Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 747
Frank kept on with his drawing, though from time to time he would give a tender glance towards the enchanting group.
Never in my life shall I forget the sublime spectacle of this noble young man working thus in the silence of night, and the sacred tranquillity of the domestic hearth, to assure the existence of the wife and child who were sleeping so peacefully under his protection.
All the blackness of my envy could not withstand a scene so simple and so grand. My soul, until then cold and inflexible, was gently and insensibly penetrated by admiration. I understood how much hope and strength this young man must possess in order to struggle, talented and unknown, against the evil days now present and the terrible uncertainty of future success.
How beautiful Hélène was while thus sleeping! How blissful seemed her slumbers! What an angelic calm was on her closed eyelids; what serenity on her pure white brow, encircled by the waves of blonde hair; with what maternal grace she abandoned one of her beautiful hands to her child, who, still asleep, clasped it with his little fingers! Hélène had, no doubt, hesitated to withdraw it for fear of awakening him. What a serious charm her features had taken on! It was the melancholy and sweet smile of the young wife, happy and proud in her dignity of being a mother.
How despairing was my regret! With what bitterness I again recalled all I had lost as I contemplated this touching and chaste picture, in admiring that home which was so poor and yet seemed so blessed of God.
I know not how long a time I remained absorbed in such thoughts, but it must have been late when I again looked into the salon, for Frank was standing and contemplating his work with the fugitive and pleased look of an artist who is charmed and proud of his work. This satisfaction, rapid and ephemeral as it is, which only lasts a moment, reveals to the artist in that one moment the resplendent beauty of his work in all its perfections. Then, strange phenomenon, this divine lustre once gone, this consciousness of genius once extinct, the artist loses all remembrance of it. It is no more than a vague and far-off dream, whose memory excites him without reassuring him, and he becomes crushed to earth under the terrible doubt as to the real worth of his talents, — eternal torture to a sensitive soul who can compare the limitations of art to the grandeur of nature.
After having contemplated his drawing, Frank smiled sadly, covered it over, and went towards a little secretary which stood on the other side of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, took out a purse, and, having put to one side some pieces of gold, he sighed as he looked at the little that remained.
Almost at the same instant he glanced quickly and sadly at his wife and her child; then with his forehead bent on his hands he remained for some time with his elbows on the mantelpiece.
I understood it all.
No doubt this brave man was experiencing one of those terrible alarms during which the reality of his position crushes him with its chilling, deadening weight. The radiant wings of his bright genius, which for a moment he had spread out so gloriously, had dashed against that hideous phantom, which always stands like an open sepulchre, — want! And he had a wife, a child, — and that wife was Hélène!
However, after a moment of reflection, Frank proudly raised his beautiful head; his eyes, though moistened with tears, shone with courage and with hope. It may have only been by chance, but his gaze, so touching, and so full of energy, fell on “The Descent from the Cross,” by Rembrandt, one of the engravings which ornamented the salon.
Thus, as he contemplated this symbol of suffering on earth, Frank’s features gradually became serene and grave. Perhaps he was ashamed of his weakness and discouragement, when he remembered the immeasurable sorrow and the angelic patience of the One whose Calvary was so high and whose cross was so heavy.
I returned home sadder but less unhappy. Some kindly feelings cooled the burning regrets that were consuming me. I no longer had the heart to begrudge Frank his happiness; nor did I rejoice over his poverty when I had seen how courageously he bore it. The love I bore to Hélène, the remembrance of my mother, who had loved her so much, of my father, to whom she had been like a daughter, brought better and more generous thoughts into my mind. I wished that I might be of some service to them both, and to this end I went the next day to see Lord Falmouth.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE DEPARTURE.
MY IDEA WAS to beg Lord Falmouth to buy for me, in his own name, the oil-painting and the two water-colours by Frank; and afterwards to order, still in his name, a set of drawings on subjects from the works of Schiller, Shakespeare, Goethe, and Walter Scott.
My object was to assure the future for a certain length of time to Hélène and Frank by this easy and pleasing work, which would not interfere in any way with that inspiration necessary to more serious labours, and in doing this I hoped to liberate this noble young man from those sad and annoying preoccupations which often react with fatal effect on even the greatest geniuses.
I addressed myself to Lord Falmouth in preference to any other man, because, in spite of his reputation as a man who was perfectly blasé, and his disdainful and profound scepticism of all and everything, he was the only man among my acquaintances that I dared to take so much into my confidence. I had noticed in him — doubtless to give credit to that common saying, that extremes meet — a great inclination, not to feel, but at least to contemplate, all emotions that were young, innocent, and happy.
It was anything but easy to get to see him before four o’clock in the afternoon, the hour at which he got up; however, he received me.
“Where do you come from?” said he; “for the last eight days no one has caught a glimpse of you anywhere. I know very well that Madame de Pënâfiel has left town, but you are not the kind of man to be inconsolable; besides, a departure is always flattering — when one stays behind.”
“I want to speak to you very seriously,” said I, fearing that if our conversation took on such a bantering tone, he would interpret the service I was about to ask of him in a false manner.
“What is it, then?” said he.
“In two words, then, it is this: A young foreign painter of great talent, but who is absolutely unknown here, has married my first cousin, who was like a sister to me, who grew up at our home, whom I wish you to believe that I respect as much as I love. An unfortunate lawsuit against my aunt, a suit which I may be said to have instigated and gained, much to my regret, by the abuse of a procuration, which my lawyers made use of without my knowledge, has caused a great deal of coolness between my cousin and myself, at least on her part; for, not knowing the whole truth, she believes my conduct to have been frightfully grasping. The amount I gained by this suit is very little for me, but it would be a great help to my cousin and her husband, who I admit to you are poor. On the other hand, as we never see each other any more, and as I know what a proud, sensitive nature the young woman has, it is absolutely impossible for me to restore to her what I have gained in spite of my wishes. I have then thought of a means which will conciliate everything, if you will only be so extremely obliging as to come to my aid. This young painter has exposed an oil-painting and two water-colours which show a great and incontestable talent; but his name is unknown. I wish, then, that you should buy the pictures as though for yourself, and furthermore, that you command under your own name a set of drawings from different works of Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare, and Scott, for the sum of fifty thousand francs. You see it is an indirect manner, not of giving back the money that cursed lawsuit gained for me (for that is impossible), but at least of being of some use to my cousin and her husband, whom fortunate circumstances and certainty of work will surely place in the position he merits.”
In keeping with his imperturbable nature, Lord Falmouth never manifested the least surprise, neither did he make the slightest objection, but, in the most amiable way, promised to do what I had requested him, and we agreed to go the next day to the gallery to see Frank’s pictures.
More than this, he promised that he would immediately recommend the artist to five or six of his friends, who were great connoisseurs, and who would very soon be able to elevate Frank from his obscure position, if he really possessed the talent that I gave him credit for. I went then the next day to the Museum with Lord Falmouth. He had formerly been very fond of pictures himself, but, being bored with everything, was quite indifferent to them now. He was struck, however, with the indisputable talent which was so suddenly revealed in Frank’s works; he admired above all the painting of Claire and Egmont, criticised it with marvellous appreciation, and admitted that, though he had distrusted my enthusiasm, he was obliged to recognise in it the work of a great painter.
Lord Falmouth was to go to see Frank the next evening, having written him a note that morning to find out if he could be received. Under the pretext of taking Lord Falmouth the money I destined for these purchases, I called on him, urged to do so by my curiosity to know Frank’s answer. It was very simple, but very dignified, and neither full of that pretended modesty, that obsequious humility, which, too often, ruin the finest minds.
“If you will come and take supper with me,” said I to Lord Falmouth, as I was leaving the salon, “after your visit to our great artist, I will wait for you. But not later than six o’clock in the morning,” I added, laughingly.
“I will be at your house before midnight,” he replied, “however extraordinary that may seem to you. The fact is, that for the last five or six days I have not been playing any more; I am in constant good luck, and that is a bore. Play for its own sake seems to me decidedly stupid. I have not the courage to play high enough to ruin myself, and, considered simply as an amusement, the loss and gain are not worth the trouble.”
“And at what o’clock do you go to see Frank?”
“I am going at nine o’clock, for that is what he asks me to do in his reply to my letter. By the way, you will perhaps think me peculiar or ridiculous,” added Lord Falmouth; “but I always notice the way a letter is written, and even how it is folded, for I gain from these small indications very sure knowledge as to the savoirvivre of the writer, and on this score our young painter appears to be a perfect gentleman.”
I left Lord Falmouth.
I shall not attempt to hide the fact that this last observation on his part, apropos of these trifling circumstances, which he found so full of meaning, and which I had also noticed in Frank’s letter, awoke in my breast, and in spite of all my good and generous intentions, a new and cruel fit of envy.
Then, prompted by this new access of jealousy, I began for the first time to insult my noble conduct towards Frank and Hélène; I mocked at my delicacy with bitter irony. I said that I was a ridiculous fool to do all this for people who most likely never spoke of me except with scorn; then, by a miserable chain of thought, I arrived at a state of mind in which I was again capable of bringing up accusations against Hélène. If she had consoled herself so soon, it was because she had never really loved me; in spite of my love, my regret, my remorse, she had been merciless to me; her refusal of my hand was only a high-strung display of her false pride. She was still prouder than she was egotistical and mercenary, I said to myself. Fortunately, she will never know the source of this help, and, with the exception of Lord Falmouth, whose discretion I can count on, and from whom I have hidden the veritable pretext of my conduct, no one shall ever be aware of my silly generosity. And after all, I added, seeking to find by no matter what means a selfish motive for my conduct, “I have got the painting and the drawings; and when Frank will have become a celebrity, they will be very valuable, and I shall have made a good speculation!”
It was thus, alas! that I found the means of withering and falsifying my good action, through the odious fear I had of being the dupe of a high and honourable sentiment.
In spite of these fancies which for awhile dimmed the only ray of happiness whose blest influence had come to refresh me, I wished to see Hélène once more, if it were possible, and also to be an invisible witness of the manner that she and Frank would receive Lord Falmouth.
I took up my station there, on the boulevard, at nine o’clock, not daring to approach the house until after the arrival of Lord Falmouth. I did not wait long; very soon a carriage stopped, it was his. Again I leaned my forehead against the window-blinds.
By a noticeable display of good breeding, which showed me that Hélène was still the same, there had, evidently, been no preparations made in her modest home, there was nothing to indicate an expected visit from a Maecenas. Everything was arranged with its usual taste and simplicity.
When Lord Falmouth entered, he bowed respectfully to Hélène, who received him with a polite dignity which was full of charm. Frank, in his manner, seemed to understand perfectly the exact point where the pride of an artist should give place to the affability of a man of the world. Then, no doubt at the request of Lord Falmouth, he showed him some of his sketches, and I noticed that Lord Falmouth’s face, which was usually so expressionless, brightened up with something that looked almost like enthusiasm, as he contemplated I know not what drawing; while Hélène blushed with pride and pleasure on hearing these praises which Frank was receiving with so much modesty and serious good breeding.
After a half-hour’s visit, Lord Falmouth took leave of Hélène, who, without rising, returned his bow in the most affable manner. Frank rang the bell, accompanied Lord Falmouth as far as the door, and bowed to him. I hid myself when Lord Falmouth came out, and until he had entered his carriage, then I returned to the window.
Frank and Hélène were no longer in the salon; they had both gone to look on their child, and I saw them smiling, as they stood besides its cradle, and gazed on it with loving eyes, as though they wished to bestow on the angelic little creature the unexpected good fortune which had come to them.
For one last time I looked towards the house with grief in my heart, and then silently bidding farewell to Hélène, I hastened away.
On returning home I waited for Lord Falmouth impatiently, for I wished to know the impression Hélène and Frank had made on him. He was soon announced.
“Do you know,” said he to me on entering, “that your cousin is a très grande dame? that it would be impossible to find more grace or more distinction? that she converses most agreeably, and that I can easily conceive your anger with your lawyers for causing you to gain a suit that could bring distress to such a charming woman?”
“And what about Frank?” I asked him.
“Our great painter? Before the year is out that man will have risen to his proper level. I am sure of it; and his position will be a fine one. I predict this more from his conversation than from his admirable picture, though we talked but little, after all; but in some of the sketches he showed me, and in some beautiful ideas that he developed very simply and naturally, I beheld veritable ingots of the purest and finest gold, which only awaited the stamp of the mint to become more valuable and splendid still. And with all this, everything in their simple home is in such good form and breathes such an air of native elegance that it is quite touching to see these two beautiful young people, so reserved, so noble, and so dignified in their poverty. I thank you for the sweetest impression I have felt for these many years. Your errand is done, the pictures are yours, our Frank is going to set to work on the drawings; as to the price, he is to draw on my banker at sight. I also ordered two pictures for myself, for he rekindled in me the love of art, and I am going to send two or three eminent connoisseurs to see him, who will know how to help him, so that you will see him in six months earning all the money he wants, and then he will lose the only thing that spoils him, which is the proud reserve of his manner; for fortune expands great minds, whereas it shrivels up narrow ones, until they are all that is sublimely ridiculous and insolent.”
The praises bestowed on Frank, by a man who was as habitually cold and reserved as Lord Falmouth, caused me intense suffering, because they confirmed in an unmistakable way all the good qualities I had, in spite of my malevolence, discovered in Hélène’s husband. I thanked Lord Falmouth for his kindness, but he appeared to perceive my unkind thoughts, and said:
“You seem to be worried.”
“I really am; and as you are one of the few men to whom one may tell the truth, I am willing to admit it,” said I.
“To tell you the truth, I like you better so disposed than if you were very gay,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but I am bored more than usual these last few days.” Then after a long pause: “Does the life you are leading here amuse you enormously?” said he.
“Great God, no!” I exclaimed.
“Speaking seriously?”
“Oh, very seriously.”
At this moment supper was announced.
“Be so good as to have all we will be likely to need placed on the side-tables, and send away your servants; we will talk more freely,” said Lord Falmouth, in English, as we were going into the dining-room.
“Thanks to God,” said he, “I never have such a good appetite as when I am bored to death. It seems as though I had at such times to nourish the beast that is within me.”
“I am also very gourmand, but in fits and starts,” I replied, “and then I go to impossible lengths, and when I would like to find an inventive and creative genius I only stumble on a cook. And you may laugh if you please; but I need to have an excuse to really dine conscientiously, if you will allow me to say so; for example, after a long hunt, when I can stretch out in a great armchair. I then feel a real sensual enjoyment; but to make a study of my dinner, to seriously reflect on what I am going to eat, that is too limited a pleasure; for one soon falls into repetition and then comes satiety.”
“Well,” said Lord Falmouth, “I had once a veritable Christopher Columbus, in his way, who discovered for me unknown worlds, but unfortunately he is dead, poor fellow! Not a suicide like your Vatel, but in a real duel with the head butler of M. de Nesselrode; for my poor Hubert deeply despised all that concerned the pantry; he would sometimes busy himself there by way of pastime, for amusement, he would say. He pretended that the pudding glacé à la Nesselrode was the result of one of these leisure hours, and that his rival was simply a plagiarist. But alas! how sad is our fate here below! My poor Hubert was doubly the victim, for the name of the great diplomat who christened the pudding is the only name that it bears in the legend of good livers.”
