"I was born in a little town
in Languedoc," the doctor resumed. "My
father had been settled there
for many years, and there my
early childhood was spent. When
I was eight years old I was sent
to the school of the Oratorians
at Sorreze, and only left it
to finish my studies in Paris.
My father had squandered his
patrimony in the course of an
exceedingly wild and extravagant
youth. He had retrieved his position
partly by a fortunate marriage,
partly by the slow persistent
thrift characteristic of provincial
life; for in the provinces people
pride themselves on accumulating
rather than on spending, and
all the ambition in a man's nature
is either extinguished or directed
to money-getting, for want of
any nobler end. So he had grown
rich at last, and thought to
transmit to his only son all
the cut-and-dried experience
which he himself had purchased
at the price of his lost illusions;
a noble last illusion of age
which fondly seeks to bequeath
its virtues and its wary prudence
to heedless youth, intent only
on the enjoyment of the enchanted
life that lies before it.
"This foresight
on my father's part led him
to make plans for
my education for which I had
to suffer. He sedulously concealed
my expectations of wealth from
me, and during the fairest years
of my youth compelled me, for
my own good, to endure the burden
of anxiety and hardship that
presses upon a young man who
has his own way to make in the
world. His idea in so doing was
to instill the virtues of poverty
into me--patience, a thirst for
learning, and a love of work
for its own sake. He hoped to
teach me to set a proper value
on my inheritance, by letting
me learn, in this way, all that
it costs to make a fortune; wherefore,
as soon as I was old enough to
understand his advice, he urged
me to choose a profession and
to work steadily at it. My tastes
inclined me to the study of medicine.
"So I left
Sorreze, after ten years of
almost monastic discipline
of the Oratorians; and, fresh
from the quiet life of a remote
provincial school, I was taken
straight to the capital. My father
went with me in order to introduce
me to the notice of a friend
of his; and (all unknown to me)
my two elders took the most elaborate
precautions against any ebullitions
of youth on my part, innocent
lad though I was. My allowance
was rigidly computed on a scale
based upon the absolute necessaries
of life, and I was obliged to
produce my certificate of attendance
at the Ecole de Medecine before
I was allowed to draw my quarter's
income. The excuse for this sufficiently
humiliating distrust was the
necessity of my acquiring methodical
and business-like habits. My
father, however, was not sparing
of money for all the necessary
expenses of my education and
for the amusements of Parisian
life.
"His old friend
was delighted to have a young
man to guide
through the labyrinth into which
I had entered. He was one of
those men whose natures lead
them to docket their thoughts,
feelings, and opinions every
whit as carefully as their papers.
He would turn up last year's
memorandum book, and could tell
in a moment what he had been
doing a twelvemonth since in
this very month, day, and hour
of the present year. Life, for
him, was a business enterprise,
and he kept the books after the
most approved business methods.
There was real worth in him though
he might be punctilious, shrewd,
and suspicious, and though he
never lacked specious excuses
for the precautionary measures
that he took with regard to me.
He used to buy all my books;
he paid for my lessons; and once,
when the fancy took me to learn
to ride, the good soul himself
found me out a riding-school,
went thither with me, and anticipated
my wishes by putting a horse
at my disposal whenever I had
a holiday. In spite of all this
cautious strategy, which I managed
to defeat as soon as I had any
temptation to do so, the kind
old man was a second father to
me.
" 'My friend,'
he said, as soon as he surmised
that I should
break away altogether from my
leading strings, unless he relaxed
them, 'young folk are apt to
commit follies which draw down
the wrath of their elders upon
their heads, and you may happen
to want money at some time or
other; if so, come to me. Your
father helped me nobly once upon
a time, and I shall always have
a few crowns to spare for you;
but never tell any lies, and
do not be ashamed to own to your
faults. I myself was young once;
we shall always get on well together,
like two good comrades.'
"My father
found lodgings for me with
some quiet, middle-class
people in the Latin Quarter,
and my room was furnished nicely
enough; but this first taste
of independence, my father's
kindness, and the self- denial
which he seemed to be exercising
for me, brought me but little
happiness. Perhaps the value
of liberty cannot be known until
it has been experienced; and
the memories of the freedom of
my childhood had been almost
effaced by the irksome and dreary
life at school, from which my
spirits had scarcely recovered.
In addition to this, my father
had urged new tasks upon me,
so that altogether Paris was
an enigma. You must acquire some
knowledge of its pleasures before
you can amuse yourself in Paris.
"My real position,
therefore, was quite unchanged,
save that
my new lycee was a much larger
building, and was called the
Ecole de Medecine. Nevertheless,
I studied away bravely at first;
I attended lectures diligently;
I worked desperately hard and
without relaxation, so strongly
was my imagination affected by
the abundant treasures of knowledge
to be gained in the capital.
But very soon I heedlessly made
acquaintances; danger lurks hidden
beneath the rash confiding friendships
that have so strong a charm for
youth, and gradually I was drawn
into the dissipated life of the
capital. I became an enthusiastic
lover of the theatre; and with
my craze for actors and the play,
the work of my demoralization
began. The stage, in a great
metropolis, exerts a very deadly
influence over the young; they
never quit the theatre save in
a state of emotional excitement
almost always beyond their power
to control; society and the law
seem to me to be accessories
to the irregularities brought
about in this way. Our legislation
has shut its eyes, so to speak,
to the passions that torment
a young man between twenty and
five-and-twenty years of age.
In Paris he is assailed by temptations
of every kind. Religion may preach
and Law may demand that he should
walk uprightly, but all his surroundings
and the tone of those about him
are so many incitements to evil.
Do not the best of men and the
most devout women there look
upon continence as ridiculous?
The great city, in fact, seems
to have set herself to give encouragement
to vice and to this alone; for
a young man finds that the entrance
to every honorable career in
which he might look for success
is barred by hindrances even
more numerous than the snares
that are continually set for
him, so that through his weaknesses
he may be robbed of his money.
"For a long
while I went every evening
to some theatre, and
little by little I fell into
idle ways. I grew more and more
slack over my work; even my most
pressing tasks were apt to be
put off till the morrow, and
before very long there was an
end of my search after knowledge
for its own sake; I did nothing
more than the work which was
absolutely required to enable
me to get through the examinations
that must be passed before I
could become a doctor. I attended
the public lectures, but I no
longer paid any attention to
the professors, who, in my opinion,
were a set of dotards. I had
already broken my idols--I became
a Parisian.
"To be brief,
I led the aimless drifting
life of a young, provincial
thrown into the heart of a great
city; still retaining some good
and true feeling, still clinging
more or less to the observance
of certain rules of conduct,
still fighting in vain against
the debasing influence of evil
examples, though I offered but
a feeble, half- hearted resistance,
for the enemy had accomplices
within me. Yes, sir, my face
is not misleading; past storms
have plainly left their traces
there. Yet, since I had drunk
so deeply of the pure fountain
of religion in my early youth,
I was haunted in the depths of
my soul, through all my wanderings,
by an ideal of moral perfection
which could not fail one day
to bring me back to God by the
paths of weariness and remorse.
Is not he who feels the pleasures
of earth most keenly, sure to
be attracted, soon or late, by
the fruits of heaven?
"At first I
went through the experience,
more or less vivid,
that always comes with youth--the
countless moments of exultation,
the unnumbered transports of
despair. Sometimes I took my
vehement energy of feeling for
a resolute will, and over-estimated
my powers; sometimes, at the
mere sight of some trifling obstacle
with which I was about to come
into collision, I was far more
cast down than I ought to have
been. Then I would devise vast
plans, would dream of glory,
and betake myself to work; but
a pleasure party would divert
me from the noble projects based
on so infirm a purpose. Vague
recollections of these great
abortive schemes of mine left
a deceptive glow in my soul and
fostered my belief in myself,
without giving me the energy
to produce. In my indolent self-sufficiency
I was in a very fair way to become
a fool, for what is a fool but
a man who fails to justify the
excellent opinion which he has
formed of himself? My energy
was directed towards no definite
aims; I wished for the flowers
of life without the toil of cultivating
them. I had no idea of the obstacles,
so I imagined that everything
was easy; luck, I thought, accounted
for success in science and in
business, and genius was charlatanism.
I took it for granted that I
should be a great man, because
there was the power of becoming
one within me; so I discounted
all my future glory, without
giving a thought to the patience
required for the conception of
a great work, nor of the execution,
in the course of which all the
difficulties of the task appear.
"The sources
of my amusements were soon
exhausted. The charm
of the theatre does not last
for very long; and, for a poor
student, Paris shortly became
an empty wilderness. They were
dull and uninteresting people
that I met with in the circle
of the family with whom I lived;
but these, and an old man who
had now lost touch with the world,
were all the society that I had.
"So, like every
young man who takes a dislike
to the career
marked out for him, I rambled
about the streets for whole days
together; I strolled along the
quays, through the museums and
public gardens, making no attempt
to arrive at a clear understanding
of my position, and without a
single definite idea in my head.
The burden of unemployed energies
is more felt at that age than
at any other; there is such an
abundance of vitality running
to waste, so much activity without
result. I had no idea of the
power that a resolute will puts
into the hands of a man in his
youth; for when he has ideas
and puts his whole heart and
soul into the work of carrying
them out, his strength is yet
further increased by the undaunted
courage of youthful convictions.
"Childhood
in its simplicity knows nothing
of the perils of
life; youth sees both its vastness
and its difficulties, and at
the prospect the courage of youth
sometimes flags. We are still
serving our apprenticeship to
life; we are new to the business,
a kind of faint- heartedness
overpowers us, and leaves us
in an almost dazed condition
of mind. We feel that we are
helpless aliens in a strange
country. At all ages we shrink
back involuntarily from the unknown.
And a young man is very much
like the soldier who will walk
up to the cannon's mouth, and
is put to flight by a ghost.
He hesitates among the maxims
of the world. The rules of attack
and of self-defence are alike
unknown to him; he can neither
give nor take; he is attracted
by women, and stands in awe of
them; his very good qualities
tell against him, he is all generosity
and modesty, and completely innocent
of mercenary designs. Pleasure
and not interest is his object
when he tells a lie; and among
many dubious courses, the conscience,
with which as yet he has not
juggled, points out to him the
right way, which he is slow to
take.
"There are
men whose lives are destined
to be shaped by
the impulses of their hearts,
rather than by any reasoning
process that takes place in their
heads, and such natures as these
will remain for a long while
in the position that I have described.
This was my own case. I became
the plaything of two contending
impulses; the desires of youth
were always held in check by
a faint-hearted sentimentality.
Life in Paris is a cruel ordeal
for impressionable natures, the
great inequalities of fortune
or of position inflame their
souls and stir up bitter feelings.
In that world of magnificence
and pettiness envy is more apt
to be a dagger than a spur. You
are bound either to fall a victim
or to become a partisan in this
incessant strife of ambitions,
desires, and hatreds, in the
midst of which you are placed;
and by slow degrees the picture
of vice triumphant and virtue
made ridiculous produces its
effect on a young man, and he
wavers; life in Paris soon rubs
the bloom from conscience, the
infernal work of demoralization
has begun, and is soon accomplished.
The first of pleasures, that
which at the outset comprehends
all the others, is set about
with such perils that it is impossible
not to reflect upon the least
actions which it provokes, impossible
not to calculate all its consequences.
These calculations lead to selfishness.
If some poor student, carried
away by an impassioned enthusiasm,
is fain to rise above selfish
considerations, the suspicious
attitude of those about him makes
him pause and doubt; it is so
hard not to share their mistrust,
so difficult not to be on his
guard against his own generous
thoughts. His heart is seared
and contracted by this struggle,
the current of life sets toward
the brain, and the callousness
of the Parisian is the result--the
condition of things in which
schemes for power and wealth
are concealed by the most charming
frivolity, and lurk beneath the
sentimental transports that take
the place of enthusiasm. The
simplest-natured woman in Paris
always keeps a clear head even
in the intoxication of happiness.
"This atmosphere
was bound to affect my opinions
and my
conduct. The errors that have
poisoned my life would have lain
lightly on many a conscience,
but we in the South have a religious
faith that leads us to believe
in a future life, and in the
truths set forth by the Catholic
Church. These beliefs give depth
and gravity to every feeling,
and to remorse a terrible and
lasting power.
"The army were
masters of society at the time
when I was studying
medicine. In order to shine in
women's eyes, one had to be a
colonel at the very least. A
poor student counted for absolutely
nothing. Goaded by the strength
of my desires, and finding no
outlet for them; hampered at
every step and in every wish
by the want of money; looking
on study and fame as too slow
a means of arriving at the pleasures
that tempted me; drawn one way
by my inward scruples, and another
by evil examples; meeting with
every facility for low dissipation,
and finding nothing but hindrances
barring the way to good society,
I passed my days in wretchedness,
overwhelmed by a surging tumult
of desires, and by indolence
of the most deadly kind, utterly
cast down at times, only to be
as suddenly elated.
"The catastrophe
which at length put an end
to this crisis was
commonplace enough. The thought
of troubling the peace of a household
has always been repugnant to
me; and not only so, I could
not dissemble my feelings, the
instinct of sincerity was too
strong in me; I should have found
it a physical impossibility to
lead a life of glaring falsity.
There is for me but little attraction
in pleasures that must be snatched.
I wish for full consciousness
of my happiness. I led a life
of solitude, for which there
seemed to be no remedy; for I
shrank from openly vicious courses,
and the many efforts that I made
to enter society were all in
vain. There I might have met
with some woman who would have
undertaken the task of teaching
me the perils of every path,
who would have formed my manners,
counseled me without wounding
my vanity, and introduced me
everywhere where I was likely
to make friends who would be
useful to me in my future career.
In my despair, an intrigue of
the most dangerous kind would
perhaps have had its attractions
for me; but even peril was out
of my reach. My inexperience
sent me back again to my solitude,
where I dwelt face to face with
my thwarted desires.
"At last I
formed a connection, at first
a secret one, with a
girl, whom I persuaded, half
against her will, to share my
life. Her people were worthy
folk, who had but small means.
It was not very long before she
left her simple sheltered life,
and fearlessly intrusted me with
a future that virtue would have
made happy and fair; thinking,
no doubt, that my narrow income
was the surest guarantee of my
faithfulness to her. From that
moment the tempest that had raged
within me ceased, and happiness
lulled my wild desires and ambitions
to sleep. Such happiness is only
possible for a young man who
is ignorant of the world, who
knows nothing as yet of its accepted
codes nor of the strength of
prejudice; but while it lasts,
his happiness is as all- absorbing
as a child's. Is not first love
like a return of childhood across
the intervening years of anxiety
and toil?
"There are
men who learn life at a glance,
who see it for what
it is at once, who learn experience
from the mistakes of others,
who apply the current maxims
of worldly wisdom to their own
case with signal success, and
make unerring forecasts at all
times. Wise in their generation
are such cool heads as these!
But there is also a luckless
race endowed with the impressionable,
keenly-sensitive temperament
of the poet; these are the natures
that fall into error, and to
this latter class I belonged.
There was no great depth in the
feeling that first drew me towards
this poor girl; I followed my
instinct rather than my heart
when I sacrificed her to myself,
and I found no lack of excellent
reasons wherewith to persuade
myself that there was no harm
whatever in what I had done.
And as for her--she was devotion
itself, a noble soul with a clear,
keen intelligence and a heart
of gold. She never counseled
me other than wisely. Her love
put fresh heart into me from
the first; she foretold a splendid
future of success and fortune
for me, and gently constrained
me to take up my studies again
by her belief in me. In these
days there is scarcely a branch
of science that has no bearing
upon medicine; it is a difficult
task to achieve distinction,
but the reward is great, for
in Paris fame always means fortune.
The unselfish girl devoted herself
to me, shared in every interest,
even the slightest, of my life,
and managed so carefully and
wisely that we lived in comfort
on my narrow income. I had more
money to spare, now that there
were two of us, than I had ever
had while I lived by myself.
Those were my happiest days.
I worked with enthusiasm, I had
a definite aim before me, I had
found the encouragement I needed.
Everything I did or thought I
carried to her, who had not only
found the way to gain my love,
but above and beyond this had
filled me with sincere respect
for her by the modest discretion
which she displayed in a position
where discretion and modesty
seemed well-nigh impossible.
But one day was like another,
sir; and it is only after our
hears have passed through all
the storms appointed for us that
we know the value of a monotonous
happiness, and learn that life
holds nothing more sweet for
us than this; a calm happiness
in which the fatigue of existence
is felt no longer, and the inmost
thoughts of either find response
in the other's soul.
"My former
dreams assailed me again. They
were my own vehement
longings for the pleasures of
wealth that awoke, though it
was in love's name that I now
asked for them. In the evenings
I grew abstracted and moody,
rapt in imaginings of the pleasures
I could enjoy if I were rich,
and thoughtlessly gave expression
to my desires in answer to a
tender questioning voice. I must
have drawn a painful sigh from
her who had devoted herself to
my happiness; for she, sweet
soul, felt nothing more cruelly
than the thought that I wished
for something that she could
not give me immediately. Oh!
sir, a woman's devotion is sublime!"
There was a sharp distress
in the doctor's exclamation which
seemed prompted by some recollection
of his own; he paused for a brief
while, and Genestas respected
his musings.
"Well, sir," Benassis resumed, "something
happened which should have concluded
the marriage thus begun; but
instead of that it put an end
to it, and was the cause of all
my misfortunes. My father died
and left me a large fortune.
The necessary business arrangements
demanded my presence in Languedoc
for several months, and I went
thither alone. At last I had
regained my freedom! Even the
mildest yoke is galling to youth;
we do not see its necessity any
more than we see the need to
work, until we have had some
experience of life. I came and
went without giving an account
of my actions to any one; there
was no need to do so now unless
I wished, and I relished liberty
with all the keen capacity for
enjoyment that we have in Languedoc.
I did not absolutely forget the
ties that bound me; but I was
so absorbed in other matters
of interest, that my mind was
distracted from them, and little
by little the recollection of
them faded away. Letters full
of heartfelt tenderness reached
me; but at two-and-twenty a young
man imagines that all women are
alike tender; he does not know
love from a passing infatuation;
all things are confused in the
sensations of pleasure which
seem at first to comprise everything.
It was only later, when I came
to a clearer knowledge of men
and of things as they are, that
I could estimate those noble
letters at their just worth.
No trace of selfishness was mingled
with the feeling expressed in
them; there was nothing but gladness
on my account for my change of
fortune, and regret on her own;
it never occurred to her that
I could change towards her, for
she felt that she herself was
incapable of change. But even
then I had given myself up to
ambitious dreams; I thought of
drinking deeply of all the delights
that wealth could give, of becoming
a person of consequence, of making
a brilliant marriage. So I read
the letters, and contented myself
with saying, 'She is very fond
of me,' with the indifference
of a coxcomb. Even then I was
perplexed as to how to extricate
myself from this entanglement;
I was ashamed of it, and this
fact as well as my perplexity
led me to be cruel. We begin
by wounding the victim, and then
we kill it, that the sight of
our cruelty may no longer put
us to the blush. Late reflections
upon those days of error have
unveiled for me many a dark depth
in the human heart. Yes, believe
me, those who best have fathomed
the good and evil in human nature
have honestly examined themselves
in the first instance. Conscience
is the starting-point of our
investigations; we proceed from
ourselves to others, never from
others to ourselves.
"When I returned
to Paris I took up my abode
in a large house
which, in pursuance with my orders,
had been taken for me, and the
one person interested in my return
and change of address was not
informed of it. I wished to cut
a figure among young men of fashion.
I waited a few days to taste
the first delights of wealth;
and when, flushed with the excitement
of my new position, I felt that
I could trust myself to do so,
I went to see the poor girl whom
I meant to cast off. With a woman's
quickness she saw what was passing
in my mind, and hid her tears
from me. She could not but have
despised me; but it was her nature
to be gentle and kindly, and
she never showed her scorn. Her
forbearance was a cruel punishment.
An unresisting victim is not
a pleasant thing; whether the
murder is done decorously in
the drawing- room, or brutally
on the highway, there should
be a struggle to give some plausible
excuse for taking a life. I renewed
my visits very affectionately
at first, making efforts to be
gracious, if not tender; by slow
degrees I became politely civil;
and one day, by a sort of tacit
agreement between us, she allowed
me to treat her as a stranger,
and I thought that I had done
all that could be expected of
me. Nevertheless I abandoned
myself to my new life with almost
frenzied eagerness, and sought
to drown in gaiety any vague
lingering remorse that I felt.
A man who has lost his self-respect
cannot endure his own society,
so I led the dissipated life
that wealthy young men lead in
Paris. Owing to a good education
and an excellent memory, I seemed
cleverer than I really was, forthwith
I looked down upon other people;
and those who, for their own
purposes, wished to prove to
me that I was possessed of extraordinary
abilities, found me quite convinced
on that head. Praise is the most
insidious of all methods of treachery
known to the world; and this
is nowhere better understood
than in Paris, where intriguing
schemers know how to stifle every
kind of talent at its birth by
heaping laurels on its cradle.
So I did nothing worthy of my
reputation; I reaped no advantages
from the golden opinions entertained
of me, and made no acquaintances
likely to be useful in my future
career. I wasted my energies
in numberless frivolous pursuits,
and in the short-lived love intrigues
that are the disgrace of salons
in Paris, where every one seeks
for love, grows blase in the
pursuit, falls into the libertinism
sanctioned by polite society,
and ends by feeling as much astonished
at real passion as the world
is over a heroic action. I did
as others did. Often I dealt
to generous and candid souls
the deadly wound from which I
myself was slowly perishing.
Yet though deceptive appearances
might lead others to misjudge
me, I could never overcome my
scrupulous delicacy. Many times
I have been duped, and should
have blushed for myself had it
been otherwise; I secretly prided
myself on acting in good faith,
although this lowered me in the
eyes of others. As a matter of
fact the world has a considerable
respect for cleverness, whatever
form it takes, and success justifies
everything. So the world was
pleased to attribute to me all
the good qualities and evil propensities,
all the victories and defeats
which had never been mine; credited
me with conquests of which I
knew nothing, and sat in judgment
upon actions of which I had never
been guilty. I scorned to contradict
the slanders, and self-love led
me to regard the more flattering
rumors with a certain complacence.
Outwardly my existence was pleasant
enough, but in reality I was
miserable. If it had not been
for the tempest of misfortunes
that very soon burst over my
head, all good impulses must
have perished, and evil would
have triumphed in the struggle
that went on within me; enervating
self-indulgence would have destroyed
the body, as the detestable habits
of egotism exhausted the springs
of the soul. But I was ruined
financially. This was how it
came about.
"No matter
how large his fortune may be,
a man is sure to find
some one else in Paris possessed
of yet greater wealth, whom he
must needs aim at surpassing.
In this unequal conquest I was
vanquished at the end of four
years; and, like many another
harebrained youngster, I was
obliged to sell part of my property
and to mortgage the remainder
to satisfy my creditors. Then
a terrible blow suddenly struck
me down.
"Two years
had passed since I had last
seen the woman whom
I had deserted. The turn that
my affairs were taking would
no doubt have brought me back
to her once more; but one evening,
in the midst of a gay circle
of acquaintances, I received
a note written in a trembling
hand. It only contained these
few words:
" 'I have only
a very little while to live,
and I should like
to see you, my friend, so that
I may know what will become of
my child-- whether henceforward
he will be yours; and also to
soften the regret that some day
you might perhaps feel for my
death.'
"The letter
made me shudder. It was a revelation
of secret
anguish in the past, while it
contained a whole unknown future.
I set out on foot, I would not
wait for my carriage, I went
across Paris, goaded by remorse,
and gnawed by a dreadful fear
that was confirmed by the first
sight of my victim. In the extreme
neatness and cleanliness beneath
which she had striven to hid
her poverty I read all the terrible
sufferings of her life; she was
nobly reticent about them in
her effort to spare my feelings,
and only alluded to them after
I had solemnly promised to adopt
our child. She died, sir, in
spite of all the care lavished
upon her, and all that science
could suggest was done for her
in vain. The care and devotion
that had come too late only served
to render her last moments less
bitter.
"To support
her little one she had worked
incessantly with
her needle. Love for her child
had given her strength to endure
her life of hardship; but it
had not enabled her to bear my
desertion, the keenest of all
her griefs. Many times she had
thought of trying to see me,
but her woman's pride had always
prevented this. While I squandered
floods of gold upon my caprices,
no memory of the past had ever
bidden a single drop to fall
in her home to help mother and
child to live; but she had been
content to weep, and had not
cursed me; she had looked upon
her evil fortune as the natural
punishment of her error. With
the aid of a good priest of Saint
Sulpice, whose kindly voice had
restored peace to her soul, she
had sought for hope in the shadow
of the altar, whither she had
gone to dry her tears. The bitter
flood that I had poured into
her heart gradually abated; and
one day, when she heard her child
say 'Father,' a word that she
had not taught him, she forgave
my crime. But sorrow and weeping
and days and nights of ceaseless
toil injured her health. Religion
had brought its consolations
and the courage to bear the ills
of life, but all too late. She
fell ill of a heart complaint
brought on by grief and by the
strain of expectation, for she
always thought that I should
return, and her hopes always
sprang up afresh after every
disappointment. Her health grew
worse; and at last, as she was
lying on her deathbed, she wrote
those few lines, containing no
word of reproach, prompted by
religion, and by a belief in
the goodness in my nature. She
knew, she said, that I was blinded
rather than bent on doing wrong.
She even accused herself of carrying
her womanly pride too far. 'If
I had only written sooner,' she
said, 'perhaps there might have
been time for a marriage which
would have legitimated our child.'
"It was only
on her child's account that
she wished for the
solemnization of the ties that
bound us, nor would she have
sought for this if she had not
felt that death was at hand to
unloose them. But it was too
late; even then she had only
a few hours to live. By her bedside,
where I learned to know the worth
of a devoted heart, my nature
underwent a final change. I was
still at an age when tears are
shed. During those last days,
while the precious life yet lingered,
my tears, my words, and everything
I did bore witness to my heartstricken
repentance. The meanness and
pettiness of the society in which
I had moved, the emptiness and
selfishness of women of fashion,
had taught me to wish for and
to seek an elect soul, and now
I had found it--too late. I was
weary of lying words and of masked
faces; counterfeit passion had
set me dreaming; I had called
on love; and now I beheld love
lying before me, slain by my
own hands, and had no power to
keep it beside me, no power to
keep what was so wholly mine.
"The experience
of four years had taught me
to know my own
real character. My temperament,
the nature of my imagination,
my religious principles, which
had not been eradicated, but
had rather lain dormant; my turn
of mind, my heart that only now
began to make itself felt--everything
within me led me to resolve to
fill my life with the pleasures
of affection, to replace a lawless
love by family happiness --the
truest happiness on earth. Visions
of close and dear companionship
appealed to me but the more strongly
for my wanderings in the wilderness,
my grasping at pleasures unennobled
by thought or feeling. So though
the revolution within me was
rapidly effected, it was permanent.
With my southern temperament,
warped by the life I led in Paris,
I should certainly have come
to look without pity on an unhappy
girl betrayed by her lover; I
should have laughed at the story
if it had been told me by some
wag in merry company (for with
us in France a clever bon mot
dispels all feelings of horror
at a crime), but all sophistries
were silenced in the presence
of this angelic creature, against
whom I could bring no least word
of reproach. There stood her
coffin, and my child, who did
not know that I had murdered
his mother, and smiled at me.
"She died.
She died happy when she saw
that I loved her, and
that this new love was due neither
to pity nor to the ties that
bound us together. Never shall
I forget her last hours. Love
had been won back, her mind was
at rest about her child, and
happiness triumphed over suffering.
The comfort and luxury about
her, the merriment of her child,
who looked prettier still in
the dainty garb that had replaced
his baby-clothes, were pledges
of a happy future for the little
one, in whom she saw her own
life renewed.
"The curate
of Saint Sulpice witnessed
my terrible distress.
His words well-nigh made me despair.
He did not attempt to offer conventional
consolation, and put the gravity
of my responsibilities unsparingly
before me, but I had no need
of a spur. The conscience within
me spoke loudly enough already.
A woman had placed a generous
confidence in me. I had lied
to her from the first; I had
told her that I loved her, and
then I had cast her off; I had
brought all this sorrow upon
an unhappy girl who had braved
the opinion of the world for
me, and who therefore should
have been sacred in my eyes.
She had died forgiving me. Her
implicit trust in the word of
a man who had once before broken
his promise to her effaced the
memory of all her pain and grief,
and she slept in peace. Agatha,
who had given me her girlish
faith, had found in her heart
another faith to give me--the
faith of a mother. Oh! sir, the
child, HER child! God alone can
know all that he was to me! The
dear little one was like his
mother; he had her winning grace
in his little ways, his talk
and ideas; but for me, my child
was not only a child, but something
more; was he not the token of
my forgiveness, my honor?
"He should
have more than a father's affection.
He should
be loved as his mother would
have loved him. My remorse might
change to happiness if I could
only make him feel that his mother's
arms were still about him. I
clung to him with all the force
of human love and the hope of
heaven, with all the tenderness
in my heart that God has given
to mothers. The sound of the
child's voice made me tremble.
I used to watch him while he
slept with a sense of gladness
that was always new, albeit a
tear sometimes fell on his forehead;
I taught him to come to say his
prayer upon my bed as soon as
he awoke. How sweet and touching
were the simple words of the
Pater noster in the innocent
childish mouth! Ah! and at times
how terrible! 'OUR FATHER WHICH
ART IN HEAVEN,' he began one
morning; then he paused--'Why
is it not OUR MOTHER?' he asked,
and my heart sank at his words.
"From the very
first I had sown the seeds
of future misfortune
in the life of the son whom I
idolized. Although the law has
almost countenanced errors of
youth by conceding to tardy regret
a legal status to natural children,
the insurmountable prejudices
of society bring a strong force
to the support of the reluctance
of the law. All serious reflection
on my part as to the foundations
and mechanism of society, on
the duties of man, and vital
questions of morality date from
this period of my life. Genius
comprehends at first sight the
connection between a man's principles
and the fate of the society of
which he forms a part; devout
souls are inspired by religion
with the sentiments necessary
for their happiness; but vehement
and impulsive natures can only
be schooled by repentance. With
repentance came new light for
me; and I, who only lived for
my child, came through that child
to think over great social questions.
"I determined
from the first that he should
have all possible
means of success within himself,
and that he should be thoroughly
prepared to take the high position
for which I destined him. He
learned English, German, Italian,
and Spanish in succession; and,
that he might speak these languages
correctly, tutors belonging to
each of these various nationalities
were successively placed about
him from his earliest childhood.
His aptitude delighted me. I
took advantage of it to give
him lessons in the guise of play.
I wished to keep his mind free
from fallacies, and strove before
all things to accustom him from
childhood to exert his intellectual
powers, to make a rapid and accurate
general survey of a matter, and
then, by a careful study of every
least particular, to master his
subject in detail. Lastly, I
taught him to submit to discipline
without murmuring. I never allowed
an impure or improper word to
be spoken in his hearing. I was
careful that all his surroundings,
and the men with whom he came
in contact, should conduce to
one end--to ennoble his nature,
to set lofty ideals before him,
to give him a love of truth and
a horror of lies, to make him
simple and natural in manner,
as in word and deed. His natural
aptitude had made his other studies
easy to him, and his imagination
made him quick to grasp these
lessons that lay outside the
province of the schoolroom. What
a fair flower to tend! How great
are the joys that mothers know!
In those days I began to understand
how his own mother had been able
to live and to bear her sorrow.
This, sir, was the great event
of my life; and now I am coming
to the tragedy which drove me
hither.
"It is the
most ordinary commonplace story
imaginable; but to me it
meant the most terrible pain.
For some years I had thought
of nothing but my child, and
how to make a man of him; then,
when my son was growing up and
about to leave me, I grew afraid
of my loneliness. Love was a
necessity of my existence; this
need for affection had never
been satisfied, and only grew
stronger with years. I was in
every way capable of a real attachment;
I had been tried and proved.
I knew all that a steadfast love
means, the love that delights
to find a pleasure in self-sacrifice;
in everything I did my first
thought would always be for the
woman I loved. In imagination
I was fain to dwell on the serene
heights far above doubt and uncertainty,
where love so fills two beings
that happiness flows quietly
and evenly into their life, their
looks, and words. Such love is
to a life what religion is to
the soul; a vital force, a power
that enlightens and upholds.
I understood the love of husband
and wife in nowise as most people
do; for me its full beauty and
magnificence began precisely
at the point where love perishes
in many a household. I deeply
felt the moral grandeur of a
life so closely shared by two
souls that the trivialities of
everyday existence should be
powerless against such lasting
love as theirs. But where will
the hearts be found whose beats
are so nearly isochronous (let
the scientific term pass) that
they may attain to this beatific
union? If they exist, nature
and chance have set them far
apart, so that they cannot come
together; they find each other
too late, or death comes too
soon to separate them. There
must be some good reasons for
these dispensations of fate,
but I have never sought to discover
them. I cannot make a study of
my wound, because I suffer too
much from it. Perhaps perfect
happiness is a monster which
our species should not perpetuate.
There were other causes for my
fervent desire for such a marriage
as this. I had no friends, the
world for me was a desert. There
is something in me that repels
friendship. More than one person
has sought me out, but, in spite
of efforts on my part, it came
to nothing. With many men I have
been careful to show no sign
of something that is called 'superiority;'
I have adapted my mind to theirs;
I have placed myself at their
point of view, joined in their
laughter, and overlooked their
defects; any fame I might have
gained, I would have bartered
for a little kindly affection.
They parted from me without regret.
If you seek for real feeling
in Paris, snares await you everywhere,
and the end is sorrow. Wherever
I set my foot, the ground round
about me seemed to burn. My readiness
to acquiesce was considered weakness
though if I unsheathed my talons,
like a man conscious that he
may some day wield the thunderbolts
of power, I was thought ill-natured;
to others, the delightful laughter
that ceases with youth, and in
which in later years we are almost
ashamed to indulge, seemed absurd,
and they amused themselves at
my expense. People may be bored
nowadays, but none the less they
expect you to treat every trivial
topic with befitting seriousness.
"A hateful
era! You must bow down before
mediocrity, frigidly
polite mediocrity which you despise--and
obey. On more mature reflection,
I have discovered the reasons
of these glaring inconsistencies.
Mediocrity is never out of fashion,
it is the daily wear of society;
genius and eccentricity are ornaments
that are locked away and only
brought out on certain days.
Everything that ventures forth
beyond the protection of the
grateful shadow of mediocrity
has something startling about
it.
"So, in the
midst of Paris, I led a solitary
life. I had
given up everything to society,
but it had given me nothing in
return; and my child was not
enough to satisfy my heart, because
I was not a woman. My life seemed
to be growing cold within me;
I was bending under a load of
secret misery when I met the
woman who was to make me know
the might of love, the reverence
of an acknowledged love, love
with its teeming hopes of happiness--in
one word--love.
"I had renewed
my acquaintance with that old
friend of my father's
who had once taken charge of
my affairs. It was in his house
that I first met her whom I must
love as long as life shall last.
The longer we live, sir, the
more clearly we see the enormous
influence of ideas upon the events
of life. Prejudices, worthy of
all respect, and bred by noble
religious ideas, occasioned my
misfortunes. This young girl
belonged to an exceeding devout
family, whose views of Catholicism
were due to the spirit of a sect
improperly styled Jansenists,
which, in former times, caused
troubles in France. You know
why?"
"No," said
Genestas.
"Jansenius,
Bishop of Ypres, once wrote
a book which was believed
to contain propositions at variance
with the doctrines of the Holy
See. When examined at a later
date, there appeared to be nothing
heretical in the wording of the
text, some authors even went
so far as to deny that the heretical
propositions had any real existence.
However it was, these insignificant
disputes gave rise to two parties
in the Gallican Church--the Jansenists
and the Jesuits. Great men were
found in either camp, and a struggle
began between two powerful bodies.
The Jansenists affected an excessive
purity of morals and of doctrine,
and accused the Jesuits of preaching
a relaxed morality. The Jansenists,
in fact, were Catholic Puritans,
if two contradictory terms can
be combined. During the Revolution,
the Concordat occasioned an unimportant
schism, a little segregation
of ultra-catholics who refused
to recognize the Bishops appointed
by the authorities with the consent
of the Pope. This little body
of the faithful was called the
Little Church; and those within
its fold, like the Jansenists,
led the strictly ordered lives
that appear to be a first necessity
of existence in all proscribed
and persecuted sects. Many Jansenist
families had joined the Little
Church. The family to which this
young girl belonged had embraced
the equally rigid doctrines of
both these Puritanisms, tenets
which impart a stern dignity
to the character and mien of
those who hold them. It is the
nature of positive doctrine to
exaggerate the importance of
the most ordinary actions of
life by connecting them with
ideas of a future existence.
This is the source of a splendid
and delicate purity of heart,
a respect for others and for
self, of an indescribably keen
sense of right and wrong, a wide
charity, together with a justice
so stern that it might well be
called inexorable, and lastly,
a perfect hatred of lies and
of all the vices comprised by
falsehood.
"I can recall
no more delightful moments
than those of our first
meeting at my old friend's house.
I beheld for the first time this
shy young girl with her sincere
nature, her habits of ready obedience.
All the virtues peculiar to the
sect to which she belonged shone
in her, but she seemed to be
unconscious of her merit. There
was a grace, which no austerity
could diminish, about every movement
of her lissome, slender form;
her quiet brow, the delicate
grave outlines of her face, and
her clearly cut features indicated
noble birth; her expression was
gentle and proud; her thick hair
had been simply braided, the
coronet of plaits about her head
served, all unknown to her, as
an adornment. Captain, she was
for me the ideal type that is
always made real for us in the
woman with whom we fall in love;
for when we love, is it not because
we recognize beauty that we have
dreamed of, the beauty that has
existed in idea for us is realized?
When I spoke to her, she answered
simply, without shyness or eagerness;
she did not know the pleasure
it was to me to see her, to hear
the musical sounds of her voice.
All these angels are revealed
to our hearts by the same signs;
by the sweetness of their tongues,
the tenderness in their eyes,
by their fair, pale faces, and
their gracious ways. All these
things are so blended and mingled
that we feel the charm of their
presence, yet cannot tell in
what that charm consists, and
every movement is an expression
of a divine soul within. I loved
passionately. This newly awakened
love satisfied all my restless
longings, all my ambitious dreams.
She was beautiful, wealthy, and
nobly born; she had been carefully
brought up; she had all the qualifications
which the world positively demands
of a woman placed in the high
position which I desired to reach;
she had been well educated, she
expressed herself with a sprightly
facility at once rare and common
in France; where the most prettily
worded phrases of many women
are emptiness itself, while her
bright talk was full of sense.
Above all, she had a deep consciousness
of her own dignity which made
others respect her; I know of
no more excellent thing in a
wife. I must stop, captain; no
one can describe the woman he
loves save very imperfectly,
preexistent mysteries which defy
analysis lie between them.
"I very soon
took my old friend into my
confidence. He introduced
me to her family, and gave me
the countenance of his honorable
character. I was received at
first with the frigid politeness
characteristic of those exclusive
people who never forsake those
whom they have once admitted
to their friendship. As time
went on they welcomed me almost
as one of the family; this mark
of their esteem was won by my
behavior in the matter. In spite
of my passionate love, I did
nothing that could lower me in
my own eyes; I did not cringe,
I paid no court to those upon
whom my fate depended, before
all things I showed myself a
man, and not other than I really
was. When I was well known to
them, my old friend, who was
as desirous as I myself that
my life of melancholy loneliness
should come to an end, spoke
of my hopes and met with a favorable
reception; but with the diplomatic
shrewdness which is almost a
second nature with men of the
world, he was silent with regard
to an error of my youth, as he
termed it. He was anxious to
bring about a 'satisfactory marriage'
for me, an expression that makes
of so solemn an act a business
transaction in which husband
and wife endeavor to cheat each
other. In his opinion, the existence
of my child would excite a moral
repugnance, in comparison with
which the question of money would
be as nought, and the whole affair
would be broken off at once,
and he was right.
" 'It is a
matter which will be very easily
settled between
you and your wife; it will be
easy to obtain her full and free
forgiveness,' he said.
"In short,
he tried to silence my scruples,
and all the insidious
arguments that worldly wisdom
could suggest were brought to
bear upon me to this end. I will
confess to you, sir, that in
spite of my promise, my first
impulse was to act straightforwardly
and to make everything known
to the head of the family, but
the thought of his uncompromising
sternness made me pause, and
the probable consequences of
the confession appalled me; my
courage failed, I temporized
with my conscience, I determined
to wait until I was sufficiently
sure of the affection of the
girl I hoped to win, before hazarding
my happiness by the terrible
confession. My resolution to
acknowledge everything openly,
at a convenient season, vindicated
the sophistries of worldly wisdom
and the sagacity of my old friend.
So the young girl's parents received
me as their future son-in-law
without, as yet, taking their
friends into their confidence.
"An infinite
discretion is the distinguishing
quality of
pious families; they are reticent
about everything, even about
matters of no importance. You
would not believe, sir, how this
sedate gravity and reserve, pervading
every least action, deepens the
current of feeling and thought.
Everything in that house was
done with some useful end in
view; the women spent their leisure
time in making garments for the
poor; their conversation was
never frivolous; laughter was
not banished, but there was a
kindly simplicity about their
merriment. Their talk had none
of the piquancy which scandal
and ill-natured gossip give to
the conversation of society;
only the father and uncle read
the newspapers, even the most
harmless journal contains references
to crimes or to public evils,
and she whom I hoped to win had
never cast her eyes over their
sheets. How strange it was, at
first, to listen to these orthodox
people! But in a little while,
the pure atmosphere left the
same impression upon the soul
that subdued colors give to the
eyes, a sense of serene repose
and of tranquil peace.
"To a superficial
observer, their life would
have seemed
terribly monotonous. There was
something chilling about the
appearance of the interior of
the house. Day after day I used
to see everything, even the furniture
in constant use, always standing
in the same place, and this uniform
tidiness pervaded the smallest
details. Yet there was something
very attractive about their household
ways. I had been used to the
pleasures of variety, to the
luxury and stir of life in Paris;
it was only when I had overcome
my first repugnance that I saw
the advantages of this existence;
how it lent itself to continuity
of thought and to involuntary
meditation; how a life in which
the heart has undisturbed sway
seems to widen and grow vast
as the sea. It is like the life
of the cloister, where the outward
surroundings never vary, and
thought is thus compelled to
detach itself from outward things
and to turn to the infinite that
lies within the soul!
"For a man
as sincerely in love as I was,
the silence and
simplicity of the life, the almost
conventual regularity with which
the same things are done daily
at the same hours, only deepened
and strengthened love. In that
profound calm the interest attaching
to the least action, word, or
gesture became immense. I learned
to know that, in the interchange
of glances and in answering smiles,
there lies an eloquence and a
variety of language far beyond
the possibilities of the most
magnificent of spoken phrases;
that when the expression of the
feelings is spontaneous and unforced,
there is no idea, no joy nor
sorrow that cannot thus be communicated
by hearts that understand each
other. How many times I have
tried to set forth my soul in
my eyes or on my lips, compelled
at once to speak and to be silent
concerning my passion; for the
young girl who, in my presence,
was always serene and unconscious
had not been informed of the
reason of my constant visits;
her parents were determined that
the most important decision of
her life should rest entirely
with her. But does not the presence
of our beloved satisfy the utmost
desire of passionate love? In
that presence do we not know
the happiness of the Christian
who stands before God? If for
me more than for any other it
was torture to have no right
to give expression to the impulses
of my heart, to force back into
its depths the burning words
that treacherously wrong the
yet more ardent emotions which
strive to find an utterance in
speech; I found, nevertheless,
in the merest trifles a channel
through which my passionate love
poured itself forth but the more
vehemently for this constraint,
till every least occurrence came
to have an excessive importance.
"I beheld her,
not for brief moments, but
for whole hours.
There were pauses between my
question and her answer, and
long musings, when, with the
tones of her voice lingering
in my ears, I sought to divine
from them the secret of her inmost
thoughts; perhaps her fingers
would tremble as I gave her some
object of which she had been
in search, or I would devise
pretexts to lightly touch her
dress or her hair, to take her
hand in mine, to compel her to
speak more than she wished; all
these nothings were great events
for me. Eyes and voice and gestures
were freighted with mysterious
messages of love in hours of
ecstasy like these, and this
was the only language permitted
me by the quiet maidenly reserve
of the young girl before me.
Her manner towards me underwent
no change; with me she was always
as a sister with a brother; yet,
as my passion grew, and the contrast
between her glances and mine,
her words and my utterance, became
more striking, I felt at last
that this timid silence was the
only means by which she could
express her feelings. Was she
not always in the salon whenever
I came? Did she not stay there
until my visit, expected and
perhaps foreseen, was over? Did
not this mute tryst betray the
secret of her innocent soul?
Nay, whilst I spoke, did she
not listen with a pleasure which
she could not hide?
"At last, no
doubt, her parents grew impatient
with this artless
behavior and sober love-making.
I was almost as timid as their
daughter, and perhaps on this
account found favor in their
eyes. They regarded me as a man
worthy of their esteem. My old
friend was taken into their confidence;
both father and mother spoke
of me in the most flattering
terms; I had become their adopted
son, and more especially they
singled out my moral principles
for praise. In truth, I had found
my youth again; among these pure
and religious surroundings early
beliefs and early faith came
back to the man of thirty-two.
"The summer was drawing to
a close. Affairs of some importance
had detained the family in Paris
longer than their wont; but when
September came, and they were
able to leave town at last for
an estate in Auvergne, her father
entreated me to spend a couple
of months with them in an old
chateau hidden away among the
mountains of Cantal. I paused
before accepting this friendly
invitation. My hesitation brought
me the sweetest and most delightful
unconscious confession, a revelation
of the mysteries of a girlish
heart. Evelina . . . DIEU!" exclaimed
Benassis; and he said no more
for a time, wrapped in his own
thoughts.
"Pardon me, Captain Bluteau," he
resumed, after a long pause. "For
twelve years I have not uttered
the name that is always hovering
in my thoughts, that a voice
calls in my hearing even when
I sleep. Evelina (since I have
named her) raised her head with
a strange quickness and abruptness,
for about all her movements there
was an instinctive grace and
gentleness, and looked at me.
There was no pride in her face,
but rather a wistful anxiety.
Then her color rose, and her
eyelids fell; it gave me an indescribable
pleasure never felt before that
they should fall so slowly; I
could only stammer out my reply
in a faltering voice. The emotion
of my own heart made swift answer
to hers. She thanked me by a
happy look, and I almost thought
that there were tears in her
eyes. In that moment we had told
each other everything. So I went
into the country with her family.
Since the day when our hearts
had understood each other, nothing
seemed to be as it had been before;
everything about us had acquired
a fresh significance.
"Love, indeed,
is always the same, though
our imagination
determines the shape that love
must assume; like and unlike,
therefore, is love in every soul
in which he dwells, and passion
becomes a unique work in which
the soul expresses its sympathies.
In the old trite saying that
love is a projection of self--an
egoisme a deux--lies a profound
meaning known only to philosopher
and poet; for it is ourself in
truth that we love in that other.
Yet, though love manifests itself
in such different ways that no
pair of lovers since the world
began is like any other pair
before or since, they all express
themselves after the same fashion,
and the same words are on the
lips of every girl, even of the
most innocent, convent-bred maiden--the
only difference lies in the degree
of imaginative charm in their
ideas. But between Evelina and
other girls there was this difference,
that where another would have
poured out her feelings quite
naturally, Evelina regarded these
innocent confidences as a concession
made to the stormy emotions which
had invaded the quiet sanctuary
of her girlish soul. The constant
struggle between her heart and
her principles gave to the least
event of her life, so peaceful
in appearance, in reality so
profoundly agitated, a character
of force very superior to the
exaggerations of young girls
whose manners are early rendered
false by the world about them.
All through the journey Evelina
discovered beauty in the scenery
through which we passed, and
spoke of it with admiration.
When we think that we may not
give expression to the happiness
which is given to us by the presence
of one we love, we pour out the
secret gladness that overflows
our hearts upon inanimate things,
investing them with beauty in
our happiness. The charm of the
scenery which passed before our
eyes became in this way an interpreter
between us, for in our praises
of the landscape we revealed
to each other the secrets of
our love. Evelina's mother sometimes
took a mischievous pleasure in
disconcerting her daughter.
" 'My dear
child, you have been through
this valley a score
of times without seeming to admire
it!' she remarked after a somewhat
too enthusiastic phrase from
Evelina.
" 'No doubt
it was because I was not old
enough to understand
beauty of this kind, mother.'
"Forgive me
for dwelling on this trifle,
which can have no
charm for you, captain; but the
simple words brought me an indescribable
joy, which had its source in
the glance directed towards me
as she spoke. So some village
lighted by sunrise, some ivy-covered
ruin which we had seen together,
memories of outward and visible
things, served to deepen and
strengthen the impressions of
our happiness; they seemed to
be landmarks on the way through
which we were passing towards
a bright future that lay before
us.
"We reached
the chateau belonging to her
family, where I spent
about six weeks, the only time
in my life during which Heaven
has vouchsafed complete happiness
to me. I enjoyed pleasures unknown
to town-dwellers --all the happiness
which two lovers find in living
beneath the same roof, an anticipation
of the life they will spend together.
To stroll through the fields,
to be alone together at times
if we wished it, to look over
an old water-mill, to sit beneath
a tree in some lovely glen among
the hills, the lovers' talks,
the sweet confidences drawn forth
by which each made some progress
day by day in the other's heart.
Ah! sir, the out-of-door life,
the beauty of earth and heaven,
is a perfect accompaniment to
the perfect happiness of the
soul! To mingle our careless
talk with the song of the birds
among the dewy leaves, to smile
at each other as we gazed on
the sky, to turn our steps slowly
homewards at the sound of the
bell that always rings too soon,
to admire together some little
detail in the landscape, to watch
the fitful movements of an insect,
to look closely at a gleaming
demoiselle fly--the delicate
creature that resembles an innocent
and loving girl; in such ways
as these are not one's thoughts
drawn daily a little higher?
The memories of my forty days
of happiness have in a manner
colored all the rest of my life,
memories that are all the fairer
and fill the greater space in
my thoughts because since then
it has been my fate never to
be understood. To this day there
are scenes of no special interest
for a casual observer, but full
of bitter significance for a
broken heart, which recall those
vanished days, and the love that
is not forgotten yet.
"I do not know
whether you noticed the effect
of the sunset
light on the cottage where little
Jacques lives? Everything shone
so brightly in the fiery rays
of the sun, and then all at once
the whole landscape grew dark
and dreary. That sudden change
was like the change in my own
life at this time. I received
from her the first, the sole
and sublime token of love that
an innocent girl may give; the
more secretly it is given, the
closer is the bond it forms,
the sweet promise of love, a
fragment of the language spoken
in a fairer world than this.
Sure, therefore, of being beloved,
I vowed that I would confess
everything at once, that I would
have no secrets from her; I felt
ashamed that I had so long delayed
to tell her about the sorrows
that I had brought upon myself.
"Unluckily,
with the morrow of this happy
day a letter came
from my son's tutor, the life
of the child so dear to me was
in danger. I went away without
confiding my secret to Evelina,
merely telling her family that
I was urgently required in Paris.
Her parents took alarm during
my absence. They feared that
there I was entangled in some
way, and wrote to Paris to make
inquiries about me. It was scarcely
consistent with their religious
principles; but they suspected
me, and did not even give me
an opportunity of clearing myself.
"One of their
friends, without my knowledge,
gave them the whole
history of my youth, blackening
my errors, laying stress upon
the existence of my child, which
(said they) I intended to conceal.
I wrote to my future parents,
but I received no answers to
my letters; and when they came
back to Paris, and I called at
their house, I was not admitted.
Much alarmed, I sent to my old
friend to learn the reason of
this conduct on their part, which
I did not in the least understand.
As soon as the good soul knew
the real cause of it all, he
sacrificed himself generously,
took upon himself all the blame
of my reserve, and tried to exculpate
me, but all to no purpose. Questions
of interest and morality were
regarded so seriously by the
family, their prejudices were
so firmly and deeply rooted,
that they never swerved from
their resolution. My despair
was overwhelming. At first I
tried to deprecate their wrath,
but my letters were sent back
to me unopened. When every possible
means had been tried in vain;
when her father and mother had
plainly told my old friend (the
cause of my misfortune) that
they would never consent to their
daughter's marriage with a man
who had upon his conscience the
death of a woman and the life
of a natural son, even though
Evelina herself should implore
them upon her knees; then, sir,
there only remained to me one
last hope, a hope as slender
and fragile as the willow-branch
at which a drowning wretch catches
to save himself.
"I ventured to think that Evelina's
love would be stronger than her
father's scruples, that her inflexible
parents might yield to her entreaties.
Perhaps, who knows, her father
had kept from her the reasons
of the refusal, which was so
fatal to our love. I determined
to acquaint her with all the
circumstances, and to make a
final appeal to her; and in fear
and trembling, in grief and tears,
my first and last love-letter
was written. To-day I can only
dimly remember the words dictated
to me by my despair; but I must
have told Evelina that if she
had dealt sincerely with me she
could not and ought not to love
another, or how could her whole
life be anything but a lie? she
must be false either to her future
husband or to me. Could she refuse
to the lover, who had been so
misjudged and hardly entreated,
the devotion which she would
have shown him as her husband,
if the marriage which had already
taken place in our hearts had
been outwardly solemnized? Was
not this to fall from the ideal
of womanly virtue? What woman
would not love to feel that the
promises of the heart were more
sacred and binding than the chains
forged by the law? I defended
my errors; and in my appeal to
the purity of innocence, I left
nothing unsaid that could touch
a noble and generous nature.
But as I am telling you everything,
I will look for her answer and
my farewell letter," said Benassis,
and he went up to his room in
search of it.
He returned in a few moments
with a worn pocketbook; his hands
trembled with emotion as he drew
from it some loose sheets.
"Here is the fatal letter," he
said. "The girl who wrote those
lines little knew the value that
I should set upon the scrap of
paper that holds her thoughts.
This is the last cry that pain
wrung from me," he added, taking
up a second letter; "I will lay
it before you directly. My old
friend was the bearer of my letter
of entreaty; he gave it to her
without her parents' knowledge,
humbling his white hair to implore
Evelina to read and to reply
to my appeal. This was her answer:
" 'Monsieur
. . .' But lately I had been
her 'beloved,' the
innocent name she had found by
which to express her innocent
love, and now she called me MONSIEUR!
. . . That one word told me everything.
But listen to the rest of the
letter:
" 'Treachery on the part of
one to whom her life was to be
intrusted is a bitter thing for
a girl to discover; and yet I
could not but excuse you, we
are so weak! Your letter touched
me, but you must not write to
me again, the sight of your handwriting
gives me such unbearable pain.
We are parted for ever. I was
carried away by your reasoning;
it extinguished all the harsh
feelings that had risen up against
you in my soul. I had been so
proud of your truth! But both
of us have found my father's
reasoning irresistible. Yes,
monsieur, I ventured to plead
for you. I did for you what I
have never done before, I overcame
the greatest fears that I have
ever known, and acted almost
against my nature. Even now I
am yielding to your entreaties,
and doing wrong for your sake,
in writing to you without my
father's knowledge. My mother
knows that I am writing to you;
her indulgence in leaving me
at liberty to be alone with you
for a moment has taught me the
depth of her love for me, and
strengthened my determination
to bow to the decree of my family,
against which I had almost rebelled.
So I am writing to you, monsieur,
for the first and last time.
You have my full and entire forgiveness
for the troubles that you have
brought into my life. Yes, you
are right; a first love can never
be forgotten. I am no longer
an innocent girl; and, as an
honest woman, I can never marry
another. What my future will
be, I know not therefore. Only
you see, monsieur, that echoes
of this year that you have filled
will never die away in my life.
But I am in no way accusing you.
. . . "I shall always be beloved!" Why
did you write those words? Can
they bring peace to the troubled
soul of a lonely and unhappy
girl? Have you not already laid
waste my future, giving me memories
which will never cease to revisit
me? Henceforth I can only give
myself to God, but will He accept
a broken heart? He has had some
purpose to fulfil in sending
these afflictions to me; doubtless
it was His will that I should
turn to Him, my only refuge here
below. Nothing remains to me
here upon this earth. You have
all a man's ambitions wherewith
to beguile your sorrows. I do
not say this as a reproach; it
is a sort of religious consolation.
If we both bear a grievous burden
at this moment, I think that
my share of it is the heavier.
He in whom I have put my trust,
and of whom you can feel no jealousy,
has joined our lives together,
and He puts them asunder according
to His will. I have seen that
your religious beliefs were not
founded upon the pure and living
faith which alone enables us
to bear our woes here below.
Monsieur, if God will vouchsafe
to hear my fervent and ceaseless
prayers, He will cause His light
to shine in your soul. Farewell,
you who should have been my guide,
you whom once I had the right
to call "my beloved," no one
can reproach me if I pray for
you still. God orders our days
as it pleases Him. Perhaps you
may be the first whom He will
call to himself; but if I am
left alone in the world, then,
monsieur, intrust the care of
the child to me.'
"This letter, so full of generous
sentiments, disappointed my hopes," Benassis
resumed, "so that at first I
could think of nothing but my
misery; afterwards I welcomed
the balm which, in her forgetfulness
of self, she had tried to pour
into my wounds, but in my first
despair I wrote to her somewhat
bitterly:
"Mademoiselle--that
word alone will tell you that
at your bidding
I renounce you. There is something
indescribably sweet in obeying
one we love, who puts us to the
torture. You are right. I acquiesce
in my condemnation. Once I slighted
a girl's devotion; it is fitting,
therefore, that my love should
be rejected to-day. But I little
thought that my punishment was
to be dealt to me by the woman
at whose feet I had laid my life.
I never expected that such harshness,
perhaps I should say, such rigid
virtue, lurked in a heart that
seemed to be so loving and so
tender. At this moment the full
strength of my love is revealed
to me; it has survived the most
terrible of all trials, the scorn
you have shown for me by severing
without regret the ties that
bound us. Farewell for ever.
There still remains to me the
proud humility of repentance;
I will find some sphere of life
where I can expiate the errors
to which you, the mediator between
Heaven and me, have shown no
mercy. Perhaps God may be less
inexorable. My sufferings, sufferings
full of the thought of you, shall
be the penance of a heart which
will never be healed, which will
bleed in solitude. For a wounded
heart--shadow and silence.
" 'No other image of love shall
be engraven on my heart. Though
I am not a woman, I feel as you
felt that when I said "I love
you," it was a vow for life.
Yes, the words then spoken in
the ear of "my beloved" were
not a lie; you would have a right
to scorn me if I could change.
I shall never cease to worship
you in my solitude. In spite
of the gulf set between us, you
will still be the mainspring
of all my actions, and all the
virtues are inspired by penitence
and love. Though you have filled
my heart with bitterness, I shall
never have bitter thoughts of
you; would it not be an ill beginning
of the new tasks that I have
set myself if I did not purge
out all the evil leaven from
my soul? Farewell, then, to the
one heart that I love in the
world, a heart from which I am
cast out. Never has more feeling
and more tenderness been expressed
in a farewell, for is it not
fraught with the life and soul
of one who can never hope again,
and must be henceforth as one
dead? . . . Farewell. May peace
be with you, and may all the
sorrow of our lot fall to me!' "
Benassis and Genestas looked
at each other for a moment after
reading the two letters, each
full of sad thoughts, of which
neither spoke.
"As you see, this is only a
rough copy of my last letter," said
Benassis; "it is all that remains
to me to-day of my blighted hopes.
When I had sent the letter, I
fell into an indescribable state
of depression. All the ties that
hold one to life were bound together
in the hope of wedded happiness,
which was henceforth lost to
me for ever. I had to bid farewell
to the joys of a permitted and
acknowledged love, to all the
generous ideas that had thronged
up from the depths of my heart.
The prayers of a penitent soul
that thirsted for righteousness
and for all things lovely and
of good report, had been rejected
by these religious people. At
first, the wildest resolutions
and most frantic thoughts surged
through my mind, but happily
for me the sight of my son brought
self-control. I felt all the
more strongly drawn towards him
for the misfortunes of which
he was the innocent cause, and
for which I had in reality only
myself to blame. In him I found
all my consolation.
"At the age of thirty-four
I might still hope to do my country
noble service. I determined to
make a name for myself, a name
so illustrious that no one should
remember the stain on the birth
of my son. How many noble thoughts
I owe to him! How full a life
I led in those days while I was
absorbed in planning out his
future! I feel stifled," cried
Benassis. "All this happened
eleven years ago, and yet to
this day, I cannot bear to think
of that fatal year. . . . My
child died, sir; I lost him!"
The doctor was silent, and
hid his face in his hands; when
he was somewhat calmer he raised
his head again, and Genestas
saw that his eyes were full of
tears.
"At first it seemed as if this
thunderbolt had uprooted me," Benassis
resumed. "It was a blow from
which I could only expect to
recover after I had been transplanted
into a different soil from that
of the social world in which
I lived. It was not till some
time afterwards that I saw the
finger of God in my misfortunes,
and later still that I learned
to submit to His will and to
hearken to His voice. It was
impossible that resignation should
come to me all at once. My impetuous
and fiery nature broke out in
a final storm of rebellion.
"It was long
before I brought myself to
take the only step
befitting a Catholic; indeed,
my thoughts ran on suicide. This
succession of misfortunes had
contributed to develop melancholy
feelings in me, and I deliberately
determined to take my own life.
It seemed to me that it was permissible
to take leave of life when life
was ebbing fast. There was nothing
unnatural, I thought about suicide.
The ravages of mental distress
affected the soul of man in the
same way that acute physical
anguish affected the body; and
an intelligent being, suffering
from a moral malady, had surely
a right to destroy himself, a
right he shares with the sheep,
that, fallen a victim to the
'staggers,' beats its head against
a tree. Were the soul's diseases
in truth more readily cured than
those of the body? I scarcely
think so, to this day. Nor do
I know which is the more craven
soul--he who hopes even when
hope is no longer possible, or
he who despairs. Death is the
natural termination of a physical
malady, and it seemed to me that
suicide was the final crisis
in the sufferings of a mind diseased,
for it was in the power of the
will to end them when reason
showed that death was preferable
to life. So it is not the pistol,
but a thought that puts an end
to our existence. Again, when
fate may suddenly lay us low
in the midst of a happy life,
can we be blamed for ourselves
refusing to bear a life of misery?
"But my reflections
during that time of mourning
turned
on loftier themes. The grandeur
of pagan philosophy attracted
me, and for a while I became
a convert. In my efforts to discover
new rights for man, I thought
that with the aid of modern thought
I could penetrate further into
the questions to which those
old-world systems of philosophy
had furnished solutions.
"Epicurus permitted
suicide. Was it not the natural
outcome
of his system of ethics? The
gratification of the senses was
to be obtained at any cost; and
when this became impossible,
the easiest and best course was
for the animate being to return
to the repose of inanimate nature.
Happiness, or the hope of happiness,
was the one end for which man
existed, for one who suffered,
and who suffered without hope,
death ceased to be an evil, and
became a good, and suicide became
a final act of wisdom. This act
Epicurus neither blamed nor praised;
he was content to say as he poured
a libation to Bacchus, 'As for
death, there is nothing in death
to move our laughter or our tears.'
"With a loftier
morality than that of the Epicureans,
and a
sterner sense of man's duties,
Zeno and the Stoic philosophers
prescribed suicide in certain
cases to their followers. They
reasoned thus: Man differs from
the brute in that he has the
sovereign right to dispose of
his person; take away this power
of life and death over himself
and he becomes the plaything
of fate, the slave of other men.
Rightly understood, this power
of life and death is a sufficient
counterpoise for all the ills
of life; the same power when
conferred upon another, upon
his fellow-man, leads to tyranny
of every kind. Man has no power
whatever unless he has unlimited
freedom of action. Suppose that
he has been guilty of some irreparable
error, from the shameful consequences
of which there is no escape;
a sordid nature swallows down
the disgrace and survives it,
the wise man drinks the hemlock
and dies. Suppose that the remainder
of life is to be one constant
struggle with the gout which
racks our bones, or with a gnawing
and disfiguring cancer, the wise
man dismisses quacks, and at
the proper moment bids a last
farewell to the friends whom
he only saddens by his presence.
Or another perhaps has fallen
alive into the hands of the tyrant
against whom he fought. What
shall he do? The oath of allegiance
is tendered to him; he must either
subscribe or stretch out his
neck to the executioner; the
fool takes the latter course,
the coward subscribes, the wise
man strikes a last blow for liberty--in
his own heart. 'You who are free,'
the Stoic was wont to say, 'know
then how to preserve your freedom!
Find freedom from your own passions
by sacrificing them to duty,
freedom from the tyranny of mankind
by pointing to the sword or the
poison which will put you beyond
their reach, freedom from the
bondage of fate by determining
the point beyond which you will
endure it no longer, freedom
from physical fear by learning
how to subdue the gross instinct
which causes so many wretches
to cling to life.'
"After I had
unearthed this reasoning from
among a heap of
ancient philosophical writings,
I sought to reconcile it with
Christian teachings. God has
bestowed free-will upon us in
order to require of us an account
hereafter before the Throne of
Judgment. 'I will plead my cause
there!' I said to myself. But
such thoughts as these led me
to think of a life after death,
and my old shaken beliefs rose
up before me. Human life grows
solemn when all eternity hangs
upon the slightest of our decisions.
When the full meaning of this
thought is realized, the soul
becomes conscious of something
vast and mysterious within itself,
by which it is drawn towards
the Infinite; the aspect of all
things alters strangely. From
this point of view life is something
infinitely great and infinitely
little. The consciousness of
my sins had never made me think
of heaven so long as hope remained
to me on earth, so long as I
could find a relief for my woes
in work and in the society of
other men. I had meant to make
the happiness of a woman's life,
to love, to be the head of a
family, and in this way my need
of expiation would have been
satisfied to the full. This design
had been thwarted, but yet another
way had remained to me,--I would
devote myself henceforward to
my child. But after these two
efforts had failed, and scorn
and death had darkened my soul
for ever, when all my feelings
had been wounded and nothing
was left to me here on earth,
I raised my eyes to heaven, and
beheld God.
"Yet still
I tried to obtain the sanction
of religion for
my death. I went carefully through
the Gospels, and found no passage
in which suicide was forbidden;
but during the reading, the divine
thought of Christ, the Saviour
of men dawned in me. Certainly
He had said nothing about the
immortality of the soul, but
He had spoken of the glorious
kingdom of His Father; He had
nowhere forbidden parricide,
but He condemned all that was
evil. The glory of His evangelists,
and the proof of their divine
mission, is not so much that
they made laws for the world,
but that they spread a new spirit
abroad, and the new laws were
filled with this new spirit.
The very courage which a man
displays in taking his own life
seemed to me to be his condemnation;
so long as he felt that he had
within himself sufficient strength
to die by his own hands, he ought
to have had strength enough to
continue the struggle. To refuse
to suffer is a sign of weakness
rather than of courage, and,
moreover, was it not a sort of
recusance to take leave of life
in despondency, an abjuration
of the Christian faith which
is based upon the sublime words
of Jesus Christ: 'Blessed are
they that mourn.'
"So, in any
case, suicide seemed to me
to be an unpardonable error,
even in the man who, through
a false conception of greatness
of soul, takes his life a few
moments before the executioner's
axe falls. In humbling himself
to the death of the cross, did
not Jesus Christ set for us an
example of obedience to all human
laws, even when carried out unjustly?
The word RESIGNATION engraved
upon the cross, so clear to the
eyes of those who can read the
sacred characters in which it
is traced, shone for me with
divine brightness.
"I still had
eighty thousand francs in my
possession, and
at first I meant to live a remote
and solitary life, to vegetate
in some country district for
the rest of my days; but misanthropy
is no Catholic virtue, and there
is a certain vanity lurking beneath
the hedgehog's skin of the misanthrope.
His heart does not bleed, it
shrivels, and my heart bled from
every vein. I thought of the
discipline of the Church, the
refuge that she affords to sorrowing
souls, understood at last the
beauty of a life of prayer in
solitude, and was fully determined
to 'enter religion,' in the grand
old phrase. So far my intentions
were firmly fixed, but I had
not yet decided on the best means
of carrying them out. I realized
the remains of my fortune, and
set forth on my journey with
an almost tranquil mind. PEACE
IN GOD was a hope that could
never fail me.
"I felt drawn
to the rule of Saint Bruno,
and made the journey
to the Grande Chartreuse on foot,
absorbed in solemn thoughts.
That was a memorable day. I was
not prepared for the grandeur
of the scenery; the workings
of an unknown Power greater than
that of man were visible at every
step; the overhanging crags,
the precipices on either hand,
the stillness only broken by
the voices of the mountain streams,
the sternness and wildness of
the landscape, relieved here
and there by Nature's fairest
creations, pine trees that have
stood for centuries and delicate
rock plants at their feet, all
combine to produce sober musings.
There seemed to be no end to
this waste solitude, shut in
by its lofty mountain barriers.
The idle curiosity of man could
scarcely penetrate there. It
would be difficult to cross this
melancholy desert of Saint Bruno's
with a light heart.
"I saw the
Grand Chartreuse. I walked
beneath the vaulted
roofs of the ancient cloisters,
and heard in the silence the
sound of the water from the spring,
falling drop by drop. I entered
a cell that I might the better
realize my own utter nothingness,
something of the peace that my
predecessor had found there seemed
to pass into my soul. An inscription,
which in accordance with the
custom of the monastery he had
written above his door, impressed
and touched me; all the precepts
of the life that I had meant
to lead were there, summed up
in three Latin words--Fuge, late,
tace."
Genestas bent his head as if
he understood.
"My decision was made," Benassis
resumed. "The cell with its deal
wainscot, the hard bed, the solitude,
all appealed to my soul. The
Carthusians were in the chapel,
I went thither to join in their
prayers, and there my resolutions
vanished. I do not wish to criticise
the Catholic Church, I am perfectly
orthodox, I believe in its laws
and in the works it prescribes.
But when I heard the chanting
and the prayers of those old
men, dead to the world and forgotten
by the world, I discerned an
undercurrent of sublime egoism
in the life of the cloister.
This withdrawal from the world
could only benefit the individual
soul, and after all what was
it but a protracted suicide?
I do not condemn it. The Church
has opened these tombs in which
life is buried; no doubt they
are needful for those few Christians
who are absolutely useless to
the world; but for me, it would
be better, I thought, to live
among my fellows, to devote my
life of expiation to their service.
"As I returned
I thought long and carefully
over the various
ways in which I could carry out
my vow of renunciation. Already
I began, in fancy, to lead the
life of a common sailor, condemning
myself to serve our country in
the lowest ranks, and giving
up all my intellectual ambitions;
but though it was a life of toil
and of self-abnegation, it seemed
to me that I ought to do more
than this. Should I not thwart
the designs of God by leading
such a life? If He had given
me intellectual ability, was
it not my duty to employ it for
the good of my fellow-men? Then,
besides, if I am to speak frankly,
I felt within me a need of my
fellow-men, an indescribable
wish to help them. The round
of mechanical duties and the
routine tasks of the sailor afforded
no scope for this desire, which
is as much an outcome of my nature
as the characteristic scent that
a flower breathes forth.
"I was obliged
to spend the night here, as
I have already
told you. The wretched condition
of the countryside had filled
me with pity, and during the
night it seemed as if these thoughts
had been sent to me by God, and
that thus He had revealed His
will to me. I had known something
of the joys that pierce the heart,
the happiness and the sorrow
of motherhood; I determined that
henceforth my life should be
filled with these, but that mine
should be a wider sphere than
a mother's. I would expend her
care and kindness on the whole
district; I would be a sister
of charity, and bind the wounds
of all the suffering poor in
a countryside. It seemed to me
that the finger of God unmistakably
pointed out my destiny; and when
I remembered that my first serious
thoughts in youth had inclined
me to the study of medicine,
I resolved to settle here as
a doctor. Besides, I had another
reason. FOR A WOUNDED HEART--SHADOW
AND SILENCE; so I had written
in my letter; and I meant to
fulfil the vow which I had made
to myself.
"So I have
entered into the paths of silence
and submission.
The fuge, late, tace of the Carthusian
brother is my motto here, my
death to the world is the life
of this canton, my prayer takes
the form of the active work to
which I have set my hand, and
which I love--the work of sowing
the seeds of happiness and joy,
of giving to others what I myself
have not.
"I have grown
so used to this life, completely
out of the world
and among the peasants, that
I am thoroughly transformed.
Even my face is altered; it has
been so continually exposed to
the sun, that it has grown wrinkled
and weather-beaten. I have fallen
into the habits of the peasants;
I have assumed their dress, their
ways of talking, their gait,
their easy-going negligence,
their utter indifference to appearances.
My old acquaintances in Paris,
or the she-coxcombs on whom I
used to dance attendance, would
be puzzled to recognize in me
the man who had a certain vogue
in his day, the sybarite accustomed
to all the splendor, luxury,
and finery of Paris. I have come
to be absolutely indifferent
to my surroundings, like all
those who are possessed by one
thought, and have only one object
in view; for I have but one aim
in life--to take leave of it
as soon as possible. I do not
want to hasten my end in any
way; but some day, when illness
comes, I shall lie down to die
without regret.
"There, sir,
you have the whole story of
my life until I came
here-- told in all sincerity.
I have not attempted to conceal
any of my errors; they have been
great, though others have erred
as I have erred. I have suffered
greatly, and I am suffering still,
but I look beyond this life to
a happy future which can only
be reached through sorrow. And
yet--for all my resignation,
there are moments when my courage
fails me. This very day I was
almost overcome in your presence
by inward anguish; you did not
notice it but----"
Genestas started in his chair.
"Yes, Captain
Bluteau, you were with me at
the time. Do
you remember how, while we were
putting little Jacques to bed,
you pointed to the mattress on
which Mother Colas sleeps? Well,
you can imagine how painful it
all was; I can never see any
child without thinking of the
dear child I have lost, and this
little one was doomed to die!
I can never see a child with
indifferent eyes----"
Genestas turned pale.
"Yes, the sight
of the little golden heads,
the innocent beauty
of children's faces always awakens
memories of my sorrows, and the
old anguish returns afresh. Now
and then, too, there comes the
intolerable thought that so many
people here should thank me for
what little I can do for them,
when all that I have done has
been prompted by remorse. You
alone, captain, know the secret
of my life. If I had drawn my
will to serve them from some
purer source than the memory
of my errors, I should be happy
indeed! But then, too, there
would have been nothing to tell
you, and no story about myself."
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