CHAPTER XXIV. M. DE BASSOMPIERRE.

Thosewholiveinretirement,whoseliveshavefallenamidtheseclusionofschoolsorofotherwalled-inandguardeddwellings,areliabletobesuddenlyandforalongwhiledroppedoutofthememoryoftheirfriends,thedenizensofafreerworld.Unaccountably,perhaps,andcloseuponsomespaceofunusuallyfrequentintercourse—somecongeriesofratherexcitinglittlecircumstances,whosenaturalsequelwouldratherseemtobethequickeningthanthesuspensionofcommunication—therefallsastillypause,awordlesssilence,alongblankofoblivion.Unbrokenalwaysisthisblankalikeentireandunexplained.Theletter,themessageoncefrequent,arecutoffthevisit,formerlyperiodical,ceasestooccurthebook,paper,orothertokenthatindicatedremembrance,comesnomore. Alwaysthereareexcellentreasonsfortheselapses,ifthehermitbutknewthem.Thoughheisstagnantinhiscell,hisconnectionswithoutarewhirlingintheveryvortexoflife.Thatvoidintervalwhichpassesforhimsoslowlythattheveryclocksseematastand,andthewinglesshoursplodbyinthelikenessoftiredtrampspronetorestatmilestones—thatsameinterval,perhaps,teemswithevents,andpantswithhurryforhisfriends. Thehermit—ifhebeasensiblehermit—willswallowhisownthoughts,andlockuphisownemotionsduringtheseweeksofinwardwinter.HewillknowthatDestinydesignedhimtoimitate,onoccasion,thedormouse,andhewillbeconformable:makeatidyballofhimself,creepintoaholeoflife’swall,andsubmitdecentlytothedriftwhichblowsinandsoonblockshimup,preservinghiminicefortheseason. Lethimsay,“Itisquiteright:itoughttobeso,sincesoitis.”And,perhaps,onedayhissnow-sepulchrewillopen,spring’ssoftnesswillreturn,thesunandsouth-windwillreachhimthebuddingofhedges,andcarollingofbirds,andsingingofliberatedstreams,willcallhimtokindlyresurrection.Perhapsthismaybethecase,perhapsnot:thefrostmaygetintohisheartandneverthawmorewhenspringcomes,acroworapiemaypickoutofthewallonlyhisdormouse-bones.Well,eveninthatcase,allwillberight:itistobesupposedheknewfromthefirsthewasmortal,andmustonedaygothewayofallflesh,“Aswellsoonassyne.” Followingthateventfuleveningatthetheatre,cameformesevenweeksasbareassevensheetsofblankpaper:nowordwaswrittenononeofthemnotavisit,notatoken. AboutthemiddleofthattimeIentertainedfanciesthatsomethinghadhappenedtomyfriendsatLaTerrasse.Themid-blankisalwaysabecloudedpointforthesolitary:hisnervesachewiththestrainoflongexpectancythedoubtshithertorepelledgathernowtoamassand—stronginaccumulation—rollbackuponhimwithaforcewhichsavoursofvindictiveness.Night,too,becomesanunkindlytime,andsleepandhisnaturecannotagree:strangestartsandstrugglesharasshiscouch:thesinisterbandofbaddreams,withhorrorofcalamity,andsickdreadofentiredesertionattheirhead,jointheleagueagainsthim.Poorwretch!Hedoeshisbesttobearup,butheisapoor,pallid,wastingwretch,despitethatbest. TowardsthelastoftheselongsevenweeksIadmitted,whatthroughtheothersixIhadjealouslyexcluded—theconvictionthattheseblankswereinevitable:theresultofcircumstances,thefiatoffate,apartofmylife’slotand—aboveall—amatteraboutwhoseoriginnoquestionmusteverbeasked,forwhosepainfulsequencenomurmureveruttered.OfcourseIdidnotblamemyselfforsuffering:IthankGodIhadatruersenseofjusticethantofallintoanyimbecileextravaganceofself-accusationandastoblamingothersforsilence,inmyreasonIwellknewthemblameless,andinmyheartacknowledgedthemso:butitwasaroughandheavyroadtotravel,andIlongedforbetterdays. Itrieddifferentexpedientstosustainandfillexistence:Icommencedanelaboratepieceoflace-work,IstudiedGermanprettyhard,IundertookacourseofregularreadingofthedriestandthickestbooksinthelibraryinallmyeffortsIwasasorthodoxasIknewhowtobe.Wasthereerrorsomewhere?Verylikely.IonlyknowtheresultwasasifIhadgnawedafiletosatisfyhunger,ordrankbrinetoquenchthirst. Myhouroftormentwasthepost-hour.Unfortunately,Iknewittoowell,andtriedasvainlyasassiduouslytocheatmyselfofthatknowledgedreadingtherackofexpectation,andthesickcollapseofdisappointmentwhichdailyprecededandfolloweduponthatwell-recognisedring. Isupposeanimalskeptincages,andsoscantilyfedastobealwaysuponthevergeoffamine,awaittheirfoodasIawaitedaletter.Oh!—tospeaktruth,anddropthattoneofafalsecalmwhichlongtosustain,outwearsnature’sendurance—Iunderwentinthosesevenweeksbitterfearsandpains,strangeinwardtrials,miserabledefectionsofhope,intolerableencroachmentsofdespair.Thislastcamesonearmesometimesthatherbreathwentrightthroughme.Iusedtofeelitlikeabalefulairorsigh,penetratedeep,andmakemotionpauseatmyheart,orproceedonlyunderunspeakableoppression.Theletter—thewell-belovedletter—wouldnotcomeanditwasallofsweetnessinlifeIhadtolookfor. Intheveryextremityofwant,Ihadrecourseagain,andyetagain,tothelittlepacketinthecase—thefiveletters.Howsplendidthatmonthseemedwhoseskieshadbeheldtherisingofthesefivestars!ItwasalwaysatnightIvisitedthem,andnotdaringtoaskeveryeveningforacandleinthekitchen,Iboughtawaxtaperandmatchestolightit,andatthestudy-hourstoleuptothedormitoryandfeastedonmycrustfromtheBarmecide’sloaf.Itdidnotnourishme:Ipinedonit,andgotasthinasashadow:otherwiseIwa