Books: Child of a Century, v2

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CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY
(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)

By ALFRED DE MUSSET

BOOK 2.

PART III

CHAPTER I

DEATH, THE INEVITABLE

My father lived in the country some distance from Paris. When I arrived
I found a physician in the house, who said to me:

"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before he
died."

I entered, and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician,
"please have everyone retire that I may be alone here; my father had
something to say to me, and he will say it."

In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the
bed and raised the shroud which covered the face. But when my eyes fell
on that countenance, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness.

When I recovered, I heard some one say:

"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other."

I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death, and
so I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was resting
quietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet, and then took
a candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young
priest seated near the bed.

"Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father's
side is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. You
may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am
responsible."

He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat down
in the chair the priest had just left, and again uncovered those features
I was to see for the last time.

"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your last
thought concerning your child?"

My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day
the record of his life. That book lay on the table, and I saw that it
was open; I kneeled before it; on the page were these words and no more:

"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."

I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollen
and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and
anxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies.
His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influenced
my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and
kindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once
more to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly;
he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrote
in his book that he loved me.

CHAPTER II

THE BALM OF SOLITUDE

A little wooden railing surrounded my father's grave. According to his
expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day I
visited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in the
interior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the house
in which he died, and kept with me only one servant.

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not to be
compared with those of death. My first thought as I sat beside my
father's bedside was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing,
understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain,
but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands, as one who wakens from a
long sleep.

During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought either
of the past or of the future. It did not seem to be I who had lived up
to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled the
terrible griefs I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of
languor in every action, a sense of disgust with life, a poignant
bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book in my hand all
day long, but I did not read; I did not even know what I dreamed about.
I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent
blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in its effects, that I remained a
purely passive being and there seemed to be no reaction.

My servant, Larive by name, had been much attached to my father; he was,
after my father himself, probably the best man I had ever known. He was
of the same height, and wore the clothes my father had left him, having
no livery.

He was of about the same age--that is, his hair was turning gray, and
during the twenty years he had lived with my father, he had learned some
of his ways. While I was pacing up and down the room after dinner,
I heard him doing the same in the hall; although the door was open he did
not enter, and not a word was spoken; but from time to time we would look
at each other and weep. The entire evening would pass thus, and it would
be late in the night before I would ask for a light, or get one myself.

Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper was
moved. The great leather armchair in which my father used to sit stood
near the fire; his table and his books were just as he left them; I
respected even the dust on these articles, which in life he never liked
to see disturbed. The walls of that solitary house, accustomed to
silence and a most tranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as I
sat in my father's chair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voice
seemed to whisper: "Where is the father? It is plain to see that this is
an orphan."

I received several letters from Paris, and replied to each that I desired
to pass the summer alone in the country, as my father was accustomed to
do. I began to realize that in all evil there is some good, and that
sorrow, whatever else may be said of it, is a means of repose. Whatever
the message brought by those who are sent by God, they always accomplish
the happy result of awakening us from the sleep of the world, and when
they speak, all are silent. Passing sorrows blaspheme and accuse heaven;
great sorrows neither accuse nor blaspheme--they listen.

In the morning I passed entire hours in the contemplation of nature.
My windows overlooked a valley, in the midst of which arose a village
steeple; all was plain and calm. Spring, with its budding leaves and
flowers, did not produce on me the sinister effect of which the poets
speak, who find in the contrasts of life the mockery of death. I looked
upon the frivolous idea, if it was serious and not a simple antithesis
made in pleasantry, as the conceit of a heart that has known no real
experience. The gambler who leaves the table at break of day, his eyes
burning and hands empty, may feel that he is at war with nature, like the
torch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say to a
child who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters of the
rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when I look
at the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men who seek
consolation.

Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At the
time of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and take
him to Paris. I did not know what he had learned of my past life, but I
had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the old home,
he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a large
portrait of my father sent from Paris, and placed it in the dining-room.
When Larive entered the room to serve me, he saw it; he hesitated, looked
at the portrait and then at me; in his eyes there shone a melancholy joy
that I could not fail to understand. It seemed to say: "What happiness!
We are to suffer here in peace!"

I gave him my hand, which he covered with tears and kisses.

He looked upon my grief as the mistress of his own. When I visited my
father's tomb in the morning I found him there watering the flowers; when
he saw me he went away and returned home. He followed me in my rambles;
when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, but when I saw
him trudging down the valley, wiping the sweat from his brow, I bought a
small horse from a peasant and gave it to him; thus we rode through the
woods together.

In the village were some people of our acquaintance who frequently
visited us. My door was closed to them, although I regretted it; but I
could not see any one with patience. Some time, when sure to be free
from interruption, I hoped to examine my father's papers. Finally Larive
brought them to me, and untying the package with trembling hand, spread
them before me.

Upon reading the first pages I felt in my heart that vivifying freshness
that characterizes the air near a lake of cool water; the sweet serenity
of my father's soul exhaled as a perfume from the dusty leaves I was
unfolding. The journal of his life lay open before me; I could count the
diurnal throbbings of that noble heart. I began to yield to the
influence of a dream that was both sweet and profound, and in spite of
the serious firmness of his character, I discovered an ineffable grace,
the flower of kindness. While I read, the recollection of his death
mingled with the narrative of his life, I can not tell with what sadness
I followed that limpid stream until its waters mingled with those of the
ocean.

"Oh! just man," I cried, "fearless and stainless! what candor in thy
experience! Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thy
sublime love of God, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heart for
anything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is not more
pure than thy saintly old age; thy white hair resembles it. Oh! father,
father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than my blond head.
Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish to plant in the
soil over your grave the green branch of my young life; I will water it
with my tears, and the God of orphans will protect that sacred twig
nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age."

After examining these precious papers, I classified them and arranged
them in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself.
I had one made just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching
out the minor details of his life, I tried to conform my life to his.
Thus, whenever I heard the clock strike the hour, tears came to my eyes:
"This," said I, "is what my father did at this hour," and whether it was
reading, walking, or eating, I never failed to follow his example. Thus
I accustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinable
charm about this orderly conduct that did me good. I went to bed with a
sense of comfort and happiness such as I had not known for a long time.
My father spent much of his time about the garden; the rest of the day
was devoted to walking and study, a nice adjustment of bodily and mental
exercise.

At the same time I followed his example in doing little acts of
benevolence among the unfortunate. I began to search for those who
were in need of my assistance, and there were many of them in the valley.
I soon became known among the poor; my message to them was: "When the
heart is good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I was
happy; God blessed my tears and sorrow taught me virtue.

CHAPTER III

BRIGITTE

One evening, as I was walking under a row of lindens at the entrance to
the village, I saw a young woman come from a house some distance from the
road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I could not see her
face; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that I followed
her with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, a white
goat, straying at liberty through the grass, ran to her side; she
caressed it softly, and looked about as if searching for some favorite
plants to feed to it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked a
branch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watched my
approach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from my
hand. His mistress made him a sign as if to encourage him, but he looked
at her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand, and
the goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she passed on her
way.

On my return home I asked Larive if he knew who lived in the house I
described to him; it was a small house, modest in appearance, with a
garden. He recognized it; there were but two people in the house, an
old woman who was very religious, and a young woman whose name was Madame
Pierson. It was she I had seen. I asked him who she was, and if she
ever came to see my father. He replied that she was a widow, that she
led a retired life, and that she had visited my father, but rarely.
When I had learned all he knew, I returned to the lindens and sat down
on a bench.

I do not know what feeling of sadness came over me as I saw the goat
approaching me. I arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I followed
the path I had seen Madame Pierson take, a path that led to the
mountains.

It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning;
as I had walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse,
intending to ask for some milk and bread. Drops of rain began to splash
at my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape.
Although there was a light in the place, and I could hear the sound of
feet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock,
and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was any
one within.

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew,
was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called to him.
Just then the door opened, and I was surprised to see Madame Pierson, who
inquired who was there.

I waited a moment in order to conceal my astonishment. I then entered
the house, and asked permission to remain until the storm should pass.
I could not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this deserted
spot; suddenly I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning my
head I saw the farmer's wife lying there with the seal of death on her
face.

Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who was
bowed with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sick woman
was sleeping. I took a chair and sat in a corner until the storm passed.

While I sat there I saw her rise from time to time and whisper something
to the farmer. One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, said that
she had been coming every night since the mother's illness. She
performed the duties of a sister of charity; there was no one else in the
country who could do it; there was but one physician, and he was densely
ignorant.

"That is Brigitte la Rose," said the child; "don't you know her?"

"No," I replied in a low voice. "Why do you call her by such a name?"

He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosy
and the name had clung to her.

As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil I could see her face; when the
child left me I raised my head. She was standing near the bed, holding
in her hand a cup, which she was offering the sick woman who had
awakened. She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond.
Her beauty was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Her
large dark eyes were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes that
shone with approaching death returned her gaze. There was in that simple
exchange of kindness and gratitude a beauty that can not be described.

The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over the
lonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. The
noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchained
elements made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed in
the little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows,
the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest; I observed the
helpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of the children,
the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and in the midst of
all, seeing that gentle, pale-faced woman going and coming, bravely
meeting the duties of the moment, regardless of the tempest and of our
presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performance something
more serene than the most cloudless sky, something, indeed, superhuman
about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors, did not for an instant
lose her faith in God.

What kind of woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she, and how long
has she been here? A long time, since they remember when her cheeks were
rosy. How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot alone
and at this hour? Yes. She has traversed these mountains and valleys
through storm and fair weather, she goes hither and thither bearing life
and hope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup,
caressing her goat as she passes. And this is what has been going on in
this valley while I have been dining and gambling; she was probably born
here, and will be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of her
father. Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaks
and of whom the children say: "Don't you know her?"

I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my corner scarcely
breathing, and it seemed to me that if I had tried to assist her, if I
had reached out my hand to spare her a single step, I should have been
guilty of sacrilege, I should have touched sacred vessels.

The storm lasted two hours. When it subsided the sick woman sat up in
her bed and said that she felt better, that the medicine she had taken
had done her good. The children ran to the bedside, looking up into
their mother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise and joy.

"I am very sure you are better," said the husband, who had not stirred
from his seat, "for we have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large
sum."

At that coarse and stupid expression I glanced at Madame Pierson; her
swollen eyes, her pallor, her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigue and
the exhaustion of long vigils.

"Ah! my poor man!" said the farmer's wife, "may God reward you!"

I could hardly contain myself, I was so angered by the stupidity of these
brutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to the avarice
of a cure.

I was about to reproach them for their ingratitude and treat them as they
deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children in her arms and
said, with a smile:

"You may kiss your mother, for she is saved."

I stopped when I heard these words.

Never was the simple contentment of a happy and benevolent heart painted
in such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to vanish,
she became radiant with joy.

A few minutes later Madame Pierson told the children to call the farmer's
boy to conduct her home. I advanced to offer my services; I told her
that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in the same
direction, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer. She
asked me if I was not Octave de T--------.

I replied that I was, and that she doubtless remembered my father.
It struck me as strange that she should smile at that question;
she cheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on our return.

We walked along in silence; the wind was going down; the trees quivered
gently, shaking the rain from the boughs. Some distant flashes of
lightning could still be seen; the perfume of humid verdure filled the
warm air. The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined the mountain.

I could not help thinking of the whimsicalness of chance, which had seen
fit to make me the solitary companion of a woman of whose existence I
knew nothing a few hours before. She had accepted me as her escort on
account of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with quiet confidence.
In spite of her distraught air it seemed to me that this confidence was
either very bold or very simple; and she must needs be either the one or
the other, for at each step I felt my heart becoming at once proud and
innocent.

We spoke of the sick woman she had just quitted, of the scenes along the
route; it did not occur to us to ask the questions incident to a new
acquaintance. She spoke to me of my father, and always in the same tone
I had noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almost
gayly. By degrees I thought I understood why she did this, observing
that she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of life and of
suffering and death. It was because human sorrows had taught her nothing
that could accuse God, and I felt the piety of her smile.

I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said,
had seen more of my father than she, as they had sometimes played cards
together after dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me a
welcome.

When about half way home she complained of fatigue and sat down to rest
on a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stood
before her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on her face.
After a moment's silence she arose and, in a constrained manner,
observed:

"Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning."

"I was wondering," I replied, "why God created you, and I was saying to
myself that it was for the sake of those who suffer."

"That is an expression that, coming from you, I can not look upon except
as a compliment."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you appear to be very young."

"It sometimes happens," I said, "that one is older than the face would
seem to indicate."

"Yes," she replied, smiling, "and it sometimes happens that one is
younger than his words would seem to indicate."

"Have you no faith in experience?"

"I know that it is the name most young men give to their follies and
their disappointments; what can one know at your age?"

"Madame, a man of twenty may know more than a woman of thirty. The
liberty which men enjoy enables them to see more of life and its
experiences than women; they go wherever they please, and no barrier
restrains them; they test life in all its phases. When inspired by hope,
they press forward to achievement; what they will they accomplish. When
they have reached the end, they return; hope has been lost on the route,
and happiness has broken its word."

As I was speaking we reached the summit of a little hill which sloped
down to the valley; Madame Pierson, yielding to the downward tendency,
began to trip lightly down the incline. Without knowing why, I did the
same, and we ran down the hill, arm in arm, the long grass under our feet
retarded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight, we
reached the foot of the mountain.

"Behold!" cried Madame Pierson, "just a short time ago I was tired, but
now I am rested. And, believe me," she added, with a charming smile,
"you should treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We have
made good time, and shall enjoy supper the more on that account."

CHAPTER IV

RIPENING ACQUAINTANCE

I went to see her in the morning. I found her at the piano, her old aunt
at the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the sunlight
streaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side.

I expected to find her something of a religieuse, at least one of those
women of the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leagues away,
and who live in a certain narrow circle from which they never escape.
I confess that such isolated life, which is found here and there in small
towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always had on me the effect of
stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: in everything
on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death.

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they appeared
as if they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity of
everything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognize
mode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but that
goes without saying. What struck me in her taste was that there was
nothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness.

Her conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject on
which she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that she
was naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound in
thought and fertile in resource; an intelligence at once broad and free
soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.
The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over the
blade of grass that marks its nest.

We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Paris
during the winter; from time to time she dipped into the world; what she
saw there served as a basis for what she divined.

But her distinguishing trait was gayety, a cheerfulness that, while not
exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that
she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gayety.

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