longer, I would have his death on my conscience. I entered his
room. He was playing whist with three other officers from his
regiment. ‘Ah, there you are’, he said, ‘how did you get here?’
I told him I had travelled halfway on horseback and halfway by
coach, day and night. He continued playing cards. I expected an
explosion of anger from him when we were alone. The others left
us. ‘You must be tired’, he said, ‘go and sleep’. He came with me
to my bedroom. As I walked in front of him, he noticed that my
coat was torn. ‘That’s what I always feared would come of this
escapade’, he said.
He embraced me, said goodnight and I went to bed. I was
dumbfounded by the reception he had given me, which was neither
what I had feared nor hoped for. While fearing I would be treated
with the severity I felt I deserved, I felt the real need—at the risk of
being told off—of an open and frank discussion with my father. My
affection for him had increased because of the pain I had caused
him. I needed to ask his forgiveness and to talk about my future
with him. I was longing to regain his confidence, and to have
confidence in him. I hoped—and partly feared—that the next day
we would speak to each other more openly.
But his manner was unchanged the next day, and despite my
efforts to bring the conversation round to the matter, and despite
some embarrassed expressions of regret on my part, he did not
respond and during those two days I spent at ‘s-Hertogenbosch no
discussion took place between us. I feel now that I should have
broken the ice. My father’s silence hurt me just as much as mine
probably hurt him. He attributed it to culpable thoughtlessness after
such inexcusable behaviour on my part; and what I took to be
indifference on his was perhaps resentment which he was making
an effort to hide from me. But on this occasion as on many others
in my life I was held back by a timidity that I have never been able
to overcome, and the words I wanted to say were never spoken
once I saw no encouragement to go on.^25The experience at ’s-Hertogenbosch was clearly so fundamental for
Constant that we find an echo of it in the opening pages of Adolphe where
Adolphe and his father are held back by ‘la timidité’ from open, frank
communication with each other.
26
This shyness and his father’s distant
ironic attitude have far-reaching and ultimately tragic consequences for
Adolphe whose already solitary nature is reinforced.
At the end of September 1787 Constant left Holland for Berne, carrying with him
memories of his unsatisfactory encounter and discontent with what we might nowadays
Escape 101