My Confessions must begin when I was four years old and recovering
from swollen glands. As I grew well, my twin-brother, Grégoire, who was
some minutes younger, was put to bed with the same complaint.
"What a misfortune," exclaimed our mother, "that Silvestre is no sooner
convalescent than Grégoire falls ill!"
The doctor answered: "It astonishes me, madame Lapalme, that you were
not prepared for it--since the children are twins, the thing was to be
foreseen; when the elder throws the malady off, the younger naturally
contracts it. Among twins it is nearly always so."
And it always proved to be so with Grégoire and me. No sooner did I
throw off whooping-cough than Grégoire began to whoop, though I was at
home at Vernon and he was staying with our grandmother at Tours. If I
had to be taken to a dentist, Grégoire would soon afterwards be howling
with toothache; as often as I indulged in the pleasures of the table
Grégoire had a bilious attack. The influence I exercised upon him was
so remarkable that once when my bicycle ran away with me and broke my
arm, our mother consulted three medical men as to whether Grégoire's
bicycle was bound to run away with him too. Indeed, my brother was
distinctly apprehensive of it himself.
Of course, the medical men explained that he was susceptible to any
abnormal physical or mental condition of mine, not to the vagaries of
my bicycle. "As an example, madame, if the elder of two twins were
killed in a railway accident, it would be no reason for thinking that
an accident must befall a train by which the younger travelled. What
sympathy can there be between locomotives? But if the elder were to die
by his own hand, there is a strong probability that the younger would
commit suicide also."
However, I have not died by my own hand, so Grégoire has had nothing to
reproach me for on that score. As to other grounds--well, there is much
to be said on both sides!
To speak truly, that beautiful devotion for which twins are so
celebrated in drama and romance has never existed between my brother
and myself. Nor was this my fault. I was of a highly sensitive
disposition, and from my earliest years it was impressed upon me that
Grégoire regarded me in the light of a grievance, I could not help
having illnesses, yet he would upbraid me for taking them. Then, too,
he was always our mother's favourite, and instead of there being
caresses and condolence for me when I was indisposed, there was nothing
but grief for the indisposition that I was about to cause Grégoire.
This wounded me.
Again at college. I shall not pretend that I was a bookworm, or that I
shared Grégoire's ambitions; on the contrary, the world beyond the
walls looked such a jolly place to me that the mere sight of a
classroom would sometimes fill me with abhorrence. But, mon Dieu! if
other fellows were wild occasionally, they accepted the penalties, and
the affair was finished; on me rested a responsibility--my wildness was
communicated to Grégoire. Scarcely had I resigned myself to dull
routine again when Grégoire, the industrious, would find himself unable
to study a page, and commit freaks for which he rebuked me most
sternly. I swear that my chief remembrance of my college days is
Grégoire addressing pompous homilies to me, in this fashion, when he
was in disgrace with the authorities:
"I ask you to remember, Silvestre, that you have not only your own
welfare to consider--you have mine! I am here to qualify myself for an
earnest career. Be good enough not to put obstacles in my path. Your
levity impels me to distractions which I condemn even while I yield to
them. I perceive a weakness in your nature that fills me with
misgivings for my future; if you do not learn to resist temptation, to
what errors may I not be driven later on--to what outbreaks of
frivolity will you not condemn me when we are men?"
Well, it is no part of my confession to whitewash myself his misgivings
were realised! So far as I had any serious aspirations at all, I
aspired to be a painter, and, after combating my family's objections, I
entered an art school in Paris. Grégoire, on the other hand, was
destined for the law. During the next few years we met infrequently,
but that my brother continued to be affected by any unusual conditions
of my body and mind I knew by his letters, which seldom failed to
contain expostulations and entreaties. If he could have had his way,
indeed, I believe he would have shut me in a monastery.
Upon my word, I was not without consideration for him, but what would
you have? I think some sympathy was due to me also. Regard the
situation with my eyes! I was young, popular, an artist; my life was no
more frivolous than the lives of others of my set; yet, in lieu of
being free, like them, to call the tune and dance the measure, I was
burdened with a heavier responsibility than weighs upon the shoulders
of any paterfamilias. Let me but drink a bottle too much, and Grégoire,
the grave, would subsequently manifest all the symptoms of
intoxication. Let me but lose my head about a petticoat, and Grégoire,
the righteous, would soon be running after a girl instead of attending
to his work. I had a conscience--thoughts of the trouble that I was
brewing for Grégoire would come between me and the petticoat and rob it
of its charms; his abominable susceptibility to my caprices marred half
my pleasures for me. Once when I sat distrait, bowed by such
reflections, a woman exclaimed, "What's the matter with you? One would
think you had a family!" "Well," I said, "I have a twin!" And I went
away. She was a pretty woman, too!
Do you suppose that Maître Lapalme--he was Maître Lapalme by then, this
egregious Grégoire--do you suppose that he wrote to bless me for my
sacrifice? Not at all! Of my heroisms he knew nothing--he was conscious
only of my lapses. To read his letters one would have imagined that I
was a reprobate, a creature without honour or remorse. I quote from
one of them--it is a specimen of them all. Can you blame me if I had no
love for this correspondent?