Constant - Adolphe

It was not without some hesitation that I agreed to the reprinting of this little work, published ten years ago. But for the fact that I was almost certain that a pirated edition would appear in Belgium and that, like the majority of the pirated editions which the Belgian publishers distribute in Germany and introduce into France, it would contain additions and interpolations for which I was not responsible, I should never have bothered about this anecdote. I wrote it with the sole idea of convincing several friends, who were staying together in the country, that it was feasible to give some sort of interest to a story in which the characters would be restricted to two, and in which the situation would always remain the same.

When I had started on this work, I wanted to develop several ideas which occurred to me and seemed to me not uninstructive. I wanted to depict the harm which is done even to barren hearts by the suffering they themselves cause to others, and the illusion which makes them believe themselves more frivolous and corrupt than they really are. From a distance, the pain you inflict appears confused and vague, like a cloud through which you could easily pass; you are encouraged by an approving and artificial society which substitutes rules for principles, conventions for emotions, and which hates scandal because it is a nuisancenot because it is immoral. It accepts vice quite happily when there is no scandal. You imagine that attachments which you form lightheartedly can be broken easily. But when you see the anguish caused by these broken bonds, the pain and astonishment of a deluded soul, the esteem which is repressed and which finds no outlet, the mistrust which replaces so complete a confidence and which, inevitably directed against the loved one, spreads to the whole world, then it is you realize that there is something sacred in a heart which suffers because it loves. You discover how deep are the roots of the affection you thought you inspired but did not share; and if you overcome what you call weakness, you do so only by destroying in your character all that is generous, faithful, noble and kind. You rise from this victory, which other people and friends applaud, having killed part of your soul, set sympathy at nought, taken advantage of weakness, outraged morality whilst using it as an excuse for harshness, and, ashamed or perverted by this success, you outlive your better nature.

That was what I tried to portray in Adolphe. I do not know if I have succeeded; but one thing makes me feel Adolphe has the merit of possessing a measure of truth: almost all my readers whom I have met have told me that they themselves have been in the same position as my hero. It is true that, while expressing regrets at having caused all that pain, they could not wholly conceal a fatuous self-satisfaction. They were pleased to depict themselves as having, like Adolphe, been the prey of the stubborn affections which they had inspired and the victims of the immense love conceived for them. I believe that, on the whole, they were calumniating themselves and that, had their vanity left them in peace, their conscience could have remained at rest.

Be that as it may, Adolphe has become a matter of complete indifference to me; I attach no importance to this novel and, I repeat, my sole object in letting it reappear for the benefit of a public who have probably forgotten it, if they ever knew it, is to declare that any edition containing anything not in this edition is not by me and I cannot be held responsible for it.

he has substituted first for lastlast appearing to be an unfortunate correction, probably on the part of the author.

C.W.

Some years ago, I was travelling through Italy. The flooding of the Neto forced me to stop at Cerenza and put up at one of the inns in this little village in Calabria; at the same inn was a stranger who had been obliged to stay there for the same reason. He was very silent and appeared sad: he showed no impatience. Occasionally, as he was the only person in that part with whom I could talk, I complained to him about this hindrance to our journey. Wherever I am, he replied, makes no difference to me. Our host, who had chatted with a Neapolitan who served this man without knowing his name, told me that this person was not travelling out of curiosity, for he visited no ruins, nor historic sites, nor monuments, nor men. He read much, but only by fits and starts; he went for a walk every evening, always alone, and he often spent whole days sitting motionless with his head resting on his two hands.

Just when the roads were reopened and we could have set out, this stranger fell very ill. Common humanity made it my duty to extend my stay in order to look after him. At Cerenza, there was only a village surgeon, and I wanted to send to Cosenza for more effective aid. Do not bother, said the stranger, the village surgeon is just what I need. He was right, though perhaps in a way he had not meant, for this man cured him. I had no idea you were so clever, he said to him with a certain ill-humour as he dismissed him; then he thanked me for my kindness and left.

Several months later, in Naples, I received a letter from our host of Cerenza with a casket found on the road leading to Strongoli, the road which the stranger and myself had followed, but separately. The innkeeper who sent it to me was convinced it belonged to one of us. It contained many very old letters, without addresses, or from which the addresses and signatures had been erased, the portrait of a woman and a notebook containing the anecdote or account we are about to read. When saying farewell, the stranger to whom these effects belonged left me no means of communicating with him. Not being sure what I should do with these documents, I kept them for ten years, and, having one day by chance mentioned them to a few people in a German town, one of these persons pressed me to entrust him with the manuscript in my possession. A week later, the manuscript was returned to me with a letter I have put at the end of this story because it would be unintelligible if you read it before being acquainted with the story itself.