“My dear friend Gavaut delivered to-day, in the Chamber5, an excellent speech on the question of the reserve funds. It’s extraordinary how his ideas have become healthy and just. Oh, he has improved a great deal.”
She could not refrain from smiling.
“But Gavaut, my friend, is a poor devil who never thought of anything except escaping from the crowd of those who are dying of hunger. Gavaut never had any ideas except at his elbows. Does anybody take him seriously in the political world? You may be sure that he never gave an illusion to any woman, not even his wife. And yet to produce that sort of illusion a man does not need much.” She added, brusquely:
“You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. I have accepted; I am going.”
Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going.
At once she answered:
“With Madame Marmet.”
There was no objection to make. Madame Marmet was a proper companion, and it was appropriate for her to visit Italy, where her husband had made some excavations6. He asked only:
“Have you invited her? When are you going?”
“Next week.”
He had the wisdom not to make any objection, judging that opposition7 would only make her capriciousness firmer, and fearing to give impetus8 to that foolish idea. He said:
“Surely, to travel is an agreeable pastime. I thought that we might in the spring visit the Caucasus and Turkestan. There is an interesting country. General Annenkoff will place at our disposal carriages, trains, and everything else on his railway. He is a friend of mine; he is quite charmed with you. He will provide us with an escort of Cossacks.”
He persisted in trying to flatter her vanity, unable to realize that her mind was not worldly. She replied, negligently9, that it might be a pleasant trip. Then he praised the mountains, the ancient cities, the bazaars10, the costumes, the armor.
He added:
“We shall take some friends with us — Princess Seniavine, General Lariviere, perhaps Vence or Le Menil.”
She replied, with a little dry laugh, that they had time to select their guests.
He became attentive11 to her wants.
“You are not eating. You will injure your health.”
Without yet believing in this prompt departure, he felt some anxiety about it. Each had regained12 freedom, but he did not like to be alone. He felt that he was himself only when his wife was there. And then, he had decided13 to give two or three political dinners during the session. He saw his party growing. This was the moment to assert himself, to make a dazzling show. He said, mysteriously:
“Something might happen requiring the aid of all our friends. You have not followed the march of events, Therese?”
“No, my dear.”
“I am sorry. You have judgment14, liberality of mind. If you had followed the march of events you would have been struck by the current that is leading the country back to moderate opinions. The country is tired of exaggerations. It rejects the men compromised by radical15 politics and religious persecution16. Some day or other it will be necessary to make over a Casimir-Perier ministry17 with other men, and that day —”
He stopped: really she listened too inattentively.
She was thinking, sad and disenchanted. It seemed to her that the pretty woman, who, among the warm shadows of a closed room, placed her bare feet in the fur of the brown bear rug, and to whom her lover gave kisses while she twisted her hair in front of a glass, was not herself, was not even a woman that she knew well, or that she desired to know, but a person whose affairs were of no interest to her. A pin badly set in her hair, one of the pins from the Bohemian glass cup, fell on her neck. She shivered.
“Yet we really must give three or four dinners to our good political friends,” said M. Martin-Belleme. “We shall invite some of the ancient radicals18 to meet the people of our circle. It will be well to find some pretty women. We might invite Madame Berard de la Malle; there has been no gossip about her for two years. What do you think of it?”
“But, my dear, since I am to go next week —”
This filled him with consternation19.
They went, both silent and moody20, into the drawing-room, where Paul Vence was waiting. He often came in the evening.
She extended her hand to him.
“I am very glad to see you. I am going out of town. Paris is cold and bleak21. This weather tires and saddens me. I am going to Florence, for six weeks, to visit Miss Bell.”
M. Martin-Belleme then lifted his eyes to heaven.
Vence asked whether she had been in Italy often.
“Three times; but I saw nothing. This time I wish to see, to throw myself into things. From Florence I shall take walks into Tuscany, into Umbria. And, finally, I shall go to Venice.”
“You will do well. Venice suggests the peace of the Sabbath-day in the grand week of creative and divine Italy.”
“Your friend Dechartre talked very prettily22 to me of Venice, of the atmosphere of Venice, which sows pearls.”
“Yes, at Venice the sky is a colorist. Florence inspires the mind. An old author has said: ‘The sky of Florence is light and subtle, and feeds the beautiful ideas of men.’ I have lived delicious days in Tuscany. I wish I could live them again.”
“Come and see me there.”
He sighed.
The newspaper, books, and his daily work prevented him.
M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work.
“Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is impossible to express one’s self. I know how to talk with my pen as well as any other person; but, after all, to talk or to write, what futile23 occupations! How wretchedly inadequate24 are the little signs which form syllables25, words, and phrases. What becomes of the idea, the beautiful idea, which these miserable26 hieroglyphics27 hide? What does the reader make of my writing? A series of false sense, of counter sense, and of nonsense. To read, to hear, is to translate. There are beautiful translations, perhaps. There are no faithful translations. Why should I care for the admiration28 which they give to my books, since it is what they themselves see in them that they admire? Every reader substitutes his visions in the place of ours. We furnish him with the means to quicken his imagination. It is a horrible thing to be a cause of such exercises. It is an infamous29 profession.”
“You are jesting,” said M. Martin-Belleme.
“I do not think so,” said Therese. “He recognizes that one mind is impenetrable to another mind, and he suffers from this. He feels that he is alone when he is thinking, alone when he is writing. Whatever one may do, one is always alone in the world. That is what he wishes to say. He is right. You may always explain: you never are understood.”
“There are signs —” said Paul Vence.
“Don’t you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any more.”
Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of Saint Francis.
“The idea, Madame, came to him in a marvellous fashion one day when he had gone to call on his Maria in the street where she lives, behind the public hospital — a street always damp, the houses on which are tottering30. You must know that he considers Maria the saint and martyr31 who is responsible for the sins of the people.
“He pulled the bell-rope, made greasy32 by two centuries of visitors. Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope remained in his hand. Skilful33 at understanding symbols and the hidden meaning of things, he understood at once that this rope had not been detached without the permission of spiritual powers. He made of it a belt, and realized that he had been chosen to lead back into its primitive34 purity the Third Order of Saint Francis. He renounced36 the beauty of women, the delights of poetry, the brightness of glory, and studied the life and the doctrine37 of Saint Francis. However, he has sold to his editor a book entitled ‘Les Blandices’, which contains, he says, the description of all sorts of loves. He flatters himself that in it he has shown himself a criminal with some elegance38. But far from harming his mystic undertakings39, this book favors them in this sense, that, corrected by his later work, he will become honest and exemplary; and the gold that he has received in payment, which would not have been paid to him for a more chaste40 volume, will serve for a pilgrimage to Assisi.”
Madame Martin asked how much of this story was really true. Vence replied that she must not try to learn.
He confessed that he was the idealist historian of the poet, and that the adventures which he related of him were not to be taken in the literal and Judaic sense.
He affirmed that at least Choulette was publishing Les Blandices, and desired to visit the cell and the grave of St. Francis.
“Then,” exclaimed Madame Martin, “I will take him to Italy with me. Find him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week.”
M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day.
Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette. Paul Vence said that he was a singular specimen41 of humanity.
“He is not very different from the saints of whose extraordinary lives we read. He is as sincere as they. He has an exquisite42 delicacy43 of sentiment and a terrible violence of mind. If he shocks one by many of his acts, the reason is that he is weaker, less supported, or perhaps less closely observed. And then there are unworthy saints, just as there are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops44 of the seventeenth century.”
She interrupted him:
“While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend Dechartre. He has a charming mind.”
She added:
“Perhaps he is a little too timid.”
Vence reminded her that he had told her she would find Dechartre interesting.
“I know him by heart; he has been my friend since our childhood.”
“You knew his parents?”
“Yes. He is the only son of Philippe Dechartre.”
“The architect?”
“The architect who, under Napoleon III, restored so many castles and churches in Touraine and the Orleanais. He had taste and knowledge. Solitary45 and quiet in his life, he had the imprudence to attack Viollet-le-Duc, then all-powerful. He reproached him with trying to reestablish buildings in their primitive plan, as they had been, or as they might have been, at the beginning. Philippe Dechartre, on the contrary, wished that everything which the lapse46 of centuries had added to a church, an abbey, or a castle should be respected. To abolish anachronisms and restore a building to its primitive unity47, seemed to him to be a scientific barbarity as culpable48 as that of ignorance. He said: ‘It is a crime to efface49 the successive imprints50 made in stone by the hands of our ancestors. New stones cut in old style are false witnesses.’ He wished to limit the task of the archaeologic51 architect to that of supporting and consolidating52 walls. He was right. Everybody said that he was wrong. He achieved his ruin by dying young, while his rival triumphed. He bequeathed an honest fortune to his widow and his son. Jacques Dechartre was brought up by his mother, who adored him. I do not think that maternal53 tenderness ever was more impetuous. Jacques is a charming fellow; but he is a spoiled child.”
“Yet he appears so indifferent, so easy to understand, so distant from everything.”
“Do not rely on this. He has a tormented54 and tormenting55 imagination.”
“Does he like women?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it isn’t with any idea of match-making.”
“Yes, he likes them. I told you that he was an egoist. Only selfish men really love women. After the death of his mother, he had a long liaison56 with a well-known actress, Jeanne Tancrede.”
Madame Martin remembered Jeanne Tancrede; not very pretty, but graceful57 with a certain slowness of action in playing romantic roles.
“They lived almost together in a little house at Auteuil,” Paul Vence continued. “I often called on them. I found him lost in his dreams, forgetting to model a figure drying under its cloths, alone with himself, pursuing his idea, absolutely incapable58 of listening to anybody; she, studying her roles, her complexion59 burned by rouge60, her eyes tender, pretty because of her intelligence and her activity. She complained to me that he was inattentive, cross, and unreasonable61. She loved him and deceived him only to obtain roles. And when she deceived him, it was done on the spur of the moment. Afterward62 she never thought of it. A typical woman! But she was imprudent; she smiled upon Joseph Springer in the hope that he would make her a member of the Comedie Francaise. Dechartre left her. Now she finds it more practical to live with her managers, and Jacques finds it more agreeable to travel.”
“Does he regret her?”
“How can one know the things that agitate63 a mind anxious and mobile, selfish and passionate64, desirous to surrender itself, prompt in disengaging itself, liking65 itself most of all among the beautiful things that it finds in the world?”
Brusquely she changed the subject.
“And your novel, Monsieur Vence?”
“I have reached the last chapter, Madame. My little workingman has been guillotined. He died with that indifference66 of virgins67 without desire, who never have felt on their lips the warm taste of life. The journals and the public approve the act of justice which has just been accomplished68. But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory69 murder.”
He rose and said good-night.
She called him back.
“Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me.”
When she went up to her room, her husband was waiting for her, in his red-brown plush robe, with a sort of doge’s cap framing his pale and hollow face. He had an air of gravity. Behind him, by the open door of his workroom, appeared under the lamp a mass of documents bound in blue, a collection of the annual budgets. Before she could reach her room he motioned that he wished to speak to her.
“My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It does you a great deal of harm. You intend to leave your home without any reason, without even a pretext70. And you wish to run through Europe with whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard — that man Choulette.”
She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there could be nothing objectionable.
“But you announce your going to everybody, yet you do not even know whether Madame Marmet can accompany you.”
“Oh, Madame Marmet will soon pack her boxes. Nothing keeps her in Paris except her dog. She will leave it to you; you may take care of it.”
“Does your father know of your project?”
It was his last resource to invoke71 the authority of Montessuy. He knew that his wife feared to displease72 her father. He insisted:
“Your father is full of sense and tact73. I have been happy to find him agreeing with me several times in the advices which I have permitted myself to give you. He thinks as I do, that Madame Meillan’s house is not a fit place for you to visit. The company that meets there is mixed, and the mistress of the house favors intrigue74. You are wrong, I must say, not to take account of what people think. I am mistaken if your father does not think it singular that you should go away with so much frivolity75, and the absence will be the more remarked, my dear, since circumstances have made me eminent76 in the course of this legislature. My merit has nothing to do with the case, surely. But if you had consented to listen to me at dinner I should have demonstrated to you that the group of politicians to which I belong has almost reached power. In such a moment you should not renounce35 your duties as mistress of the house. You must understand this yourself.”
She replied “You annoy me.” And, turning her back to him, she shut the door of her room between them. That night in her bed she opened a book, as she always did before going to sleep. It was a novel. She was turning the leaves with indifference, when her eyes fell on these lines:
“Love is like devotion: it comes late. A woman is hardly in love or devout77 at twenty, unless she has a special disposition78 to be either, a sort of native sanctity. Women who are predestined to love, themselves struggle a long time against that grace of love which is more terrible than the thunderbolt that fell on the road to Damascus. A woman oftenest yields to the passion of love only when age or solitude79 does not frighten her. Passion is an arid80 and burning desert. Passion is profane81 asceticism82, as harsh as religious asceticism. Great woman lovers are as rare as great penitent83 women. Those who know life well know that women do not easily bind84 themselves in the chains of real love. They know that nothing is less common than sacrifice among them. And consider how much a worldly woman must sacrifice when she is in love — liberty, quietness, the charming play of a free mind, coquetry, amusement, pleasure — she loses everything.
“Coquetry is permissible85. One may conciliate that with all the exigencies86 of fashionable life. Not so love. Love is the least mundane87 of passions, the most anti-social, the most savage88, the most barbarous. So the world judges it more severely89 than mere90 gallantry or looseness of manners. In one sense the world is right. A woman in love betrays her nature and fails in her function, which is to be admired by all men, like a work of art. A woman is a work of art, the most marvellous that man’s industry ever has produced. A woman is a wonderful artifice91, due to the concourse of all the arts mechanical and of all the arts liberal. She is the work of everybody, she belongs to the world.”
Therese closed the book and thought that these ideas were only the dreams of novelists who did not know life. She knew very well that there was in reality neither a Carmel of passion nor a chain of love, nor a beautiful and terrible vocation92 against which the predestined one resisted in vain; she knew very well that love was only a brief intoxication93 from which one recovered a little sadder. And yet, perhaps, she did not know everything; perhaps there were loves in which one was deliciously lost. She put out her lamp. The dreams of her first youth came back to her.
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1
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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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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excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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negligently
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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bleak
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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syllables
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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tottering
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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imprints
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| n.压印( imprint的名词复数 )；痕迹；持久影响 | |
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archaeologic
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52
consolidating
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| v.（使）巩固， （使）加强( consolidate的现在分词 )；（使）合并 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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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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expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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