I had a fracture of my shoulder, and three doctors by my side. I have
known many men to die with less. As for Lady Penock, I learned with
satisfaction of her escape, barring a sprained ankle; she had departed
indignant at the impertinence of my conduct, and to the people who had
charitably suggested to her to instal herself as a gray nun at the
bedside of her preserver, she said, coloring angrily, "Oh, I should die
if I were to see that young man again."
Be reassured, France has again atoned for Albion. My adventure having
made some noise, a few days after the fire Providence came into my room
and sat beside my bed in the shape of a noble woman named Madame de
Braimes.
It appears that M. de Braimes has been, for a year past, prefect of
Grenoble; that he knew my father intimately, and my name sufficed to
bring these two noble beings to my side.
As soon as I could bear the motion of a carriage, they took me from
Voreppe, and I am now writing to you, my dear Edgar, from the hotel of
the Prefecture.
I received in Florence the last letter you directed to me at Rome. What
a number of questions you ask, and how am I to answer them all?
Don't speak to me of Jerusalem, Cedron, Lebanon, Palmyra and Baalbec, or
anything of the sort. Read over again Réné's Guide-book, Jocelyn's
Travels, the Orientales of Olympio, and you will know as much about the
East as I do, though I have been there, according to your account, for
the last two years. However, I have performed all the commissions you
gave me, on the eve of my departure, three years ago. I bring you pipes
from Constantinople, to your mother chaplets from Bethlehem--only I
bought the pipes at Leghorn, and the chaplets at Rome.
Do you remember a cold, rainy December evening in Paris, eighteen months
ago, when I should have been on the borders of Afghanistan, or the
shores of the Euphrates, you were walking along the quays, between
eleven o'clock and midnight, walking rapidly, wrapped like a Castilian
in the folds of your cloak?
Do you remember that between the Pont Neuf and the Pont Saint Michel you
stumbled against a young man, enveloped likewise in a cloak, and
following rapidly the course of the Seine in a direction opposite to
yours? The shock was violent, and nailed us both to the spot. Do you
remember that having scrutinized each other under the gaslight, you
exclaimed, "Raymond," and opened your arms to embrace me; then, seeing
the cold and reserved attitude of him who stood silently before you, how
you changed your mind and went your way, laughing at the mistake but
struck by the resemblance?
The resemblance still exists; the young man that you called Raymond, was
Raymond.
One more story, and I have done. I will tell it without pride or
pretence, a thing so natural, so simple, that it is neither worth
boasting of nor concealing.
You know Frederick B. You remember that I have always spoken of him as a
brother. We played together in the same cradle; we grew up, as it were,
under the same roof. At school I prepared his lessons: out of gratitude
he ate my sugar-plums. At college I performed his tasks and fought his
battles. At twenty, I received a sword-thrust in my breast on his
account. Later he plunged into matrimony and business, and we lost sight
of, without ceasing to love each other. I knew that he prospered, and I
asked nothing more. As for myself, tired of the sterile life I was
leading, called fashionable life, I turned my fortune into ready money,
and prepared to set out on a long journey.
The day of my departure--I had bidden you good-bye the evening
before--Frederick entered my room. A year had nearly passed since we
had met; I did not know that he was in Paris. I found him changed; his
preoccupied air alarmed me. However, I concealed my anxiety. We cannot
treat with too much reserve and delicacy the sadness of our married
friends. As he talked, two big tears rolled silently down his cheeks. I
had to speak.
"What is the matter?" I asked abruptly; and I pressed him with
questions, tormented him until he told me all. Bankruptcy was at his
door; and he spoke of his wife and children in such heart-rending terms,
that I mingled my tears with his, thinking of course that I was not rich
enough to give him the money he needed.
"My poor Frederic," I finally said, "is it such a very large amount?" He
replied with a gesture of despair. "Come, how much?" I asked again.
"Five hundred thousand francs!" he cried, in a gloomy stupor. I arose,
took him by the arm, and under the pretext of diverting him, drew him on
the boulevards. I left him at the door of my notary and joined him on
coming out. "Frederick," I said, giving him a line I had just written,
"take that and hasten to embrace your wife and children." Then I jumped
into a cab which carried me home; my journey was over. I returned from
Jerusalem.
Dupe! I hear you say, Ah, no, Edgar! I am young and I understand men,
but there dwell in them both the good and the beautiful, and to expect
to derive any other satisfaction than that found in cultivating these
qualities has always seemed to me to be an unreasonable expectation.
What! you, as a poet, enjoy the intoxication of inspiration, the feast
of solitude, the silence of serene and starry nights and that does not
satisfy you; you would have fortune hasten to the sound of the Muses'
kisses.
What! as a generous man, you can enjoy the delights of giving and only
sow a field of benefits in the hope of reaping some day the golden
harvest of gratitude!
Of what do you complain? wretched man! You are the ingrate. Besides,
even with this view, be convinced, dear Edgar, that the good and the
beautiful are still two of the best speculations that can be made here
below, and nothing in the world succeeds better than fine verses and
noble deeds. Only wicked hearts and bad poets dare to affirm the
contrary. For myself, experience has taught me that self-abnegation is
profit enough to him who exercises it, and disinterestedness is a
blossom of luxury that well cultivated bears most savory fruit. I
encountered fortune in turning my back on her. I owe to Lady Penock the
touching care and precious friendship of Madame de Braimes, and if this
system of remuneration continue I shall end by believing that in
throwing myself into the gulf of Curtius I would fall upon a bed of
roses.
The fact is, I was ruined, but whoever could have seen me at the moment
would have said I was overcome with delight. I must tell you all, Edgar;
I pictured to myself the transports of Frederick and his wife on seeing
the abyss that was about to engulf them so easily closed; these sweet
images alone did not cause my wild delight; would you believe it, the
thought of my ruin and poverty intoxicated me more. I had suffered for a
long time from an unoccupied youth, and was indignant at my uneventful
life. At twenty I quietly assumed a position prepared for me; to play
this part in the world I had taken the trouble to be born; to gather the
fruits of life I had only to stretch out my hand. Irritated at the
quietude of my days, wearied with a happiness that cost me nothing, I
sought heroic struggles, chivalrous encounters, and not finding them in
a well-regulated society, where strong interests have been substituted
for strong passions, I fretted in secret and wept over my impotence.
But now my hour was come! I was about to put my will, strength and
courage to the proof. I was about to wrest from study the secrets of
talent. I was about to reclaim from labor the fortune I had given away,
and which I owed to chance. Until that deed I had only been the son of
my father, the heir of my ancestors; now I was to become the child of my
own deeds. The prisoner who sees his chains fall off and sends to
heaven a wild shout of liberty, does not feel a deeper joy than I felt
when ready to struggle with destiny I could exclaim, "I am poor!"
I have seen everywhere _blasé_ young men, old before their time, who,
according to their own account, have known and exhausted every pleasure;
have felt the nothingness of human things. 'Tis true these young
unfortunates have tried everything but labor and devotion to some holy
cause.
There remained of my patrimony fifteen thousand francs, which were laid
aside to defray my travelling expenses. This, with a very moderate
revenue accruing from two little farms, contiguous to the castle of my
father, made up my possessions.
Putting the best face on things, supposing I might recover my fortune,
an event so uncertain that it were best not to count on it, I wisely
traced the line of duty with a firm hand and joyous heart.
I decided immediately that I would not undeceive my friends as to my
departure, and that I would employ, in silence and seclusion, the time I
was supposed to be spending abroad.
Not that it did not occur to me to proclaim boldly what I had done, for
in a country where a dozen wretches are every year publicly beheaded for
the sake of example, perhaps it would be well also, for example's sake,
to do good publicly. To do this, however, would have been to compromise
Frederick's credit, who, besides, would never have accepted my sacrifice
if he could have measured its extent.
I could have retired to my estates; but felt no inclination to make an
exposure of my poverty to the comments of a charitable province; nor had
I taste for the life of a ruined country squire.
Besides, solitude was essential to my plans, and solitude is impossible
out of Paris; one is never really lost save in a crowd. I soon found in
the Masario a little room very near the clouds, but brightened by the
rising sun, overlooking a sea of verdure marked here and there by a few
northern pines, with their gloomy and motionless branches.
This nest pleased me. I furnished it simply, filled it with books and
hung over my bed the portrait of my sainted mother, who seemed to smile
on and encourage me, while you, Frederick and others believed me
steaming towards the shores of the East; and here I quietly installed
myself, prouder and more triumphant than a soldier of fortune taking
possession of a kingdom.
Edgar, these two years I really lived--. In that little room I spent
what will remain, I very much fear, the purest, the brightest, the best
period of my whole life. I am not of much account now, formerly I was
nothing; the little good that is in me was developed in those two years
of deep vigils. I thought, reflected, suffered and nourished myself with
the bread of the strong. I initiated myself into the stern delights of
study, the austere joys of poverty.
O! days of labor and privation, beautiful days! Where have you gone?
Holy enchantments, shall I ever taste you again? Silent and meditative
nights! when at the first glimmer of dawn I saw the angel of revery
alight at my side, bend his beautiful face over me, and fold my wearied
limbs in his white wings; blissful nights! will you ever return?
If you only knew the life I led through these two years! If you knew
what dreams visited me in that humble nest by the dim light of the lamp,
you would be jealous of them, my poet!
The days were passed in serious study. At evening I took my frugal
repast, in winter, by the hearth, in summer by the open window. In
December I had guests that kings might have envied. Hugo, George Sand,
Lamartine, De Musset, yourself, dear Edgar. In April I had the soft
breezes, the perfume of the lilacs, the song of the birds warbling among
the branches, and the joyous cries of the children playing in the
distant alleys, while the young mothers passed slowly through the fresh
grass, their faces wreathed with sweet smiles, like the happy shadows
that wander through the Elysian fields.
Sometimes on a dark night I would venture into the streets of Paris, my
hat drawn over my eyes to keep out the glare of gas. On one of these
solitary rambles I met you. Imagine the courage I required not to rush
into your open arms. I returned frequently along the quays, listening to
the confused roar, like the distant swell of the ocean, made by the
great city before falling to sleep, listening to the murmurs of the
river and gazing at the moon like a burning disk from the furnace,
slowly rising behind the towers of Notre Dame.
Often I prowled under the windows of my friends, stopping at yours to
send you a good-night.
Returning home I would rekindle my fire and begin anew my labors,
interrupted from time to time by the bells of the neighboring convents
and the sound of the hours striking sadly in the darkness.
O! nights more beautiful than the day. It was then that I felt germinate
and flourish in my heart a strange love.
Opposite me, beyond the garden that separated us, was a window, in a
story on a level with mine; it was hid during the day by the tall pines,
but its light shone clear and bright through the foliage. This lamp was
lit invariably at the same hour every evening and was rarely
extinguished before dawn. There, I thought, one of God's poor creatures
works and suffers. Sometimes I rose from my desk to look at this little
star twinkling between heaven and earth, and with my brow pressed
against the pane gazed sadly at it.
In the beginning it excited me to watch, and I made it a point of honor
never to extinguish my lamp as long as the rival lamp was burning; at
last it became the friend of my solitude, the companion of my destiny. I
ended by giving it a soul to understand and answer me. I talked to it; I
questioned. I sometimes said, "Who art thou?"
Now I imagined a pale youth enamored with glory, and called him my
brother. Then it was a young and lovely Antigone, laboring to sustain
her old father, and I called her my sister, and by a sweeter name too.
Finally, shall I tell you, there were moments when I fancied that the
light of our fraternal lamps was but the radiance of two mysterious
sympathies, drawn together to be blended into one.
One must have passed two years in solitude to be able to comprehend
these puerilities. How many prisoners have become attached to some
wall-flower, blooming between the bars of their cell, like the Marvel of
Peru of the garden, which closes to the beams of day to open its petals
to the kisses of the evening; the flower that I loved was a star.
Anxiously I watched its awakening, and could not repose until it had
disappeared. Did it grow dim and flicker, I cried--"Courage and hope!
God blesses labor, he keeps for thee a purer and brighter seat in
heaven!"
Did I in turn feel sad, it threw out a brighter light and a voice said,
"Hope, friend, I watch and suffer with thee!" No! I cannot but believe
now that between that lamp and mine there passed an electric current, by
which two hearts, created for each other, communicated with and
understood their mutual pulsations. Of course I tried to find the house
and room from whence shone my beloved light, but each day I received a
new direction that contradicted the one they gave before; so I concluded
that the occupant of this room had an object, like myself, in
concealment, and I respected his secret.
Thus my life glided by--so much happiness lasted too short a time!
The gods and goddesses of Olympus had a messenger named Iris, who
carried their billets-doux from star to star. We mortals have a fairy in
our employ that leaves Iris far behind; this fairy is called the post;
dwell upon the summit of Tschamalouri, and some fine morning you will
see the carrier arrive with his box upon his shoulder, and a letter to
your address. One evening, on returning from one of those excursions I
told you of, I found at my porter's a letter addressed to me. I never
receive letters without a feeling of terror. This, the only one in two
years, had a formidable look; the envelope was covered with odd-looking
signs, and the seal of every French consulate in the East; under this
multitude of stamps was written in large characters--"In haste--very
important." The square of paper I held in my hand had been in search of
me from Paris to Jerusalem, and from consulate to consulate, had
returned from Jerusalem to Paris, to the office of the Minister of
Foreign Affairs. There they had let loose some blood-hounds of the
police, who with their usual instinct followed my tracks and discovered
my abode in less than a day.
I glanced first at the signature, and saw Frederick's name; I vow,
unaffectedly, that for two years I had not thought of his affairs, and
his letter brought me the first news of him.
After a preamble, devoted entirely to the expression of an exaggerated
gratitude, Frederick announced with a flourish of trumpets, that Fortune
had made magnificent reparation for her wrongs to him; he had saved his
honor and strengthened his tottering credit. From which time forward he
had prospered beyond his wildest hopes. In a few months he gained, by a
rise in railroad stocks, fabulous sums. He concluded with the
information that, having interested me in his fortunate speculations, my
capital was doubled, and that I now possessed a clear million, which I
owed to no one. At the end of this letter, bristling with figures and
terms that savoured of money, were a few simple, touching lines from
Frederick's wife, which went straight to my heart, and brought tears to
my eyes.
When I had read the letter through, I took a long survey of my little
room, where I had lived so happily; then, sitting upon the sill of the
open window, whence I could see my faithful star shine peacefully in the
darkness, I remained until morning, absorbed in sad and melancholy
thoughts.
Fortune has its duties as well as poverty. _Comme noblesse, fortune
exige_.
If I were really so rich, I could not, ought not to live as I had done.
After a few days, I went to Frederick, who believed that I had suddenly
been brought from Jerusalem by his letter, and I allowed him to rest in
that belief, not wishing to add to a gratitude that already seemed
excessive.
Excuse the particulars, I was a veritable millionaire; I call Heaven to
witness that my first impulse was to go in search of my beloved beacon,
to relieve, if possible, the unfortunate one to whom it gave light.
But then I thought so industrious a being was certainly proud, and I
paused, fearing to offend a noble spirit.
One month later, a night in May, I saw extinguished one by one, the
thousand lights of the neighboring houses. Two single lamps burned in
the gloom; they were the two old friends. For some time I stood gazing
at the bright ray shining through the foliage, and when I felt upon my
brow the first chill of the morning breeze, I cried in my saddened
heart,
"Farewell! farewell, little star, benign ray, beloved companion of my
solitude! At this hour to-morrow, my eyes will seek but find thee not.
And thou, whosoever thou art, working and suffering by that pale gleam,
adieu, my sister! adieu, my brother! pursue thy destiny, watch and pray;
may God shorten the time of thy probation."
I bade also to my little room, not an eternal farewell, for I have kept
it since, and will keep it all my life. I do not wish that while I live
strangers shall scare away such a covey of beautiful dreams as I left in
that humble nest.
To see it again is one of the liveliest pleasures that my return to
Paris offers. I shall find everything in the same order as when I left;
but will the little star shine from the same corner of the heavens?
Thanks to Frederick's care my affairs were in order, and I set out
immediately for Rome, because when one is expected from the end of the
world one must at least return from somewhere.
Such is, dear Edgar, the history of my journeys and my love affairs.
Keep them sacred. We are all so worthless, that, when one of us does
some good by chance, he should remain silent for fear of humiliating his
neighbor.
My health once established, I shall go to my mountains of Creuse and
then come to you. Do not expect me until July; at that time Don Quixote
will make his appearance under the apple trees of Richeport, provided,
however, he is not caught up on this route by Lady Penock or some
windmill.