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MME DE DURAS

EDOUARD

PRECEDE D'UNE PREFACE

PAR

OCTAVE UZANNE

PARIS

LIBRAIRIE DES BIBLIOPHILES

Rue Saint-Honor?, 338

INTRODUCTION

J'allais rejoindre ? Baltimore mon r?giment, qui faisait partie des troupes fran?aises employ?es dans la guerre d'Am?rique; et, pour ?viter les lenteurs d'un convoi, je m'?tais embarqu? ? Lorient sur un b?timent marchand arm? en guerre. Ce b?timent portait avec moi trois autres passagers. L'un deux m'int?ressa d?s le premier moment que je l'aper?us: c'?tait un grand jeune homme d'une belle figure, dont les mani?res ?taient simples et la physionomie spirituelle; sa p?leur et la tristesse dont toutes ses paroles et toutes ses actions ?taient comme empreintes ?veillaient ? la fois l'int?r?t et la curiosit?. Il ?tait loin de les satisfaire; il ?tait habituellement silencieux, mais sans d?dain; on aurait dit, au contraire, qu'en lui la bienveillance avait surv?cu ? d'autres qualit?s ?teintes par le chagrin. Habituellement distrait, il n'attendait ni retour ni profit pour lui-m?me de rien de ce qu'il faisait. Cette facilit? ? vivre, qui vient du malheur, a quelque chose de touchant: elle inspire plus de piti? que les plaintes les plus ?loquentes.

Je cherchais ? me rapprocher de ce jeune homme; mais, malgr? l'esp?ce d'intimit? forc?e qu'am?ne la vie d'un vaisseau, je n'avan?ais pas. Lorsque j'allais m'asseoir aupr?s de lui et que je lui adressais la parole, il r?pondait ? mes questions, et, si elles ne touchaient ? aucun des sentiments intimes du coeur, mais aux rapports vagues de la soci?t?, il ajoutait quelquefois une r?flexion; mais, d?s que je voulais entrer dans le sujet des passions, ou des souffrances de l'?me, ce qui m'arrivait souvent dans l'intention d'amener quelque confidence de sa part, il se levait, il s'?loignait, ou sa physionomie devenait si sombre que je ne me sentais pas le courage de continuer. Ce qu'il me montrait de lui aurait suffi de la part de tout autre, car il avait un esprit singuli?rement original; il ne voyait rien d'une mani?re commune, et cela venait de ce que la vanit? n'?tait jamais m?l?e ? aucun de ses jugements. Il ?tait l'homme le plus ind?pendant que j'aie connu; le malheur l'avait rendu comme ?tranger aux autres hommes; il ?tait juste parce qu'il ?tait impartial, et impartial parce que tout lui ?tait indiff?rent. Lorsqu'une telle mani?re de voir ne rend pas fort ?go?ste, elle d?veloppe le jugement et accro?t les facult?s de l'intelligence. On voyait que son esprit avait ?t? fort cultiv?; mais, pendant toute la travers?e, je ne le vis jamais ouvrir un livre; rien en apparence ne remplissait pour lui la longue oisivet? de nos jours. Assis sur un banc ? l'arri?re du vaisseau, il restait des heures enti?res appuy? sur le bordage ? regarder fixement la longue trace que le navire laissait sur les flots. Un jour il me dit: "Quel fid?le embl?me de la vie! ainsi nous creusons p?niblement notre sillon dans cet oc?an de mis?re qui se referme apr?s nous. -- A votre ?ge, lui dis-je, comment voyez-vous le monde sous un jour si triste? -- On est vieux, dit-il, quand on n'a plus d'esp?rance. -- Ne peut-elle donc rena?tre? lui demandai-je. -- Jamais," r?pondit-il. Puis, me regardant tristement: "Vous avez piti? de moi, me dit-il, je le vois; croyez que j'en suis touch?, mais je ne puis vous ouvrir mon coeur; ne le d?sirez m?me pas: il n'y a point de rem?de ? mes maux, et tout m'est inutile d?sormais, m?me un ami." Il me quitta en pronon?ant ces derni?res paroles.

J'essayai peu de jours apr?s de reprendre la m?me conversation; je lui parlai d'une aventure de ma jeunesse; je lui racontai comment les conseils d'un ami m'avaient ?pargn? une grande faute. "Je voudrais, lui dis-je, ?tre aujourd'hui pour vous ce qu'on fut alors pour moi." Il prit ma main: "Vous ?tes trop bon, me dit-il; mais vous ne savez pas ce que vous me demandez; vous voulez me faire du bien, et vous me feriez du mal: les grandes douleurs n'ont pas besoin de confidents; l'?me qui peut les contenir se suffit ? elle-m?me; il faut entrevoir ailleurs l'esp?rance pour sentir le besoin de l'int?r?t des autres. A quoi bon toucher ? des plaies ingu?rissables? Tout est fini pour moi dans la vie, et je suis d?j?, ? mes yeux, comme si je n'?tais plus." Il se leva, se mit ? marcher sur le pont, et bient?t alla s'asseoir ? l'autre extr?mit? du navire.

Je quittai alors le banc que j'occupais pour lui donner la facilit? d'y revenir: c'?tait sa place favorite, et souvent m?me il y passait les nuits. Nous ?tions alors dans le parall?le des vents aliz?s, ? l'ouest des A?ores, et dans un climat d?licieux. Rien ne peut peindre le charme de ces nuits des Tropiques: le firmament, sem? d'?toiles, se r?fl?chit dans une mer tranquille. On se croirait plac?, comme l'Archange de Milton, au centre de l'univers, et pouvant embrasser d'un seul coup d'oeil la cr?ation tout enti?re.

Le jeune passager remarquait un soir ce magnifique spectacle: "L'infini est partout, dit-il: on le voit l? , on le sent ici ; et cependant quel myst?re! qui peut le comprendre! Ah! la mort en a le secret; elle nous l'apprendra peut-?tre, ou peut-?tre nous fera-t-elle tout oublier. Tout oublier! r?p?ta-t-il d'une voix tremblante. -- Vous n'entretenez pas une pens?e si coupable? lui dis-je. -- Non, r?pondit-il: qui pourrait douter de l'existence de Dieu en contemplant ce beau ciel? Dieu a r?pandu ses dons ?galement sur tous les ?tres; il est souverainement bon; mais les institutions des hommes sont toutes-puissantes aussi, et elles sont la source de mille douleurs. Les anciens pla?aient la fatalit? dans le ciel; c'est sur la terre qu'elle existe, et il n'y a rien de plus inflexible dans le monde que l'ordre social tel que les hommes l'ont cr??." Il me quitta en achevant ces mots. Plusieurs fois je renouvelai mes efforts: tout fut inutile; il me repoussait sans me blesser, et cette ?me inaccessible aux consolations ?tait encore g?n?reuse, bienveillante, ?lev?e; elle aurait donn? le bonheur qu'elle ne pouvait plus recevoir.

Le voyage finit; nous d?barqu?mes ? Baltimore. Le jeune passager me demanda de l'admettre comme volontaire dans mon r?giment; il y fut inscrit, comme sur le registre du vaisseau, sous le seul nom d'Edouard. Nous entr?mes en campagne, et, d?s les premi?res affaires que nous e?mes avec l'ennemi, je vis qu'Edouard s'exposait comme un homme qui veut se d?barrasser de la vie. J'avoue que chaque jour m'attachait davantage ? cette victime du malheur; je lui disais quelquefois: "J'ignore votre vie, mais je connais votre coeur; vous ne voulez pas me donner votre confiance, mais je n'en ai pas besoin pour vous aimer. Souffrir profond?ment appartient aux ?mes distingu?es, car les sentiments communs sont toujours superficiels."

EDOUARD

Je suis le fils d'un c?l?bre avocat au parlement de Paris; ma famille est de Lyon, et depuis plusieurs g?n?rations elle a occup? les utiles emplois r?serv?s ? la haute bourgeoisie de cette ville. Un de mes grands-p?res mourut victime de son d?vouement dans la maladie ?pid?mique qui d?sola Lyon en 1748. Son nom r?v?r? devint dans sa patrie le synonyme du courage et de l'honneur. Mon p?re fut de bonne heure destin? au barreau; il s'y distingua et acquit une telle consid?ration qu'il devint d'usage de ne se d?cider sur aucune affaire de quelque importance sans la lui avoir soumise. Il se maria, d?j? vieux, ? une femme qu'il aimait depuis longtemps; je fus leur unique enfant. Mon p?re voulut m'?lever lui-m?me, et lorsque j'eus dix ans accomplis il se retira avec ma m?re ? Lyon et se consacra tout entier ? mon ?ducation. Je satisfaisais mon p?re sous quelques points; je l'inqui?tais sous d'autres. Apprenant avec une extr?me facilit?, je ne faisais aucun usage de ce que je savais. R?serv?, silencieux, peu confiant, tout s'entassait dans mon esprit et ne produisait qu'une fermentation inutile et de continuelles r?veries. J'aimais la solitude, j'aimais ? voir le soleil couchant; je serais rest? des journ?es enti?res, assis sur cette petite pointe de sable qui termine la presqu'?le o? Lyon est b?ti, ? regarder se m?ler les eaux de la Sa?ne et du Rh?ne, et ? sentir ma pens?e et ma vie comme entra?n?es dans leur courant. On m'envoyait chercher; je rentrais, je me mettais ? l'?tude sans humeur et sans d?go?t; mais on aurait dit que je vivais de deux vies, tant mes occupations et mes pens?es ?taient de nature diff?rente. Mon p?re essayait quelquefois de me faire parler; mais c'?tait ma m?moire seule qui lui r?pondait. Ma m?re s'effor?ait de p?n?trer dans mon ?me par la tendresse; je l'embrassais, mais je sentais, m?me dans ces douces caresses, quelque chose d'incomplet au fond de mon ?me.

Mon p? much amused; but when one man among us cried out, "These people must be mad to throw their blankets away in cold weather--perhaps their red jackets will keep them warm when they lie down to-night"--there was one soldier who understood, and could speak Spanish, and he replied, "No, sirs, we have no further need of blankets. When we next sleep it will be in the best beds in the capitol." Then Santos shouted back, "That, sirs, will perhaps be a sleep from which some of you will never awake." That speech attracted their attention to Santos, and the soldier who had spoken before returned, "There are not many men like you in these parts, therefore what you say does not alarm us." Then they looked at the friars fastening the blankets Santos had given them on to their horses, and seeing that they wore heavy iron spurs strapped on their bare feet, they shouted with laughter, and the one who talked with us cried out, "We are sorry, good Brothers, that we have not boots as well as blankets to give you."

But our business was now done, and bidding good-bye to the friars, we set out on our return journey, Santos saying that we should be at home before midnight.

It was past the middle of the afternoon, we having ridden about six leagues, when we spied at a distance ahead a great number of mounted men scattered about over the plain, some standing still, others galloping this way or that.

"El pato! el pato!" cried Santos with excitement, "Come, boy, let us go and watch the battle while it is near, and when it is passed on we will go our way." Urging his horse to a gallop, I following, we came to where the men were struggling for the ball, and stood for a while looking on. But it was not in him to remain a mere spectator for long; never did he see a cattle-marking, or parting, or races, or a dance, or any game, and above all games el Pato, but he must have a part in it. Very soon he dismounted to throw off some of the heaviest parts of his horse-gear, and ordering me to take them up on my horse and follow him, he rode in among the players.

About forty or fifty men had gathered at that spot, and were sitting quietly on their horses in a wide circle, waiting to see the result of a struggle for the Pato between three men who had hold of the ball. They were strong men, well mounted, each resolved to carry off the prize from the others. Sir, when I think of that sight, and remember that the game is no longer played because of the Tyrant who forbade it, I am ready to cry out that there are no longer men on these plains where I first saw the light! How they tugged and strained and sweated, almost dragging each other out of the saddle, their trained horses leaning away, digging their hoofs into the turf, as when they resist the shock of a lassoed animal, when the lasso stiffens and the pull comes! One of the men was a big, powerful mulatto, and the by-standers thinking the victory would be his, were only waiting to see him wrest the ball from the others to rush upon and try to deprive him of it before he could escape from the crowd.

Santos refused to stand inactive, for was there not a fourth handle to the ball to be grasped by another fighter? Spurring his horse into the group, he very soon succeeded in getting hold of the disengaged handle. A cry of resentment at this action on the part of a stranger went up from some of those who were looking on, mixed with applause at his daring from others, while the three men who had been fighting against each other, each one for himself, now perceived that they had a common enemy. Excited as they were by the struggle, they could not but be startled at the stranger's appearance--that huge man on a big horse, so white-skinned and long-haired, with a black beard, that came down over his breast, and who showed them, when he threw back his poncho, the knife that was like a sword and the big brass-barrelled pistol worn at his waist. Very soon after he joined in the fray all four men came to the earth. But they did not fall together, and the last to go down was Santos, who would not be dragged off his horse, and in the end horse and man came down on the top of the others. In coming down, two of the men had lost their hold of the ball; last of all, the big mulatto, to save himself from being crushed under the falling horse, was forced to let go, and in his rage at being beaten, he whipped out his long knife against the stranger. Santos, too quick for him, dealt him a blow on the forehead with the heavy silver handle of his whip, dropping him stunned to the ground. Of the four, Santos alone had so far escaped injury, and rising and remounting, the ball still in his hand, he rode out from among them, the crowd opening on each side to make room for him.

Now in the crowd there was one tall, imposing-looking man, wearing a white poncho, many silver ornaments, and a long knife in an embossed silver sheath; his horse, too, which was white as milk, was covered with silver trappings. This man alone raised his voice; "Friends and comrades," he cried, "is this to be the finish? If this stranger is permitted to carry the Pato away, it will not be because of his stronger wrist and better horse, but because he carries firearms. Comrades, what do you say?"

But there was no answer. They had seen the power and resolution of the man, and though they were many they preferred to let him go in peace. Then the man on a white horse, with a scowl of anger and contempt, turned from them and began following us at a distance of about fifty yards. Whenever Santos turned back to come to close quarters with him, he retired, only to turn and follow us again as soon as Santos resumed his course. In this way we rode till sunset. Santos was grave, but calm; I, being so young, was in constant terror. "Oh, uncle," I whispered, "for the love of God fire your pistol at this man and kill him, so that he may not kill us!"

Santos laughed. "Fool of a boy," he replied, "do you not know that he wants me to fire at him! He knows that I could not hit him at this distance, and that after discharging my pistol we should be equal, man to man, and knife to knife; and who knows then which would kill the other? God knows best, since He knows everything, and He has put it into my heart not to fire."

When it grew dark we rode slower, and the man then lessened the distance between us. We could hear the chink-chink of his silver trappings, and when I looked back I could see a white misty form following us like a ghost. Then, all at once, there came a noise of hoofs and a whistling sound of something thrown, and Santos' horse plunged and reared and kicked, then stood still trembling with terror. His hind legs were entangled in the bolas which had been thrown. With a curse Santos threw himself off, and, drawing his knife, cut the thong which bound the animal's legs, and remounting we went on as before, the white figure still following us.

At length, about midnight, the Sanboromb?n was reached, at the ford where we had crossed in the morning, where it was about forty yards wide, and the water only high as the surcingle in the deepest parts.

"Let your heart be glad, Nicandro!" said Santos, as we went down into the water; "for our time is come now, and be careful to do as I bid you."

We crossed slowly, and coming out on the south side, Santos quietly dropped off his horse, and, speaking in a low voice, ordered me to ride slowly on with the two horses and wait for him in the road. He said that the man who followed would not see him crouching under the bank, and thinking it safe would cross over, only to receive the charge fired at a few yards distance.

That was an anxious interval that followed, I waiting alone, scarcely daring to breathe, staring into the darkness in fear of that white figure that was like a ghost, listening for the pistol shot. My prayer to heaven was to direct the bullet in its course, so that it might go to that terrible man's heart, and we be delivered from him. But there was no shot, and no sound except a faint chink of silver and sound of hoof-beats that came to my ears after a time, and soon ceased to be heard. The man, perhaps, had some suspicion of the other's plan and had given up the chase and gone away.

Nothing more do I remember of that journey which ended at El Omb? at cock-crow, except that at one spot Santos fastened a thong round my waist and bound me before and behind to the saddle to prevent my falling from my horse every time I went to sleep.

Remember, Se?or, that I have spoken of things that passed when I was small. The memories of that time are few and scattered, like the fragments of tiles and bricks and rusty iron which one may find half-buried among the weeds, where the house once stood. Fragments that once formed part of the building. Certain events, some faces, and some voices, I remember, but I cannot say the year. Nor can I say how many years had gone by after Do?a Mericie's death, and after my journey to the monastery. Perhaps they were few, perhaps many. Invasions had come, wars with a foreigner and with the savage, and Independence, and many things had happened at a distance. He, Santos Ugarte, was older, I know, greyer, when that great misfortune and calamity came to one whom God had created so strong, so brave, so noble. And all on account of a slave, a youth born at El Omb?, who had been preferred above the others by his master. For, as it is said, we breed crows to pick our eyes out. But I will say nothing against that poor youth, who was the cause of the disaster, for it was not wholly his fault. Part of the fault was in Santos--his indomitable temper and his violence. And perhaps, too, the time was come when He who rules over all men had said, "You have raised your voice and have ridden over others long enough. Look, Santos! I shall set My foot upon you, and you shall be like a wild pumpkin at the end of summer, when it is dryer and more brittle than an empty egg-shell."

Remember that there were slaves in those days, also that there was a law fixing every man's price, old or young, so that if any slave went, money in hand, to his master and offered him the price of his liberty, from that moment he became a free man. It mattered not that his master wished not to sell him. So just was the law.

Of his slaves Santos was accustomed to say, "These are my children, and serve because they love me, not because they are slaves; and if I were to offer his freedom to any one among them, he would refuse to take it." He saw their faces, not their hearts.

His favourite was Meliton, black but well favoured, and though but a youth, he had authority over the others, and dressed well, and rode his master's best horses, and had horses of his own. But it was never said of him that he gained that eminence by means of flattery and a tongue cunning to frame lies. On the contrary, he was loved by all, even by those he was set above, because of his goodness of heart and a sweet and gay disposition. He was one of those whose can do almost anything better than others; whatever his master wanted done, whether it was to ride a race, or break a horse, or throw a lasso, or make a bridle, or whip, or surcingle, or play on a guitar, or sing, or dance, it was Meliton, Meliton. There was no one like him.

Now this youth cherished a secret ambition in his heart, and saved, and saved his money; and at length one day he came with a handful of silver and gold to Santos, and said, "Master, here is the price of my freedom, take it and count it, and see that it is right, and let me remain at El Omb? to serve you henceforth without payment. But I shall no longer be a slave."

Santos took the money into his hand, and spoke, "It was for this then that you saved, even the money I gave you to spend and to run with, and the money you made by selling the animals I gave you--you saved it for this! Ingrate, with a heart blacker than your skin! Take back the money, and go from my presence, and never cross my path again if you wish for a long life." And with that he hurled the handful of silver and gold into the young man's face with such force, that he was cut and bruised with the coins and well nigh stunned. He went back staggering to his horse, and mounting, rode away, sobbing like a child, the blood running from his face.

He soon left this neighbourhood and went to live at Las Vivoras, on the Vecino river, south of Dolores, and there made good use of his freedom, buying fat animals for the market; and for a space of two years he prospered, and every man, rich or poor, was his friend. Nevertheless he was not happy, for his heart was loyal and he loved his old master, who had been a father to him, and desired above all things to be forgiven. And, at length, hoping that Santos had outlived his resentment and would be pleased to see him again, he one day came to El Omb? and asked to see the master.

The old man came out of the house and greeted him jovially. "Ha, Meliton," he cried with a laugh, "you have returned in spite of my warning. Come down from your horse and let me take your hand once more."

The other, glad to think he was forgiven, alighted, and advancing, put out his hand. Santos took it in his, only to crush it with so powerful a grip, that the young man cried out aloud, and blinded with tears of pain, he did not see that his master had the big brass pistol in his left hand, and did not know that his last moment had come. He fell with a bullet in his heart.

Look, se?or, where I am pointing, twenty yards or so from the edge of the shadow of the omb?, do you see a dark green weed with a yellow flower on a tall stem growing on the short, dry grass? It was just there, on the very spot where the yellow flower is, that poor Meliton fell, and was left lying, covered with blood, until noon the next day. For no person dared take up the corpse until the Alcalde had been informed of the matter and had come to inquire into it.

Santos had mounted his horse and gone away without a word, taking the road to Buenos Ayres. He had done that for which he would have to pay dearly; for a life is a life, whether the skin be black or white, and no man can slay another deliberately, in cold blood, and escape the penalty. The law is no respecter of persons, and when he, who commits such a deed, is a man of substance, he must expect that Advocates and Judges, with all those who take up his cause, will bleed him well before they procure him a pardon.

Ugarte cared nothing for that, he had been as good as his word, and the devil in his heart was satisfied. Only he would not wait at his estancia to be taken, nor would he go and give himself up to the authorities, who would then have to place him in confinement, and it would be many months before his liberation. That would be like suffocation to him; to such a man a prison is like a tomb. No, he would go to Buenos Ayres and embark for Montevideo, and from that place he would put the matter in motion, and wait there until it was all settled and he was free to return to El Omb?.

Dead Meliton was taken away and buried in consecrated ground at Chascomus. Rain fell, and washed away the red stains on the ground. In the spring, the swallows returned and built their nests under the eaves; but Ugarte came not back, nor did any certain tidings of him reach us. It was said, I know not whether truly or not, that the Advocate who defended him, and the Judge of First Instance, who had the case before him, had quarreled about the division of the reward, and both being rich, proud persons, they had allowed themselves to forget the old man waiting there month after month for his pardon, which never came to him.

Better for him if he never heard of the ruin which had fallen on El Omb? during his long exile. There was no one in authority: the slaves, left to themselves, went away, and there was no person to restrain them. As for the cattle and horses, they were blown away like thistle-down, and everyone was free to pasture his herds and flocks on the land.

The house for a time was in charge of some person placed there by the authorities, but little by little it was emptied of its contents; and at last it was abandoned, and for a long time no one could be found to live in it on account of the ghosts.

There was living at that time, a few leagues from El Omb?, one Valerio de la Cueva, a poor man, whose all consisted of a small flock of three or four hundred sheep and a few horses. He had been allowed to make a small rancho, a mere hut, to shelter himself and his wife Donata and their one child, a boy named Bruno; and to pay for the grass his few sheep consumed he assisted in the work at the estancia house. This poor man, hearing of El Omb?, where he could have house and ground for nothing, offered himself as occupant, and in time came with wife and child and his small flock, and all the furniture he possessed--a bed, two or three chairs, a pot and kettle, and perhaps a few other things. Such poverty El Omb? had not known, but all others had feared to inhabit such a place on account of its evil name, so that it was left for Valerio, who was a stranger in the district.

Tell me, se?or, have you ever in your life met with a man, who was perhaps poor, or even clothed in rags, and who yet when you had looked at and conversed with him, has caused you to say: Here is one who is like no other man in the world? Perhaps on rising and going out, on some clear morning in summer, he looked at the sun when it rose, and perceived an angel sitting in it, and as he gazed, something from that being fell upon and passed into and remained with him. Such a man was Valerio. I have known no other like him.

"Come, friend Nicandro," he would say, "let us sit down in the shade and smoke our cigarettes, and talk of our animals. Here are no politics under this old omb?, no ambitions and intrigues and animosities--no bitterness except in these green leaves. They are our laurels--the leaves of the omb?. Happy Nicandro, who never knew the life of cities! I wish that I, too, had seen the light on these quiet plains, under a thatched roof. Once I wore fine clothes and gold ornaments, and lived in a great house where there were many servants to wait on me. But happy I have never been. Every flower I plucked changed into a nettle to sting my hand. Perhaps that maleficent one, who has pursued me all my days, seeing me now so humbled and one with the poor, has left me and gone away. Yes, I am poor, and this frayed garment that covers me will I press to my lips because it does not shine with silk and gold embroidery. And this poverty which I have found will I cherish, and bequeath it as a precious thing to my child when I die. For with it is peace."

The peace did not last long; for when misfortune has singled out a man for its prey, it will follow him to the end, and he shall not escape from it though he mount up to the clouds like the falcon, or thrust himself deep down into the earth like the armadillo.

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