FILIAL SENTIMENTS OF A PARRICIDE
world's misery. From the first sensational news of so many people's
grief, news we shall soon enjoy relating to friends who have not yet
read the paper, we are brought briskly back to the existence which,
at the first moment of waking, we had felt it futile to recapture. And
if at moments we melt into tears, it is at a phrase like this one: "An
impressive silence gripped all hearts, drums sounded on the field, the
troops presented arms, a tremendous cry rose up: 'Three cheers for
Fallieres !'" For this we weep, as we refuse to weep for misfortunes
closer to our hearts. Base hypocrites who weep only for the anguish
of Hercules or the travels of a President of the Republic! Nevertheless,
that morning I did not enjoy reading
Figaro.
I had just skimmed
with delight through the volcanic eruptions, the ministerial crises,
the duels of
apaches,
and I was calmly beginning to read a column
whose title, "A Drama of Madness," was peculiarly adapted to
quicken my morning energies, when suddenly I saw that the victim
was Mme. van Blarenberghe; that the murderer, who had presently
killed himself, was her son, Henri van Blarenberghe, whose letter lay
near me waiting to
be
answered:
((One must always hope.
...
I do
not know what 1907 holds for me, but let us pray it will bring im–
provement,"
etc. One must always hope! I do not know what 1907
holds for me! Life had not been long in answering him. 1907 had
not cast off her first month before she brought him her present:
musket, revolver, and dagger, and a veil for his mind such as Athena
fitted on that of Ajax so that he would slaughter the shepherds and
flocks in the Greek camp without knowing what he did. "I it was who
put the false images in his eyes. And he rushed upon them, striking
here and there, thinking that with
his
own hand he killed the
Atrides, hurling himself now on the sheep, now on the shepherds. I
made him the prey of raging madness; I forced him into the snares.
He came back, his head dripping with sweat and his hands red with
blood."
As
long as the mad strike they know nothing; then, the fit
having passed, what anguish! Tekmessa, Ajax's wife, described it:
"His madness is over, his frenzy has fallen like the breath of Motos.
But, having recovered his wits, he is now tormented by a new
afflic–
tion; for to contemplate his own evil deeds when he alone has caused
them bitterly increases
his
anguish. Once he knows what has hap–
pened, he cries out in lamentation, he who used to say that a man
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