Kitabı oku: «The Choice of Life», sayfa 5
4
I watch my great girl while she talks. This rustic beauty, in her cotton bodice, her blue print skirt and her wooden shoes, no longer shouts. She expresses herself better and does not gesticulate so violently. She is quieter in her movements and her shyness is not unattractive. Rays of light filter through the branches and cast shifting patches of light on her face and figure. I always love to observe the details of her beauty, but to-day my heart contracts for a moment as my eyes follow the curve of her chin, which is charming, but devoid of all firmness, and her whole profile, which is beautiful, but lacking in decision....
Will Rose be one of those who accomplish themselves by means of love, who exalt themselves by exalting it, who master and improve themselves the better to control it?
Love is the great test by which our values are reckoned and weighed. The fond vagaries of the body have taught the proud soul its limits; and reason has wilted under a kiss like a flower under the scorching sun. Every woman has known the exquisite luxury of forgetting herself, of losing herself so utterly that no other thing at the moment appears to her worth living for. She has heard the voice of the charmer exhorting her to abandon pride, ambition, her own personality, to become, in short, no more than an atom of happiness under a dark and splendid sky which each moment of felicity seems to adorn with a new star.
Where the weak woman goes under, her stronger sister is never lost. The lower she may have fallen, the higher she raises herself. She returns from each of her strayings more fit for life. She is more resisting, for she has known how to sway and bend without breaking; more indulgent, because she has seen herself encompassed with weakness and beset with longings. She knows how frail is the spring that regulates her strength, but also how necessary that strength is to her happiness. She has come to understand what real love means, that the union of man and woman approaches the nearer to perfection the less the two wills are fused. She has understood, above all, that, to contain, glorify and keep love, we need all the energy of our respective personalities and all the benefit of our dissimilarity!
Rose was silent.
I lay on the grass, with my arms outstretched and my eyes fixed on the sky; and the breeze sent my hair playing over my lips. For a long while afterwards, my thoughts continued to wander amid the fairest things in the world.
Chapter XII
1
It is typical autumn weather, a dull, dark day which seems never to have fully dawned. Beneath the burden of the weary, oppressive clouds, the grass is greener and the roads more distinct. The light seems to rise to the sky instead of falling from it.
I have been in the kitchen-garden for an hour. There all the plants are beaten down by the wind and the rain; the asparagus-fronds lie across the paths like tangled hair; but the broad-bottomed cabbages are a joy to the eye, with their air of comfortable middle-class prosperity. Looking at their closely enfolded hearts, I seemed to recover the illusion of my childhood, of the days when my eyes pictured mystery in their depths....
How amazed we are when one of our senses happens to receive a sudden impression, in the same way as when we were children! We behold the same object simultaneously in the present and the past; and between those two points, identical and yet different to our eyes, our memory tries to stretch a thread that can help it to follow the thousand and one intermediate transformations which have led us from the false to the true, from the wonderful to the simple, from dreams to reality. We should, no doubt, discover here, in the subtle history of our sensations and the different ways in which we received them, the gradual forming of our character, the pathetic progress of our little knowledge, all the frail elements of our personal life; in a word, the plastic substance of our joys and sorrows....
I think of the little girl that I was, but between her and me there stands a long array of children, girls and women. And I can do nothing but inwardly repeat:
"How soon we lose our traces!…"
I smile at the memory of myself as we smile at the unknown child that brushes against us in passing; and I leave myself to return to Rose....
2
She is a never-failing source of satisfaction to me. My dreams glory in having discovered so much hidden virtue here, at my door; and I am surprised at the new pleasures which I am constantly finding in her.
In certain natures predisposed to happiness, such happy surprises are prolonged and constantly renewed; and this may be one of the innocent secrets of the intellect. Are there not a thousand ways of interpreting a feeling, even as there are a thousand ways of considering an object? Our mind observes it daily under a different aspect, turns and turns it again, sees it from above and below, sees it near and from afar and loves to show it off and place it in the most favourable light. The mind of every woman, especially of a woman with an artistic bias, is not without a secret harmony of colour, line and proportion. Something intentional even enters into it; and the caprices of her soul are often but an outcome of her desire to please. Her natural instinct, which is always inclined to give form to the most subtle of her sensations, enables her to find in goodness the same clinging grace which she loves in her clothes. She likes her happiness to be obvious and highly coloured, that it may rejoice the eyes of those around her; and, so as not to sadden their eyes, she paints the bitterness of her heart in neutral shades of drab and grey. By thinking herself better, she appears prettier in her own sight; and it seems to her, as she consults her mirror, that she is replying to her own destiny. The soft waves of her hair teach her how frail is her will by the side of her life. She learns to bestow her own reward on the sympathy of her heart by crowning her forehead with her two bare arms; and, when she sees the long folds of her dress winding around her body, she recognises the sinuous, slow, but determined bent of her feminine power.
I remember once being present at a meeting between two women who gave me a charming proof of our natural inclination to lend shape and substance to our thoughts and feelings. They were of different nationalities and neither of them could speak the other's language. Both were of a warm and sensitive nature, endowed with an analytical and artistic temperament; and, as soon as they came together amidst the boredom of a fashionable crowd, they sat down in a corner and, with the aid of a few ordinary words, of facial expression, of vocal intonation, but above all by means of gesticulation, they succeeded, in a few moments, in explaining themselves and knowing each other better than many do after months of intercourse.
I was interested in this strange conversation, this dialogue without a sentence, but so vivid and expressive, in the same breath childish and profound; for they wished to show each other the inmost recesses of their souls and they had nothing to do it with but two or three elementary words. How pretty they were, the fair one dressed in red and the other, who was dark, all in white, with camellias in the dusk of her hair. They were not at all afraid of being frivolous and would linger now and then to examine the filmy muslins and laces in which they were arrayed.
The elder had already chosen her path, the younger was still seeking hers; but the characters of both were alike matured and their minds completely formed. Both of them in love and happy in their love, they tried above all to express their tastes and ideas.
To understand each other, they employed a thousand ingenious means. Their mobile faces eagerly questioned each other with the unconscious boldness of children who meet for the first time. They took each other's hands, looked at each other, read each other's features. At times, they would make use of things around them: a light here, a shadow there, people, objects. Once I saw the fair-haired one take up a Gallé cup that stood near. For a minute, she held her white arm up to the light; and through her fingers the lovely thing seemed like a flash of crystallised mist in which precious stones were shedding their last lustre.
I forget the various images, childish and subtle, by which she was able to show her friend all her sensitive soul in that fragile cup. A little later, there was some music; and the dark one sang while the fair one accompanied her on the piano. Through the sounds and harmonies I heard the perfect concord of those two lives, which had known nothing of each other an hour or two before....
It was an exquisite lesson for me, a wonderful proof that women's souls are able to love and unite more easily than men's, if they wish. And I once again regretted the unhappy distrust that severs and disunites us, whereas all our weaknesses interwoven might be garlands of strength and love crowning the life of men.
3
By a natural trend of thought, Rose appeared to me contrasted with those two rare creatures....
Rose is not sensitive and is not artistic. No doubt, when she left school, she could play the piano correctly and likewise draw those still-life studies and little landscapes by means of which the principles of art and beauty are carefully instilled into the young mind. But she did not suspect that there could be anything else. She saw nothing beyond the ruined mill which she drew religiously in charcoal; twenty times over, she set an orange, a ball of worsted and a pair of scissors together on the window-sill without seeing any of the wonders which the garden offered her.
Later, when every Sunday she played The Young Savoyard's Prayer on the organ, her placid soul conceived no other harmonies. She never felt, within the convent-walls, that divine curiosity, that blessed insubordination of the artist-child which obtains its first understanding of beauty from its hatred of the ugliness around it and which turns towards pretty things as flowers and plants turn towards the light.
Ah, my poor Rose, how I should like to see you more eager and alive! In the close attention which you give me, in the absolute faith which you place in me, my least words are invested with a precision of meaning that invites me to go on speaking; but how weary I am at heart! Oh, let us pass on to other things: it is high time! Let us not sink into slumber and call it prudence: up to now I have been content to see you sitting patiently at my feet; but I no longer want you there. Enough of this! I dream of roaming with you at random in the open fields, I dream of making you laugh and cry, of feeling your young soul fresh and sensitive as your cheeks. I dream of stirring your heart and rousing your imagination. We will go far across the countryside; together we shall see the light wane and the darkness begin; and, since you love me, you must needs admire with me the rare beauty of all these things!…
Chapter XIII
1
Rose was to have a holiday the next day. We arranged that she should come with the trap from the farm, the first thing in the morning, to fetch me.
We start at six o'clock. The harness-bells tinkle gaily to the heavy trot of the big horse; and we laugh as we are jolted violently one against the other. We drive through the villages, those happy Normandy villages where everything seems eloquent of the richness of the soil. They are still asleep, the white curtains are drawn and the geraniums on the window-ledges alone are awake in all their glowing bloom. A faint haze veils the fields and imparts to things a soft warmth of tone that makes them more soothing to the eyes. The sun rises and we see the breath of earth shimmer in its first rays.
We have never yet been for a whole day's outing together; everything is new in my new pleasure. I look at Rose beside me. I had wanted her to put on her peasant clothes; and I find her beautiful in her scanty garb in the cool morning air.
We follow the long hog's-back that commands a view of the whole country round. Here and there, tiny villages float like islands of green amid the wide plains. A row of poplars lines the way on either side. Their yellow leaves quiver and rustle in the breeze. The rooks stand out harshly against the white road. And the mist, which is beginning to lift in places, reveals a deep-blue sky.
The keen air that enters my throat and makes my mouth cold as ice tells me of the smile that flickers over my face; and my pleasure is heightened by the sight of my happiness. A woman sees herself anew in everything that she beholds; life is her perpetual looking-glass. In our memory, the flowers in a hat often mingle with those along the road; and sometimes the muslin of a dress enfolds the recollection of our gravest emotions.
O femininity, sublime and ridiculous, wise and foolish! Never shall I weary of surprising its movements and variations deep down in my being! How it fascinates me in all its shades and forms! I let it play with my destiny as much from reason as from love, for we know that nothing can subdue it. I worship it in myself, I worship it in all of us! It may exhaust us in the performance of superhuman tasks, it may let us merely dally with the delight of being beautiful, it may chain us to our bodies or deliver us from their tyranny, it may adorn life or give it, enrich it or kill it: always and everywhere it arouses my eager interest. Ever unexpected and changeful, it floats in front of our woman's souls like a gracious veil that draws, unites and yet separates....
The even motion of the trap lulls my dreams and we drive on, in the midst of the plains, the fields and the woods. We pass through a dense flock of sheep. The warm round backs, the gentle, anxious faces push and hustle, while the thousand slender legs mingle and raise clouds of dust along the roadside. The timid voices bleat through space; and a pungent scent fills our nostrils. We are now going down into the valley. The village appears, among the trees: a cluster of red and grey roofs; little narrow gardens; white clothes hung out and fluttering in the sunlight. Beyond are broad meadows dotted with peaceful cows and streaked with running brooks. There, just in the middle, a factory displays its grimy buildings. It is an eye-sore, but it leaves the mind unscathed. Does it not represent definite and deliberate activity amid the unconsciousness of nature?…
At this moment, Rose turns towards me; and I seem to read a sadness in her eyes:
"What are you thinking of?" I ask.
"I am thinking that I should like to go away altogether and that we have to be back tonight."
I kissed her and laughed.
"My darling, you must live and be happy in the present: there is plenty of room there."
We arrived at the country-house to which I was taking her. Pretty women in delicate morning-wraps were eagerly awaiting us on the steps, while some of the men, attracted by the sound of our wheels, leant out from a window to see my pretty Rose. There was a general cry of admiration:
"Why, she's magnificent!"
We stepped out of the trap and I pushed Rose towards the party, with whispered words of encouragement; but, suddenly bending forward, with her feet wide apart, her arms-swinging and her cheeks on fire, she dips here and there in a series of awkward bows....
They were kind enough not to laugh; and I led the girl through the great, cool echoing rooms, multiplied by the mirrors and filled with marvels....
2
The sun streams through the immense, wide-open windows; and the harmony of the ancient park mingles with that of the silk hangings and the old furniture. The fallen leaves sprinkle tears of gold upon the deep green of the lawns. The soft-flowing river welcomes with a quiver the perfect beauty of the skies; rare shrubs and delicate flowers set here and there sheaves and garlands of joy; and the golden sand of the paths accentuates the variety of the colours. On the hill opposite, a wood gilded by the autumn seems to be lying down like some huge animal; in the distance, the tree-tops are so close together that one could imagine a giant hand stroking its tawny fur. On either side of the tall bow-windows, the scarlet satin of the curtains falls in long, straight folds.
Let us be in a palace or a hovel, in a museum or an hotel: is not our attention always first claimed by the window? However little it reveals, that little still means light and life, amid our admiration of the rare or our indifference to the ordinary. The windows represent all the independence, hope and strength of the little souls behind them; and I believe that I love them chiefly because they were the confidants and friends of my early years, when, as an idle, questioning little girl, I would stand with my hands clasped in front of me and my forehead glued to the panes. My childhood spent at those windows was a picture of patient waiting.
Often they come back to me, the windows of that big house in a provincial town, on one side lighted up and beautiful with the beauty of the gay garden on which their lace-veiled casements opened, on the other a little dark and lone, as though listening to the voice and the dreary illusion of the church which they enframe....
3
The current of my life, diverted for a moment, returned to the present and, as always, it swelled with the gladness that rises to our hearts whenever chance conjures up a past whose chains we have shattered.
Happier and lighter at heart, I continued with Rose my visit to the galleries, the gardens and the hot-houses. The luncheon passed off well. Rose was quite at ease and suggested in that elegant setting a stage shepherdess, whose beauty transfigured the simplest clothes. A silk kerchief with a bright pattern of flowers is folded loosely round her neck; her chemisette and skirt are freshly washed and ironed, her hands well tended and her hair gracefully knotted. She introduces a striking and very charming note into the Empire dining-room. More than once, during lunch, I congratulated myself on not having yielded to the temptation to adorn her with the thousand absurd and cunning trifles that constitute our modern dress, for her little blunders of speech and movement found an excuse in her peasant's costume. Nevertheless, she answered intelligently the questions put to her on the treatment of cattle and the cultivation of the soil; and I had every reason to be proud of her. Her grave and reserved air charmed everybody. If she often grieves and disappoints me, is this not due more particularly to the absence of certain qualities which her beauty had wrongly led me to expect?
4
Before taking our seats in the trap, we go for a stroll through the village. As we pass in front of the baker's, a splendid young fellow, naked to the waist, comes out of the house and stands in the doorway. The flour with which his arms and his bronzed chest are sprinkled softens their modelling very prettily. His sturdy neck, on which his head, the head of a young Roman, looks almost small, his straight nose, long eyes and narrow temples form a combination rarely seen in our district. I was pointing him out to Rose, when he called to her familiarly and congratulated her on visiting at the great house. I saw no movement of foolish vanity in her; on the contrary, there was great simplicity in her story of the drive and the lunch. I was pleased at this and told her so, later, when we were back in the trap.
"The poor fellow is afraid of anything that might take me from him," she said. "He must be very unhappy just now, for he has been imploring me for the last two years to marry him."
I gave her a questioning look; and she went on:
"I did not want to. I would rather end my days in poverty than languish for ever behind a counter. Still, his love would perhaps have overcome my resistance, if I had not met you."
She leant over to kiss me. I returned her caress, though I felt a little troubled, as I always do when I receive a positive proof of the way in which I have changed the course of her life. At the same time, I realised that her nature contained a sense of pride, in which till then I had believed her entirely deficient. I remained thoughtful, but not astonished. We end by having opinions, on both men and things, which are so delicately jointed that they can constantly twist and turn without ever breaking.
Meanwhile, the horse was jogging peacefully along; we were going towards the sea, for I wanted to finish our holiday there. The willow-edged river followed our road; and we already saw the white sheen of the cliffs at the far end of the valley.
Soon we are passing through the little old town, where a few visitors are still staying for the bathing, though it is late in the season. At the inn, where we leave our horse and trap, they seem to think us a rather odd couple. I laugh at their amused faces, but Rose is embarrassed and hurries me away. All the dark and winding little streets lead to the sea. We divine its vastness and immensity beyond the dusky lanes that give glimpses of it. In front of one of those luminous chinks, under a rounded archway, an old woman stands motionless; she is clad like the women of the Pays de Caux: a black dress gathered in thick pleats around the waist, a brown apron and a smooth, white cap flattened down over her forehead. Poor shrivelled life, whose features seem to have been harshly carved out of wood! She is like an interlude in the perfect harmony of things. I utter my admiration aloud, so that my Roseline's eyes may share it; and we pass under the archway.
We are now on the beach; the wind lashes our skirts and batters my large hat, which flaps around my face. For a more intimate enjoyment of the sea, we run to it through the glorious, exhilarating air which takes away our breath. Over yonder, a few people are gathered round a hideous building all decked out with bunting. It is the casino. We hasten in the opposite direction. On the patch of sand which the sea uncovers at low tide, some boys disturb the solitude; but they are attractive in their fresh and nervous grace, with their slender legs, their energetic gestures and their as it were beardless voices. Their frolics stand out against the pale horizon like positive words in a blissful silence.
As we sat down on the shingle, the sun facing us was still blinding; and I reflected that, when my eyes could endure its brilliancy, it would be like our human happiness, very near its end....
The excitement of the lunch at the big house has not yet passed off; and Rose laughs and is amused at everything. Has she to-day at last, by the contact of those happy, care-free lives, foreseen an approaching deliverance from hers? Of all the things that we have seen together, how much has she really observed? Has the test to which I tried to submit her to-day proved vain? As a guide to her impressions, I traced the outline of my own before her eyes. I questioned her. Then it seemed to me that, in bending my thoughts upon Rose, I saw her as we see our image in the water, with vaguer hues and less decided lines. The girl merely, from time to time, added a word expressing her contentment, a thought of her own; and to me it was as though a little sunbeam had played straight on the water and the image through the leafy branches....
Does this mean that we see here a mere reflection, an utterly hollow soul, into which the leavings of other souls enter naturally? If it seems to me, at this moment, to borrow light and blood from me, is that a reason for thinking that it possesses neither sap nor sunshine? No, a thousand times no! True, I am the mother of her real life and she must, so to speak, pass through my soul before reaching hers. But, though we are of one mind, we are two distinct natures, two very different characters. It is a question not only of one creature attaching herself to another, but of an awakening and self-enquiring spirit, of a late and sudden development. Rose does not wish to copy me. Honestly and diligently, she spells and lisps to me something like a new language, with the aid of which she will soon be able in her turn to express herself and to feel. There are moments when she seems to understand me perfectly, even to my inmost thoughts; and I sometimes say to her:
"Where was she in the old days, the girl who understands me so well now? What did she do? Where did she live?…"
But where are all of us before the hour that reveals us to ourselves? And what manner of being would he be who had never undergone any influence or contact, who had never seen anything, felt anything? All impressions, whether of persons or things, come to us from without, but little by little and so imperceptibly that there is never a day in our lives that may be called the day of awakening. And yet it exists for all of us, shredded into decisive and fugitive minutes throughout our lives. Imagine for an instant that we could gather them, put them together and place them all in the hands of one being who, with one movement, would scatter them all around us. Would not the change in our character, in our thoughts, in our feelings be very remarkable? Would we not appear actually "possessed" by that person, who, after all, would have been but the instrument of a natural reaction of all our inert forces?
Filled with these thoughts, I said to Roseline:
"Dearest, once your life is kindled into feeling and expression, I can no longer distinguish it, for it is absorbed in mine.... I shall soon be going away; and all that I shall know of you will be your beauty, your unhappiness and the tenderness of your heart."
Her great, innocent eyes, lifted to mine, asked:
"Is not that enough?"
And, almost ashamed of my doubts, I at once added:
"You shall come where I am; whatever happens, be sure that I will not desert you."
With an abrupt gesture, she flung her arms around me; and, as we looked into each other's eyes, the same mist rose before them. Was she at last about to accompany me into the depths of my soul?
My heart burns with the fire of this new and longed-for emotion; and I feel two crystal tears, two tears of sheer delight, slowly follow the curve of my cheeks. Rose's own sensibilities have been blunted for a time by her rough life; she does not yet know how to weep for happiness; and, almost frightened, she convulsively presses her clasped hands against her breast, as though she feared lest it should burst with the throbbing of her joy.
I placed my lips to the long golden lashes, I gathered the dear, timorous tears that seemed still uncertain which path to take; and, behind the veil of my kisses, they gushed forth without fear or shame.
