Kitabı oku: «The Choice of Life», sayfa 8

2

My dear Rose!… As I go through the damp, dark station, I am already picturing her fright....

The train arrives, full of passengers, who hurry towards the exit in surging black masses. How shall I recognise her in this crowd, in the fog? I do not know what she will look like. A lady? A servant? A servant, I expect, because she will have had nothing ready. I hope so; and I look out eagerly for a black knitted hood on a head of golden hair. I am afraid lest she should not see me in her excitement and nervousness. The flood of passengers separates on either side of the ticket-collector; and I keep close to him, standing desperately on tip-toe....

The crowd has passed and I have not caught sight of her. There are still a few people coming from the far end of the train; it is so dark that I can hardly see.... There is a tall figure all over feathers in the distance, but it cannot be … And yet … yes, yes, it is she! Gracious goodness, what a sight!… I feel that it would be better to laugh, but I can't; and I am furious with myself for keeping a grave face. It is Rose! Rose dressed like a Sainte-Colombe lady!

She comes along, calmly, smiling and self-possessed; and I am now able to distinguish the painful hues of that appalling garb: the little red-velvet hat, studded with glass stones of every imaginable colour and trimmed with green feathers of the most aggressive shade and style; the serge skirt, too short in front; the black jacket, quite simple, it is true, but so badly cut that it murders the figure of the lovely girl! She has a large basket, carefully corded, on her arm. I really suffer tortures while she kisses me effusively and says, gaily:

"You are looking very well, dearest; but you're upset: what's the matter?" And, before I have time to answer, she adds in a triumphant tone, "I have a great surprise for you. Look in the basket, look!"

I need not trouble: at that moment there comes from the basket a pandemonium of terrified quacks and flapping wings.

"Yes," Rose continues, laughing merrily, "I stole the old woman's best two ducks and that's why I'm here.... But first I must tell you, I have been looking after them for a month, fattening them for your benefit; I would not go before they were just right. And what do you think? All of a sudden, she said, at dinner, that she was going to market to-day to sell them! It gave me an awful turn. As soon as I could leave the kitchen, I flew to the poultry-yard and I took the train to – and slept there. Luckily, I had already sent my trunk to an hotel."

I looked at Rose in stupefaction:

"Your trunk?"

She went on, with her eyes full of cunning:

"Oh, your baby was rather clever!… As the old woman never paid me during the whole of the four years, I worked out what a farm-servant gets a year and I decided that I was justified in opening an account in her name with one of our customers who keeps a big drapery-store. And so I now have a trunk and a complete outfit, as well as these pretty things which I have on. It was only fair, wasn't it?"

I turned away my head without a word. It was certainly quite fair; but I felt my cheeks flushing scarlet.

Rose gave a yawn which ended in a groan:

"I'm starving. Suppose we had some lunch; we could come back for the trunk afterwards."

I eagerly agreed and hurried her to the exit. From the top of the stairs, I saw that the fog had lifted at last; the gas-lamps had been put out and the street lay before us in a melancholy, wan light. The pavements were covered with mud and the houses showed yellow and smoke-grimed. Then I looked at Rose and my torture suddenly became more than I could bear. I placed her in front of me and feverishly unbuttoned the clumsy jacket, which was too tight at the neck, too narrow across the shoulders and gave her no waist at all. It fell away on either side; her bust showed full and uncompressed in a light-coloured blouse; and I breathed more freely.

"Now, take off your hat."

She slowly obeyed; and the gloomy station and the wretched, grimy day were suddenly illuminated. Oh, those lovely fair curls, which had been crushed and pushed away under the hideous hat with its too narrow brim, what bliss it was to see them again full of life and laughter! There they were in their graceful, natural clusters, some drooping over her forehead, some brushing her cheeks, others kissing her neck and ears! How pretty she was! I recognised my Rose at last in her soft, golden, shimmering, impalpable, incredible tresses. I passed my fingers lightly over that silk for love's loom, while my eyes feasted on its delicate colour. No, indeed, nothing was lost. Rose was beautiful, more beautiful than ever; and the glad words came crowding to my lips. I forgave her and was angry with myself for my coldness.

Poor child, she did not know! She had thought, no doubt, that, to go to Paris, she must absolutely have a hat; and how was she to choose one in a village-shop? And I told her over and over again how fond I was of her.

Rose, a little uncomfortable, with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes, stood awkwardly turning the unfortunate object in her hands. I looked round: a few people, intent on their business, were hurrying this way and that; there was no one on the staircase. Then, bursting with laughter, I dashed the hat to the floor and, with the tip of my shoe, precipitated it into space....

"Come over to the other side," I said to Rose. "Quick!… Suppose they brought it back!"

Good-natured as always and pleased at my amusement, she laughed because I laughed; and, while we ran to the other exit, the masterpiece of Sainte-Colombe millinery rolled and rolled and hopped from stair to stair.

3

The bustle of the restaurant and the noise of the street outside affected me tremendously. I was nervous and excited, with a wild desire to laugh at everything and nothing. I asked Rose all sorts of questions; and, whenever any one passed:

"Look!" I said. "Do look!… You're not looking!… There, that's a pretty dress, a regular Parisienne!… And, over there, by the door: don't you see that queer woman?"

The girl looked and then turned to me and, before I could prevent her, bent down and kissed my hand. I wanted to say:

"You mustn't do that, Rose!"

But it was the first charming impulse she had shown: how could I scold her? Oh, what a miserable thing our education is; and how often should I not find myself in some ridiculous dilemma!

Besides, I wished this first day of hers to be all happiness and expectation! And, while we gaily discussed plans for the future, I tried to guess what she must be feeling, I scrutinised her movements, I interpreted her words. But it appeared too soon yet; and it was I, alas, I who had the best part of her happiness! My eyes fell on her chapped and swollen hands. She noticed it and murmured, sadly:

"It's the beetroots. You understand, it's the hard season now."

"But the beetroot-days are past, my Roseline! The bad seasons are over, over for good, over for good and all!"

And I laid stress on every syllable; and, though I was whispering in her ear, I heard the words "for good and all" bursting from my lips like a triumphant shout.

She smiled and went on eating, doing her best to eat nicely, with her elbows close to her sides and her hands by her plate. Heaven above, did she understand what I said?

4

There are some people who seem detached from themselves. They do something; and the whole flood of their life does not surge into the action! They draw near to the object of their love; and their whole soul does not fill their eyes! Their soul is not on their lips, to breathe love; it is not at their finger-tips, to seize upon happiness; it is not there to watch life, to attract all that passes, eagerly, greedily and rapturously! Then where is it and what is it doing outside this dear, delightful earth?…

And yet woman, the creature who learns through love the admirable gift of life, knows better than man how to throw the whole of herself into fleeting moments. She lives nearer to the edge of her actions. Her mind, which rarely attaches itself to abstract things, seems to float around her in search of every sensation. Woman passes and has seen everything; she remembers and she quivers as though the caressing touch were still upon her. Her light and charming soul drinks eternity straight out of the present; and through a man's kisses she has known the art of absolute oblivion.

I am afraid that Rose is not much of a woman. Ah, were I in her place, I should be wild with excitement, out of my mind with joy, as though I were hearing my own name spoken for the first time!

5

After lunch, our shopping was a difficult matter. Rose, with her uncommon figure, could hardly find anything ready-made to suit her. I had to hunt about and to contrive with thought, for I would not wait a single day. I was careful to select the quietest and most usual things for her, so as to conceal her rusticity as far as possible. The neat dark-velvet toque could have its position altered on her head without much harm. The black veil would tone down the vividness of a complexion too long exposed to the open air; and its fine plain net would set off the admirable regularity of her features. Lastly, the deep leather belt to her tailor-made frock and the well-starched collar and cuffs would more or less hide the effort which it cost her to hold herself upright.

6

Two hours later, I introduced Rose to her new home. We climbed a dark, interminable staircase. I held a flickering candle in my hand; and, all out of breath, I explained to her the advantages of this boarding-house, a quiet place where her privacy would not be invaded and where she could make useful acquaintances if she wished....

At last, we reached the fifth floor. The daylight had faded. A sea of roofs was beneath us; and, through the panes above our heads, a great red sky cast lurid gleams over our faces and hands. The girl gave a start of pleasure as she entered her room. It was peaceful and white; but the flaming fire and sky at that moment turned it quite rosy, smiling and aglow. From the rather high window we could see nothing but space. I had placed a writing-table underneath it, with some books and a few flowers in a dainty crystal bowl. On the walls, several photographs of Italian masterpieces disguised the ugliness of the typical boarding-house paper. The chimney-mantel was bare and the furniture very simple.

We were both happy, both talking at once, Rose exclaiming:

"It's really too lovely, too beautiful!"

And I was saying:

"I should have liked to have a room for you arranged after my own taste, but I had to keep within bounds. So I brought a few little things, as you see, and bundled the ugly pictures, the tin clock and the plush flowers into the cupboards. But come and see the best part of it."

I threw open the window; and, leaning out, we beheld a great expanse beyond the enormous gutter that edged the roof. Unfortunately, the last glow of the sunset was swiftly dying away in the mist rising from the Seine. Opposite us, on the other bank, the Louvre became a heavy, shapeless mass; on the right, Notre-Dame was nothing but a shadowy spectre; here and there, in a chance, lingering gleam, we could just distinguish a steeple, a turret, a house standing out above the rest.

"We came in too late, Rose; we can see nothing; but how wonderful it all is! The sound of the quays and bridges hardly reaches us, the city might be veiled; at this height, its activity is like a dream and I seem to be living over again those quiet moments which we used to spend side by side at Sainte-Colombe. Are you happy?"

Smiling and with her eyes still fixed on the sky, she says:

"Yes."

"Perfectly?"

"Yes."

"You are not afraid of the future?"

"Not for my sake, but I am for yours."

I question her with my eyes; and she adds:

"I am afraid that I shall never be what you want."

I put my hand on her shoulder and said:

"You will be what you are to be; and that is the main thing. It seems to me at this moment that the greatest ideas are nothing, that the fairest dreams are childish compared with the simple reality of a human being's first taste of happiness. You were hidden; and I bring you to the light. You were a prisoner; and I set you free. I see nothing to fetter you; and that is all I ask. The life of a beautiful woman should be like a star whose every beam is the source of a possible joy.... I am glad, for this is the day of your first deliverance."

Rose murmured:

"What will the second be, then?"

I hesitated for a moment. Then I replied:

"It is difficult to say, dear; you will come to know gradually. I might answer, that of your mental or moral life; but I do not wish to lay down any rule. You are about to start on life's journey; I do not wish to trace your road with words. How much more precious your smallest actions are to me!"

I closed the window and went and sat in a chair by the fire-place. Rose, standing with uplifted arms in front of the glass, took off her hat and veil, then undid her mantle and her scarf and put everything carefully away in the wardrobe. My eyes followed her quiet movements and my heart rested on each of them. I spoke her name and she came and sat at my feet, against my knees, with her soft, fair head waiting for my caress.

It was now night; the fire lit our faces, but the room was dark wherever the flames did not cast their gleams. A chrysanthemum on a longer stalk than the others bent its petals into the light. Opposite the fire-place, within the shade of the bed-curtains, stood a white figure from the Venice Accademia, an allegory representing Truth. We could not see the mirror which she holds nor the details that surround her. The pedestal that raises her above mankind was also invisible; only the nude body of the woman invited and retained the light.

I called Rose's attention to her:

"Look, she is more interesting like that. In the doubt which the shadow casts around her, I see in her a more human and a truer truth."

After a moment's contemplation, Rose said, gravely:

"I will never hide one of my thoughts from you."

Her statement makes me smile; but why disappoint her? She did not yet know that those who are most sincere find it more difficult than the others to say what they think. Words, in their souls, are like climbing plants which, sown by chance in the middle of a roadway, waver and grope, send out tendrils here and there in despair and end by entangling themselves with one another. Whereas most people, just as we provide supports for flowers, bestow certainties and truths upon their words to which they cling, the sincere refuse to yield to any such illusions. They hesitate, stammer and contradict themselves without ceasing....

7

I drew her head down on my knees; and, softly, in little sentences interrupted by long pauses, we spoke of the new life that was opening before her. Soon she said nothing more. The fire went out, the room became dark and a clock outside struck six. I whispered:

"I am going, darling...."

She did not move and I saw that she was asleep. Then I gently released myself, put a pillow under her head and a wrap over her shoulders and was almost at the door, when suddenly I pictured her awakening. It would not do for her to open her eyes in the dark, to feel lost and alone in an unknown house. I lit the lamp, drew the blinds and made up the fire.

Roseline was sleeping soundly. Her breathing was hardly perceptible. At times, a deep sigh sent a quiver through her placid beauty, even as a keener breath of air ripples the surface of a pool.

What would she do if she should soon awake?… I looked around. Everything was peaceful and smiling; the flowers looked fresh and radiant in the light; the books on the table seemed to be waiting.... I searched among them for some page to charm her imagination and guide her first dreams along pleasant paths....

Chapter IV

1

Rose is sitting by the fire with her bare feet in slippers and a dressing-wrap flung loosely round her.

"Are you ill?"

"No," she says, smiling.

And her cool hands, pressing mine, and her gay kisses on my cheeks are no less reassuring than the actual reply.

"But why are you not dressed?"

"I don't know; time passed and I let them bring my lunch up to me."

I look round the darkened bedroom. Through the blind which I lowered yesterday, the light enters timidly, in a thousand broken little shafts; on the table, the books still lie as I placed them; on the chimney-shelf, the flowers, withered by the heat of the fire, are fading and drooping.

All these things which had been left untouched were evidence of a lethargy that hurt me. All the emotions which I had been picturing Rose as experiencing since the day before had not so much as brushed against her. One by one, they dropped back sadly upon my heart.

I rose, moved the flowers, opened the window; and the bright sunshine restored my confidence.

"Come, darling, dress and let's go out."

A thousand questions come crowding to my lips while I help her do her hair:

"Do they look after you well? Do you feel very lonely? What are the other boarders like? Are any of them interesting?"

Her answers, sensible and placid as usual, did not tell me much, except that the food was good, that she had slept well and that she was very comfortable.

I resolved to wait a few days before asking her any more.

2

Roseline throws off her wrap and begins dressing. The water trickles from the sponge which she squeezes over her shoulders, runs down, lingers here and there and disappears along the flowing lines of her body, which, in the broad daylight, looks as though it were flooded with diamonds. A cool fragrance mingles with the scent of the roses. The room is filled with beauty.

Chapter V

1

It snowed last night for the first time; then it froze; and the trees in the Tuileries are now showing the white lines of their branches against a dreary sky. The daylight seems all the duller by comparison with the glitter of the snow-covered ground.... I slowly follow the little black path made by the sweepers; I receive an impression of solitude; the streets are very still; it is as though sick people lay behind the closed windows; and the voices of the children playing as I pass seem to come to me through invisible curtains.

Rose is walking beside me. A keen wind plasters our dresses against us and raises them behind into dark, waving banners. The icy air whitens the fine pattern of our veils against our mouth.

"Where are we going?" asks Rose.

I hesitate a little before replying:

"We are going to the Louvre."

And to put her at her ease and also to guard against a probable disappointment, I hasten to add:

"It is a picture-book which we will look at together. You will turn first to what is bright and attractive to the eye; later on, you will perceive the shades in the colour, the lines in the form and the expression in the subject. And, if at first our admiration is given to what is poor and unworthy, what does it matter, so long as it is aroused at all?"

2

We had reached the foot of the stairs that lead to the Victory of Samothrace. After staring at it for a minute, Rose remarked, in a voice heavy with indifference:

"It's beautiful, very beautiful."

I felt that she had no other object than that of pleasing me; but her natural honesty soon prevailed when I asked her what she admired; and she answered, simply:

"I don't know."

It is in this way, by never utterly and altogether disappointing me, that she keeps her hold on me. She sees and feels nothing of what we call beautiful; on the other hand, she is cheerfully oblivious to the necessity of assuming what she does not feel; she has no idea of posing either to herself or to others; and the strange coldness of her soul makes my affection all the warmer. By not trying to appear what she is not, she constantly keeps alive in me the illusion of what she may be or of what she will become.

We walked quickly through a number of rooms and sat down in a quiet corner. I was already under the spell of that deep, reposeful life which emanates from some of the Primitives; but Roseline, who had stopped on the way in order to have a better view of various ugly things, was talking and laughing loudly.

This annoyed me; and I was on the point of telling her so. However, I restrained myself: I should have felt ashamed to be angry with her. Was she not gay and lively, as I had wished to see her? What right have we to let ourselves be swayed by the vagaries of our instinct and expect our companion to feel the same obligation of silence or speech at any given moment? Our emotion should strike chords so strong and true that no minor dissonances of varying temperaments can make them ring false.

Rose chattered away for a long time, speaking all in the same breath of her convent days, of her terrible godmother, of the scandal which her sudden disappearance must be creating in the village. Then she stopped; and I felt her eyes resting vacantly by turns upon myself and upon the square in the ceiling which at that moment framed a patch of grey sky studded with whirling snow-flakes. At last, she raised her veil with an indolent movement, put her hand on my shoulder and, with a long yawn that revealed all the pearly freshness of her mouth, asked:

"But what do you see in it?"

I slipped my arm under hers and led her away through the deserted rooms. I ought to have spoken. But how empty are our most pregnant words, when we try to express one iota of our admiration!

"Why should you mind what I see, my Roseline? It is you and you alone who can discover what you like and what interests you."

We were passing in front of Titian's Laura de' Dianti. I was struck with the relationship that existed between her and my companion. Although Rose was different in colouring, fairer, with lighter eyes, she had the same purity of feature, the thin, straight nose, the very small mouth and, above all, the same vague look that lends itself to the most diverse interpretations. She squeezed my arm:

"Speak to me, speak to me!"

I glanced at her. Must it always be so, would she never feel anything except when my own emotion found utterance? Impressions reached her soul only after filtering through mine. Love, I thought to myself, love alone would perhaps one day set free all the raptures now jealously hidden in those too-chaste nerves. And, in spite of myself, I exclaimed:

"Don't you think that admiration in a woman is only another form of love?"

"But when she is no longer young?" Rose retorted, with a laugh.

"When she is no longer young, nature doubtless suggests other means of enthusiasm. Her heart is no longer a bond of union between her and things. Then her calmer eyes are perhaps able to look at beauty itself, without having all the joys of a woman's love-filled life to kindle their fires."

The Rubens pictures were around us, in all their brilliancy and in all their glory, uttering cries of passion and luxury with voices of flesh and blood and youth. They were another proof of what I had just said; and I confessed to my companion:

"It is not so long ago, Rose, that I used to pass unmoved through this dazzling room where the Rubens flourish in their luscious beauty. I used to look at them: now, I see them; I used to brush by them: now, I grasp them. I enter into all this riot of happiness around us, which is a thousand miles away from you, Rose; and it adds to my own joy in life...."

"But then what has come to you?" exclaimed the girl.

I could not help smiling, for, when I tried to explain myself, it seemed to me that, in the depths of my heart, I was playing with words:

"All that hurt me yesterday has become a source of admiration to me to-day. Excess appears riches and plenty, tumult becomes orderly; and I seem to see in these works the glorification of all that we are bound to hold supreme in life: health, beauty, strength, love. Is not the exaggerated splendour of these pictures a triumphant challenge, the expression of a magnificent principle?"

We stood silent for a moment; then I added:

"We never actually realise all that we have in our minds; but one would think that this man's life and work reached the farthest bounds of his visions. Or else we are unable even to catch a glimpse of what he saw."

And, musing upon that mystery, our frail feminine imagination seemed to us like a landscape fading into the mist: when the day is clear, we can distinguish the chain of blue mountains whose summits touch the sky, but our imagination, if it would not be lost in the haze, must keep to the foreground, in the avenues laid out by man.

I resumed:

"We are very far, Rose, from the parsimony of the Primitives, each of whose works contains almost a human life. In their room and in this, you will find all the contradictory and complementary instruction which one would like to give you. Over there, sobriety, patience, assiduous effort, absolute conscientiousness in the smallest detail; life bowed in all humility, but yet steadfast and fervent; imagination and beauty that do not strive to shine: if you want a proof, look at the great number that remained anonymous! Here, on the contrary, prodigality, exultant love, blood coursing triumphantly through conquered veins. Rubens is the apostle of wholehearted happiness. The biggest things seem easy when you are in his presence. If ever you feel tired and ready to be discouraged, you should come and look at him. Oh, I wonder, yes, I wonder to what, to whom I owe this new enthusiasm? What have I seen, what have I learnt? Through what chance acquaintance, what casual word, what gesture or action, doubtless far removed from Rubens and his works, did I suddenly enter into that wonderful kingdom?"

And, in fact, that is how it had happened. An unknown treasure falls into the cup of emotion; and the level is raised. Oh, to feel the long-slumbering sensation rise within one's self; to see that which was obscure to us yesterday become crystal-clear to-day; to love more passionately, to understand a little better, to know a little more: that is, to us women, the real progress, the only progress which we must desire and seek after! But how can I hope that Rose will progress if she never feels?