hopeless case, he would not have recourse to extremes because, in the
state that Juliana was in, a hemorrhage would be very dangerous. He
repeated again that, above all, we must aid and stimulate the
regeneration of the blood, reconstitute the debilitated organism,
contrive, by every means in our power, that the mother should arrive at
the natural term of gestation with her strength restored, with a
confident and tranquil mind. He concluded:
"I believe that your wife requires moral consolation more than anything
else. I am an old friend. I know that she has suffered much. It
depends on you to pacify her mind."
*XX.*
My mother redoubled her tenderness for Juliana. She let her know her
cherished dream and her presentiment. It was a grandson whom she
awaited, a little Raymond. She was sure, this time.
My brother, too, expected Raymond.
Maria and Natalia often asked their mother, and grandmother, and me,
artless questions concerning their future companion.
Thus the domestic love, expressed by presages, wishes, and hopes, began
to surround the invisible fruit, the being that was yet without form.
One day we were seated, Juliana and I, beneath the elms. My mother had
just left us. During her affectionate chat, she had named Raymond; she
had even brought again into use a pet name that called up distant
memories of my dead father. Juliana and I answered her by a smile. She
believed that we shared her dream, and she had left in order that we
might go on dreaming undisturbed.
It was the calm and limpid hour that follows the sunset. Above our
heads, the foliage was motionless. From time to time a flock of
swallows rapidly cleft the air with a sound of beating wings, with
piercing cries, as at the Lilacs.
Our eyes followed the sainted woman as long as she was visible; then we
looked at one another, silently, in consternation. We remained for
several minutes without breaking the silence, crushed by the immensity
of our sorrow. And then, with a terrible effort of my entire being,
making an abstraction of Juliana, I felt the little creature living
alone at my side, as if, at that moment, no other creature existed near
me, had existed around me. And it was not an illusory sensation, but a
real and profound sensation. A thrill of horror ran through all my
fibres; I started violently and fixed my eyes on my companion's face in
order to dissipate the sensation. We looked at one another, without
knowing what to say or do to combat the excess of our anguish. I saw in
her face the reflection of my distress, I divined my own physiognomy.
My eyes turned instinctively toward her body; and I perceived on her
face the same expression of terror exhibited by invalids afflicted by a
monstrous infirmity, when one looks at the member deformed by an
incurable malady.
After a pause, during which we both tried in vain to measure our
suffering, she said, in a low voice:
"Have you thought that this may endure as long as we live?"
My lips remained closed; it was only within myself that was heard the
determined answer:
"No, it will not last."
She went on:
"Remember that, with a single word, you can solve the difficulty and
free yourself. I am ready. Remember."
I still remained silent, but I thought: "No, it is not you who must
die."
She went on, in a voice that tearful tenderness rendered trembling:
"I cannot console you; there is consolation neither for you nor for me;
there will never be any. Have you thought that someone will always be
between us? If your mother's wish is granted-- Think! Think!"
But my soul shuddered beneath the sinister light of a single idea. I
said: "They all love him already."
I hesitated. I gave Juliana a rapid look. Then, suddenly, lowering my
eyes, bending my head, I asked, in a voice that died away on my lips:
"And you, do you love him?"
"Oh! what a question!"
I could not restrain myself from persisting, although I suffered
physically as if an open wound were being torn by nails.
"Do you love him?"
"No, no! I have a horror of him."
I felt an instinctive joy, as if I had obtained, by this confession, an
assent to my secret idea, and a sort of complicity. But had Juliana
answered me sincerely? Or had she told a falsehood out of pity for me?
I was assailed by a cruel and furious desire to persist, to make her
confess fully, to penetrate to the very depths of her soul. But her
appearance stopped me. I abstained. I now felt no bitterness toward
her. I was now drawn toward her by an emotion of gratitude. It seemed
to me that the horror she had shudderingly confessed separated her from
the creature whom she was nourishing, and brought her closer to me. I
felt a desire to make her understand these things, and increase her
aversion to the infant to be born, as if against an irreconcilable enemy
of us both.