The Abbe de Solis and his nephew, and the two Pierquins, doctor and lawyer, were the only persons who now visited Madame Claes; for whom the winter of 1814-1815 was a long and dreary5 death-scene. Her husband rarely came to see her. It is true that after dinner he remained some hours in the parlor6, near her bed; but as she no longer had the strength to keep up a conversation, he merely said a few words, invariably the same, sat down, spoke8 no more, and a dreary silence settled down upon the room. The monotony of this existence was broken only on the days when the Abbe de Solis and his nephew passed the evening with Madame Claes.
While the abbe played backgammon with Balthazar, Marguerite talked with Emmanuel by the bedside of her mother, who smiled at their innocent joy, not allowing them to see how painful and yet how soothing9 to her wounded spirit were the fresh breezes of their virgin10 love, murmuring in fitful words from heart to heart. The inflection of their voices, to them so full of charm, to her was heart-breaking; a glance of mutual12 understanding surprised between the two threw her, half-dead as she was, back to the young and happy past which gave such bitterness to the present. Emmanuel and Marguerite with intuitive delicacy13 of feeling repressed the sweet half-childish play of love, lest it should hurt the saddened woman whose wounds they instinctively14 divined.
No one has yet remarked that feelings have an existence of their own, a nature which is developed by the circumstances that environ them, and in which they are born; they bear a likeness15 to the places of their growth, and keep the imprint16 of the ideas that influenced their development. There are passions ardently18 conceived which remain ardent17, like that of Madame Claes for her husband: there are sentiments on which all life has smiled; these retain their spring-time gaiety, their harvest-time of joy, seasons that never fail of laughter or of fetes; but there are other loves, framed in melancholy19, circled by distress20, whose pleasures are painful, costly21, burdened by fears, poisoned by remorse22, or blackened by despair. The love in the heart of Marguerite and Emmanuel, as yet unknown to them for love, the sentiment that budded into life beneath the gloomy arches of the picture-gallery, beside the stern old abbe, in a still and silent moment, that love so grave and so discreet23, yet rich in tender depths, in secret delights that were luscious24 to the taste as stolen grapes snatched from a corner of the vineyard, wore in coming years the sombre browns and grays that surrounded the hour of its birth.
Fearing to give expression to their feelings beside that bed of pain, they unconsciously increased their happiness by a concentration which deepened its imprint on their hearts. The devotion of the daughter, shared by Emmanuel, happy in thus uniting himself with Marguerite and becoming by anticipation25 the son of her mother, was their medium of communication. Melancholy thanks from the lips of the young girl supplanted26 the honeyed language of lovers; the sighing of their hearts, surcharged with joy at some interchange of looks, was scarcely distinguishable from the sighs wrung27 from them by the mother’s sufferings. Their happy little moments of indirect avowal28, of unuttered promises, of smothered29 effusion, were like the allegories of Raphael painted on a black ground. Each felt a certainty that neither avowed30; they knew the sun was shining over them, but they could not know what wind might chase away the clouds that gathered about their heads. They doubted the future; fearing that pain would ever follow them, they stayed timidly among the shadows of the twilight31, not daring to say to each other, “Shall we end our days together?”
The tenderness which Madame Claes now testified for her children nobly concealed32 much that she endeavored to hide from herself. Her children caused her neither fear nor passionate33 emotion: they were her comforters, but they were not her life: she lived by them; she died through Balthazar. However painful her husband’s presence might be to her, lost as he was for hours together in depths of thought from which he looked at her without seeing her, it was only during those cruel moments that she forgot her griefs. His indifference34 to the dying woman would have seemed criminal to a stranger, but Madame Claes and her daughters were accustomed to it; they knew his heart and they forgave him. If, during the daytime, Josephine was seized by some sudden illness, if she were worse and seemed near dying, Claes was the only person in the house or in the town who remained ignorant of it. Lemulquinier knew it, but neither the daughters, bound to silence by their mother, nor Josephine herself let Balthazar know the danger of the being he had once so passionately35 loved.
When his heavy step sounded in the gallery as he came to dinner, Madame Claes was happy — she was about to see him! and she gathered up her strength for that happiness. As he entered, the pallid36 face blushed brightly and recovered for an instant the semblance37 of health. Balthazar came to her bedside, took her hand, saw the misleading color on her cheek, and to him she seemed well. When he asked, “My dear wife, how are you to-day?” she answered, “Better, dear friend,” and made him think she would be up and recovered on the morrow. His preoccupation was so great that he accepted this reply, and believed the illness of which his wife was dying a mere7 indisposition. Dying to the eyes of the world, in his alone she was living.
A complete separation between husband and wife was the result of this year. Claes slept in a distant chamber38, got up early in the morning, and shut himself into his laboratory or his study. Seeing his wife only in presence of his daughters or of the two or three friends who came to visit them, he lost the habit of communicating with her. These two beings, formerly39 accustomed to think as one, no longer, unless at rare intervals40, enjoyed those moments of communion, of passionate unreserve which feed the life of the heart; and finally there came a time when even these rare pleasures ceased. Physical suffering was now a boon41 to the poor woman, helping42 her to endure the void of separation, which might have killed her had she been truly living. Her bodily pain became so great that there were times when she was joyful43 in the thought that he whom she loved was not a witness of it. She lay watching Balthazar in the evening hours, and knowing him happy in his own way, she lived in the happiness she had procured44 for him — a shadowy joy, and yet it satisfied her. She no longer asked herself if she were loved, she forced herself to believe it; and she glided45 over that icy surface, not daring to rest her weight upon it lest it should break and drown her soul in a gulf46 of awful nothingness.
No events stirred the calm of this existence; the malady47 that was slowly consuming Madame Claes added to the household stillness, and in this condition of passive gloom the House of Claes reached the first weeks of the year 1816. Pierquin, the lawyer, was destined48, at the close of February, to strike the death-blow of the fragile woman who, in the words of the Abbe de Solis, was well-nigh without sin.
“Madame,” said Pierquin, seizing a moment when her daughters could not hear the conversation, “Monsieur Claes has directed me to borrow three hundred thousand francs on his property. You must do something to protect the future of your children.”
Madame Claes clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling; then she thanked the notary49 with a sad smile and a kindly50 motion of her head which affected51 him.
His words were the stab that killed her. During that day she had yielded herself up to sad reflections which swelled52 her heart; she was like the wayfarer53 walking beside a precipice54 who loses his balance and a mere pebble55 rolls him to the depth of the abyss he had so long and so courageously56 skirted. When the notary left her, Madame Claes told Marguerite to bring writing materials; then she gathered up her remaining strength to write her last wishes. Several times she paused and looked at her daughter. The hour of confidence had come.
Marguerite’s management of the household since her mother’s illness had amply fulfilled the dying woman’s hopes that Madame Claes was able to look upon the future of the family without absolute despair, confident that she herself would live again in this strong and loving angel. Both women felt, no doubt, that sad and mutual confidences must now be made between them; the daughter looked at the mother, the mother at the daughter, tears flowing from their eyes. Several times, as Madame Claes rested from her writing, Marguerite said: “Mother?” then she dropped as if choking; but the mother, occupied with her last thoughts, did not ask the meaning of the interrogation. At last, Madame Claes wished to seal the letter; Marguerite held the taper57, turning aside her head that she might not see the superscription.
“You can read it, my child,” said the mother, in a heart-rending voice.
The young girl read the words, “To my daughter Marguerite.”
“We will talk to each other after I have rested awhile,” said Madame Claes, putting the letter under her pillow.
Then she fell back as if exhausted58 by the effort, and slept for several hours. When she woke, her two daughters and her two sons were kneeling by her bed and praying. It was Thursday. Gabriel and Jean had been brought from school by Emmanuel de Solis, who for the last six months was professor of history and philosophy.
“Dear children, we must part!” she cried. “You have never forsaken60 me, never! and he who —”
She stopped.
“Monsieur Emmanuel,” said Marguerite, seeing the pallor on her mother’s face, “go to my father, and tell him mamma is worse.”
Young de Solis went to the door of the laboratory and persuaded Lemulquinier to make Balthazar come and speak to him. On hearing of the urgent request of the young man, Claes answered, “I will come.”
“Emmanuel,” said Madame Claes when he returned to her, “take my sons away, and bring your uncle here. It is time to give me the last sacraments, and I wish to receive them from his hand.”
When she was alone with her daughters she made a sign to Marguerite, who understood her and sent Felicie away.
“I have something to say to you myself, dear mamma,” said Marguerite who, not believing her mother so ill as she really was, increased the wound Pierquin had given. “I have had no money for the household expenses during the last ten days; I owe six months’ wages to the servants. Twice I have tried to ask my father for money, but did not dare to do so. You don’t know, perhaps, that all the pictures in the gallery have been sold, and all the wines in the cellar?”
“He never told me!” exclaimed Madame Claes. “My God! thou callest me to thyself in time! My poor children! what will become of them?”
She made a fervent61 prayer, which brought the fires of repentance62 to her eyes.
“Marguerite,” she resumed, drawing the letter from her pillow, “here is a paper which you must not open or read until a time, after my death, when some great disaster has overtaken you; when, in short, you are without the means of living. My dear Marguerite, love your father, but take care of your brothers and your sister. In a few days, in a few hours perhaps, you will be the head of this household. Be economical. Should you find yourself opposed to the wishes of your father — and it may so happen, because he has spent vast sums in searching for a secret whose discovery is to bring glory and wealth to his family, and he will no doubt need money, perhaps he may demand it of you — should that time come, treat him with the tenderness of a daughter, strive to reconcile the interests of which you will be the sole protector with the duty which you owe to a father, to a great man who sacrificed his happiness and his life to the glory of his family; he can only do wrong in act, his intentions are noble, his heart is full of love; you will see him once more kind and affectionate — YOU! Marguerite, it is my duty to say these words to you on the borders of the grave. If you wish to soften63 the anguish64 of my death, promise me, my child, to take my place beside your father; to cause him no grief; never to reproach him; never to condemn65 him. Be a gentle, considerate guardian66 of the home until — his work accomplished67 — he is again the master of his family.”
“I understand you, dear mother,” said Marguerite, kissing the swollen68 eyelids69 of the dying woman. “I will do as you wish.”
“Do not marry, my darling, until Gabriel can succeed you in the management of the property and the household. If you married, your husband might not share your feelings, he might bring trouble into the family and disturb your father’s life.”
Marguerite looked at her mother and said, “Have you nothing else to say to me about my marriage?”
“Can you hesitate, my child?” cried the dying woman in alarm.
“No,” the daughter answered; “I promise to obey you.”
“Poor girl! I did not sacrifice myself for you,” said the mother, shedding hot tears. “Yet I ask you to sacrifice yourself for all. Happiness makes us selfish. Be strong; preserve your own good sense to guard others who as yet have none. Act so that your brothers and your sister may not reproach my memory. Love your father, and do not oppose him — too much.”
She laid her head on her pillow and said no more; her strength was gone; the inward struggle between the Wife and the Mother had been too violent.
A few moments later the clergy70 came, preceded by the Abbe de Solis, and the parlor was filled by the children and the household. When the ceremony was about to begin, Madame Claes, awakened71 by her confessor, looked about her and not seeing Balthazar said quickly —
“Where is my husband?”
Those words — summing up, as it were, her life and her death — were uttered in such lamentable72 tones that all present shuddered73. Martha, in spite of her great age, darted74 out of the room, ran up the staircase and through the gallery, and knocked loudly on the door of the laboratory.
“Monsieur, madame is dying; they are waiting for you, to administer the last sacraments,” she cried with the violence of indignation.
“I am coming,” answered Balthazar.
Lemulquinier came down a moment later, and said his master was following him. Madame Claes’s eyes never left the parlor door, but her husband did not appear until the ceremony was over. When at last he entered, Josephine colored and a few tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Were you trying to decompose75 nitrogen?” she said to him with an angelic tenderness which made the spectators quiver.
“I have done it!” he cried joyfully76; “Nitrogen contains oxygen and a substance of the nature of imponderable matter, which is apparently78 the principle of —”
A murmur11 of horror interrupted his words and brought him to his senses.
“What did they tell me?” he demanded. “Are you worse? What is the matter?”
“This is the matter, monsieur,” whispered the Abbe de Solis, indignant at his conduct; “your wife is dying, and you have killed her.”
Without waiting for an answer the abbe took the arm of his nephew and went out followed by the family, who accompanied him to the court-yard. Balthazar stood as if thunderstruck; he looked at his wife, and a few tears dropped from his eyes.
“You are dying, and I have killed you!” he said. “What does he mean?”
“My husband,” she answered, “I only lived in your love, and you have taken my life away from me; but you knew not what you did.”
“Leave us,” said Claes to his children, who now re-entered the room. “Have I for one moment ceased to love you?” he went on, sitting down beside his wife, and taking her hands and kissing them.
“My friend, I do not blame you. You made me happy — too happy, for I have not been able to bear the contrast between our early married life, so full of joy, and these last days, so desolate79, so empty, when you are not yourself. The life of the heart, like the life of the body, has its functions. For six years you have been dead to love, to the family, to all that was once our happiness. I will not speak of our early married days; such joys must cease in the after-time of life, but they ripen80 into fruits which feed the soul — confidence unlimited81, the tender habits of affection: you have torn those treasures from me! I go in time: we live together no longer; you hide your thoughts and actions from me. How is it that you fear me? Have I ever given you one word, one look, one gesture of reproach? And yet, you have sold your last pictures, you have sold even the wine in your cellar, you are borrowing money on your property, and have said no word to me. Ah! I go from life weary of life. If you are doing wrong, if you delude82 yourself in following the unattainable, have I not shown you that my love could share your faults, could walk beside you and be happy, though you led me in the paths of crime? You loved me too well — that was my glory; it is now my death. Balthazar, my illness has lasted long; it began on the day when here, in this place where I am about to die, you showed me that Science was more to you than Family. And now the end has come; your wife is dying, and your fortune lost. Fortune and wife were yours — you could do what you willed with your own; but on the day of my death my property goes to my children, and you cannot touch it; what will then become of you? I am telling you the truth; I owe it to you. Dying eyes see far; when I am gone will anything outweigh83 that cursed passion which is now your life? If you have sacrificed your wife, your children will count but little in the scale; for I must be just and own you loved me above all. Two millions and six years of toil84 you have cast into the gulf — and what have you found?”
At these words Claes grasped his whitened head in his hands and hid his face.
“Humiliation for yourself, misery85 for your children,” continued the dying woman. “You are called in derision ‘Claes the alchemist’; soon it will be ‘Claes the madman.’ For myself, I believe in you. I know you great and wise; I know your genius: but to the vulgar eye genius is mania86. Fame is a sun that lights the dead; living, you will be unhappy with the unhappiness of great minds, and your children will be ruined. I go before I see your fame, which might have brought me consolation87 for my lost happiness. Oh, Balthazar! make my death less bitter to me, let me be certain that my children will not want for bread — Ah, nothing, nothing, not even you, can calm my fears.”
“I swear,” said Claes, “to —”
“No, do not swear, that you may not fail of your oath,” she said, interrupting him. “You owed us your protection; we have been without it seven years. Science is your life. A great man should have neither wife nor children; he should tread alone the path of sacrifice. His virtues88 are not the virtues of common men; he belongs to the universe, he cannot belong to wife or family; he sucks up the moisture of the earth about him, like a majestic89 tree — and I, poor plant, I could not rise to the height of your life, I die at its feet. I have waited for this last day to tell you these dreadful thoughts: they came to me in the lightnings of desolation and anguish. Oh, spare my children! let these words echo in your heart. I cry them to you with my last breath. The wife is dead, dead; you have stripped her slowly, gradually, of her feelings, of her joys. Alas90! without that cruel care could I have lived so long? But those poor children did not forsake59 me! they have grown beside my anguish, the mother still survives. Spare them! Spare my children!”
“Lemulquinier!” cried Claes in a voice of thunder.
The old man appeared.
“Go up and destroy all — instruments, apparatus91, everything! Be careful, but destroy all. I renounce92 Science,” he said to his wife.
“Too late,” she answered, looking at Lemulquinier. “Marguerite!” she cried, feeling herself about to die.
Marguerite came through the doorway93 and uttered a piercing cry as she saw her mother’s eyes now glazing94.
“MARGUERITE!” repeated the dying woman.
The exclamation95 contained so powerful an appeal to her daughter, she invested that appeal with such authority, that the cry was like a dying bequest96. The terrified family ran to her side and saw her die; the vital forces were exhausted in that last conversation with her husband.
Balthazar and Marguerite stood motionless, she at the head, he at the foot of the bed, unable to believe in the death of the woman whose virtues and exhaustless tenderness were known fully77 to them alone. Father and daughter exchanged looks freighted with meaning: the daughter judged the father, and already the father trembled, seeing in his daughter an instrument of vengeance97. Though memories of the love with which his Pepita had filled his life crowded upon his mind, and gave to her dying words a sacred authority whose voice his soul must ever hear, yet Balthazar knew himself helpless in the grasp of his attendant genius; he heard the terrible mutterings of his passion, denying him the strength to carry his repentance into action: he feared himself.
When the grave had closed upon Madame Claes, one thought filled the minds of all — the house had had a soul, and that soul was now departed. The grief of the family was so intense that the parlor, where the noble woman still seemed to linger, was closed; no one had the courage to enter it.
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1
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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7
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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30
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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41
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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42
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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43
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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44
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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45
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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46
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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58
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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decompose
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| vi.分解；vt.（使）腐败，（使）腐烂 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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92
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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96
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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