In 1864, my father died; in 1866, my mother married M. Jacques Termonde. The exceptional period of the interval3 was the only one during which my mother bestowed4 constant attention upon me. Before the fatal date my father was the only person who had cared for me; at a later period there was no one at all to do so. Our apartment in the Rue5 Tronchet became unbearable6 to us; there we could not escape from the remembrance of the terrible event, and we removed to a small hotel in the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg. The house had belonged to a painter, and stood in a small garden which seemed larger than it was because other gardens adjoined it, and over- shadowed its boundary wall and greenery. The center of the house was a kind of hall, in the English style, which the former occupant had used as a studio; my mother made this her ordinary sitting- room.
Now, at this distance of time, I can understand my mother's character, and recognize that there was something about her, which, although it was very harmless, led her to exaggerate the outward expression of all her feelings. While she occupied herself in studying the attitudes by which her emotions were to be fittingly expressed, the sentiments themselves were fading away. For instance, she chose to condemn8 herself to voluntary exile and seclusion9 after her bereavement10, receiving only a very few friends, of whom M. Jacques Termonde was one; but she very soon began to adorn11 herself and everything around her, with the fine and subtle tastefulness that was innate12 in her.
My mother was a very lovely woman; her beauty was of a refined and pensive13 order, her figure was tall and slender, her dark hair was very luxuriant and of remarkable14 length. No doubt it was to the Greek blood in her veins15 that she owed the classical lines of her profile, her full-lidded soft eyes, and the willowy grace of her form. Her maternal16 grandfather was a Greek merchant, of the name of Votronto, who had come from the Levant to Marcielles when the Ionian Islands were annexed17 to France.
Many times in after years I have recalled the strange contrast between her rare and refined beauty and my father's stolid18 sturdy form, and my own, and wondered whether the origin of many irreparable mistakes might not be traced to that contrast. But I did not reason in those days; I was under the spell of the fair being who called me, "My son." I used to look at her with a kind of idolatry when she was seated at her piano in that elegant sanctum of hers, which she had hung with draped foreign stuffs, and decorated with tall green plants and various curious things, after a fashion entirely19 her own. For her sake, and in spite of my natural awkwardness and untidiness, I strove to keep myself very clean and neat in the more and more elaborate costumes which she made me wear, and also more and more did the terrible image of the murdered man fade away from that home, which, nevertheless, was provided and adorned20 by the fortune which he had earned for us and bequeathed to us. All the ways of modern life are so opposed to the tragic21 in events, so far removed from the savage22 realities of passion and bloodshed, that when such things intrude23 upon the decorous life of a family, they are put out of sight with all speed, and soon come to be looked upon as a bad dream, impossible to doubt, but difficult to realize.
Yes, our life had almost resumed its normal course when my mother's second marriage was announced to me. This time I accurately24 remember not only the period, but also the day and hour.
I was spending my holidays with my spinster aunt, my father's sister, who lived at Compiegne, in a house situated25 at the far end of the town. She had three servants, one of whom was my dear old Julie, who had left us because my mother could not get on with her. My aunt Louise was a little woman of fifty, with countrified looks and manners; she had hardly ever consented to stay two whole days in Paris during my father's lifetime. Her almost invariable attire26 was a black silk gown made at home, with just a line of white at the neck and wrists, and she always wore a very long gold chain of ancient date, which was passed under the bodice of her gown and came out at the belt. To this chain her watch and a bunch of seals and charms were attached. Her cap, plainly trimmed with ribbon, was black like her dress, and the smooth bands of her hair, which was turning gray, framed a thoughtful brow and eyes so kind that she was pleasant to behold27, although her nose was large and her mouth and chin were heavy. She had brought up my father in this same little town of Compiegne, and had given him, out of her fortune, all that she could spare from the simple needs of her frugal28 life, when he wished to marry Mdlle. de Slane, in order to induce my mother's family to listen to his suit.
The contrast between the portrait in my little album of my aunt and her face as I saw it now, told plainly enough how much she had suffered during the past two years. Her hair had become more white, the lines which run from the nostrils29 to the corners of the mouth were deepened, her eyelids30 had a withered31 look. And yet she had never been demonstrative in her grief. I was an observant little boy, and the difference between my mother's character and that of my aunt was precisely32 indicated to my mind by the difference in their respective sorrow. At that time it was hard for me to understand my aunt's reserve, while I could not suspect her of want of feeling. Now it is to the other sort of nature that I am unjust. My mother also had a tender heart, so tender that she did not feel able to reveal her purpose to me, and it was my Aunt Louise who undertook to do so. She had not consented to be present at the marriage, and M. Termonde, as I afterwards learned, preferred that I should not attend on the occasion, in order, no doubt, to spare the feelings of her who was to become his wife.
In spite of all her self-control, Aunt Louise had tears in her brown eyes when she led me to the far end of the garden, where my father had played when he was a child like myself. The golden tints33 of September had begun to touch the foliage34 of the trees. A vine spread its tendrils over the arbor35 in which we seated ourselves, and wasps36 were busy among the ripening37 grapes. My aunt took both my hands in hers, and began:
"Andre, I have to tell you a great piece of news."
I looked at her apprehensively38. The shock of the dreadful event in our lives had left its mark upon my nervous system, and at the slightest surprise my heart would beat until I nearly fainted. She saw my agitation40 and said simply:
"Your mother is about to marry."
It was strange this sentence did not immediately produce the impression which my look at her had led my aunt to expect. I had thought from the tone of her voice, that she was going to tell me of my mother's illness or death. My sensitive imagination readily conjured41 up such fears. I asked calmly:
"Whom?"
"You do not guess?"
"M. Termonde?" I cried.
Even now I cannot define the reasons which sent this name to my lips so suddenly, without a moment's thought. No doubt M. Termonde had been a good deal at our house since my father's death; but had he not visited us as often, if not more frequently, before my mother's widowhood? Had he not managed every detail of our affairs for us with care and fidelity42, which even then I could recognize as very rare? Why should the news of his marriage with my mother seem to me on the instant to be much worse news than if she had married no matter whom? Exactly the opposite effect ought to have been produced, surely? I had known this man for a long time; he had been very kind to me formerly43—they said he spoiled me—and he was very kind to me still. My best toys were presents from him, and my prettiest books; a wonderful wooden horse which moved by clockwork, given to me when I was seven—how much my poor father was amused when I told him this horse was "a double thoroughbred"—"Don Quixote," with Dore's illustrations, this very year; in fact some new gift constantly, and yet I was never easy and light-hearted in his presence as I had formerly been. When had this restraint begun? I could not have told that, but I thought he came too often between my mother and me. I was jealous of him, I may as well confess it, with that unconscious jealousy44 which children feel, and which made me lavish45 kisses on my mother when he was by, in order to show him that she was my mother, and nothing at all to him. Had he discovered my feelings? Had they been his own also? However that might be, I now never failed to discern antipathy46 similar to my own in his looks, notwithstanding his flattering voice and his over-polite ways. At my then age, instinct is never deceived about such impressions.
Without any other cause than the weakness of nerves to which I had been subject ever since my father's death, I burst into tears. The same thing happened to me sometimes when I was shut up in my room alone, with the door bolted, suffering from a dread39 which I could not conquer, like that of a coming danger. I would forecast the worst accidents that could happen; for example, that my mother would be murdered, like my father, and then myself, and I peered under all the articles of furniture in the room. It had occurred to me, when out walking with a servant, to imagine that the harmless man might be an accomplice48 of the mysterious criminal, and have it in charge to take me to him, or at all events to have it in charge to take place. My too highly-wrought imagination overmastered me. I fancied myself, however, escaping from the deadly device, and in order to hide myself more effectually, making for Compiegne. Should I have enough money? Then I reflected that it might be possible to sell my watch to an old watchmaker whom I used to see, when on my way to the Lycee, at work behind the window of his little shop, with a glass fixed49 in his right eye. That was a sad faculty50 of foresight51 which poisoned so many of the harmless hours of my childhood! It was the same faculty that now made me break out into choking sobs52 when my aunt asked me what I had in my mind against M. Termonde. I related the worst of my grievances53 to her then, leaning my head on her shoulder, and in this one all the others were summed up. It dated from two months before. I had come back from school in a merry mood, contrary to my habit. My teacher had dismissed me with praise of my compositions and congratulations on my prizes. What good news this was to take home and how tenderly my mother would kiss me when she heard it! I put away my books, washed my hands carefully, and flew to the salon55 where my mother was. I entered the room without knocking at the door, and in such haste that as I sprang towards her to throw myself into her arms, she gave a little cry. She was standing47 beside the mantlepiece, her face was very pale, and near her stood M. Termonde. He seized me by the arm and held me back from her.
"Oh, how you frightened me!" said my mother.
"Is that the way to come into a salon?" said M. Termonde.
His voice had turned rough like his gesture. He had grasped my arm so tightly that where his fingers had fastened on it I found black marks that night when I undressed myself. But it was neither his insolent56 words nor the pain of his grasp which made me stand there stupidly, with a swelling57 heart. No, it was hearing my mother say to him:
"Don't scold Andre too much; he is so young. He will improve."
Then she drew me towards her, and rolled my curls round her fingers; but in her words, in their tone, in her glance, in her faint smile, I detected a singular timidity, almost a supplication58, directed to the man before her, who frowned as he pulled his moustache with his restless fingers, as if in impatience59 of my presence. By what right did he, stranger, speak in the tone of a master in our house? Why had he laid his hand on me ever so lightly? Yes, by what right? Was I his son or his ward7? Why did not my mother defend me against him? Even if I were in fault it was towards her only. A fit of rage seized upon me; I burned with longing60 to spring upon M. Termonde like a beast, to tear his face and bite him. I darted61 a look of fury at him and at my mother, and left the room without speaking. I was of a sullen62 temper, and I think this defect was due to my excessive and almost morbid63 sensitiveness. All my feelings were exaggerated, so that the least thing angered me, and it was misery64 to me to recover myself. Even my father had found it very difficult to get the better of those fits of wounded feeling, during which I strove against my own relentings with a cold and concentrated anger which both relieved and tortured me. I was well aware of this moral infirmity, and as I was not a bad child in reality, I was ashamed of it. Therefore, my humiliation65 was complete when, as I went out of the room, M. Termonde said:
"Now for a week's sulk! His temper is really insufferable."
His remark had one advantage, for I made it a point of honor to give the lie to it, and did not sulk; but the scene had hurt me too deeply for me to forget it, and now my resentment66 was fully54 revived, and grew stronger and stronger while I was telling the story to my aunt. Alas67! my almost unconscious second-sight, that of a too sensitive child, was not in error. That puerile68 but painful scene symbolized69 the whole history of my youth, my invincible70 antipathy to the man who was about to take my father's place, and the blind partiality in his favor of her who ought to have defended me from the first and always.
"Calm yourself," said the kind woman. "You are just like your poor father, making the worst of all your little troubles. And now you must try to be nice to him on account of your mother, and not to give way to this violent feeling, which frightens me. Do not make an enemy of him," she added.
It was quite natural that she should speak to me in this way, and yet her earnestness appeared strange to me from that moment out. I do not know why she also seemed surprised at my answer to her question, "What do you know?" She wanted to quiet me, and she increased the apprehension72 with which I regarded the usurper—so I called him ever afterwards—by the slight faltering73 of her voice when she spoke74 to him.
"You will have to write to them this evening," said she at length.
Write to them! The words sickened me. They were united; never, nevermore should I be able to think of the one without thinking of the other.
"And you?"
"I have already written."
"When are they to be married?"
"They were married yesterday," she answered, in so low a tone that
I hardly heard the words.
"And where?" I asked, after a pause.
"In the country, at the house of some friends." Then she added quickly: "They preferred that you should not be there on account of the interruption of your holidays. They have gone away for three weeks; then they will go to see you in Paris before they start for Italy. You know I am not well enough to travel. I will keep you here until then. Be a good boy, and go now and write."
I had many other questions to put to her, and many more tears to weep, but I restrained myself, and a quarter of an hour later, I was seated at my dear good aunt's writing-table in her salon.
How I loved that room on the ground floor, with its glass door opening on the garden. It was filled with remembrance for me. On the wall at the side of the old-fashioned "secretary" hung the portraits, in frames of all shapes and sizes, of those whom the good and pious75 soul had loved and lost. This funereal76 little corner spoke strongly to my fancy. One of the portraits was a colored miniature, representing my great-grandmother in the costume of the Directory, with a short waist, and her hair dressed a la Proudhon. There was also a miniature of my great-uncle, her son. What an amiable77, self-important visage was that of the staunch admirer of Louis Philippe and M. Thiers! Then came my paternal78 grandfather, with his strong parvenu79 physiognomy, and my father at all ages. Underneath80 these works of art was a bookcase, in which I found all my father's school prizes, piously81 preserved. What a feeling of protection I derived82 from the portieres in green velvet83, with long bands of needlework, my aunt's masterpieces, which hung in wide folds over the doors! With what admiration84 I regarded the faded carpet, with its impossible flowers, which I had so often tried to gather in my babyhood! This was one of the legends of my earliest years, one of those anecdotes85 which are told of a beloved son, and which make him feel that the smallest details of his existence have been observed, understood, and loved. In later days I have been frozen by the ice of indifference86. And my aunt, she whose life had been lived among these old-fashioned things, how I loved her, with that face in which I read nothing but supreme87 tenderness for me, those eyes whose gaze did me good in some mysterious part of my soul! I felt her so near to me, only through her likeness88 to my father, that I rose from my task four or five times to kiss her, during the time it took me to write my letter of congratulation to the worst enemy I had, to my knowledge, in the world.
And this was the second indelible date in my life.
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1
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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13
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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14
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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16
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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30
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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31
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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51
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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52
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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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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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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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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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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67
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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71
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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74
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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75
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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76
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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77
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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80
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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81
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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82
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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83
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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84
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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86
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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87
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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