La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English

  CHAPTER II. THE BALM OF SOLITUDE

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

  Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not tobe compared with those of death. My first thought as I sat beside myfather'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 along sleep.

  During the first months of my life in the country I had no thoughteither of the past or of the future. It did not seem to be I who hadlived up to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no wayresembled the terrible griefs I had experienced in the past; there wasa sort of languor in every action, a sense of disgust with life, apoignant bitterness that was eating out my heart. I held a book inmy hand all day long, but I did not read; I did not even know whatI dreamed about. I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I hadreceived such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in itseffects, that I remained a purely passive being and there seemed to beno 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 wasof the same height, and wore the clothes my father had left him, havingno livery.

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

  Everything about the house was left unchanged, not a piece of paper wasmoved. The great leather armchair in which my father used to sit stoodnear the fire; his table and his books were just as he left them; Irespected even the dust on these articles, which in life he neverliked to see disturbed. The walls of that solitary house, accustomed tosilence and a most tranquil life, seemed to look down on me in pity as Isat in my father's chair, enveloped in his dressing-gown. A feeble voiceseemed to whisper: "Where is the father? It is plain to see that this isan orphan."

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

  In the morning I passed entire hours in the contemplation of nature.My windows overlooked a valley, in the midst of which arose a villagesteeple; all was plain and calm. Spring, with its budding leaves andflowers, did not produce on me the sinister effect of which the poetsspeak, who find in the contrasts of life the mockery of death. I lookedupon the frivolous idea, if it was serious and not a simple antithesismade in pleasantry, as the conceit of a heart that has known no realexperience. The gambler who leaves the table at break of day, his eyesburning and hands empty, may feel that he is at war with nature, likethe torch at some hideous vigil; but what can the budding leaves say toa child who mourns a lost father? The tears of his eyes are sisters ofthe rose; the leaves of the willow are themselves tears. It is when Ilook at the sky, the woods and the prairies, that I understand men whoseek consolation.

  Larive had no more desire to console me than to console himself. At thetime of my father's death he feared I would sell the property and takehim to Paris. I did not know what he had learned of my past life, butI had noticed his anxiety, and, when he saw me settle down in the oldhome, he gave me a glance that went to my heart. One day I had a largeportrait 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 amelancholy 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 myfather'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 myrambles; when I was on my horse I did not expect him to follow me, butwhen 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 rodethrough the woods together.

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

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

  "Oh! just man," I cried, "fearless and stainless! what candor in thyexperience! Thy devotion to thy friends, thy admiration for nature, thysublime love of God, this is thy life, there is no place in thy heartfor anything else. The spotless snow on the mountain's summit is notmore pure than thy saintly old age; thy white hair resembles it. Oh!father, father! Give thy snowy locks to me, they are younger than myblond head. Let me live and die as thou hast lived and died. I wish toplant in the soil over your grave the green branch of my young life; Iwill water it with my tears, and the God of orphans will protect thatsacred twig nourished by the grief of youth and the memory of age."

  After examining these precious papers, I classified them and arrangedthem in order. I formed a resolution to write a journal myself. I hadone made just like that of my father's, and, carefully searching outthe 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 wasreading, walking, or eating, I never failed to follow his example. ThusI accustomed myself to a calm and regular life; there was an indefinablecharm about this orderly conduct that did me good. I went to bed with asense 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 daywas devoted to walking and study, a nice adjustment of bodily and mentalexercise.

  At the same time I followed his example in doing little acts ofbenevolence among the unfortunate. I began to search for those who werein 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 theheart is good, sorrow is sacred!" For the first time in my life I washappy; God blessed my tears and sorrow taught me virtue.