Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty1 stick, his pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity.
“Farewell, Madame. I am quitting Fiesole, you, Dechartre, the too handsome Prince Albertinelli, and that gentle ogress, Miss Bell. I am going to visit the Assisi mountain, which the poet says must be named no longer Assisi, but the Orient, because it is there that the sun of love rose. I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not even take out of this world a shroud2 — out of this world where he left the revelation of all joy and of all kindness.”
“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like Saint Clara a great deal.”
“You are right, Madame; she was a woman of strength and prudence3. When Saint Francis, ill and almost blind, came to spend a few days at Saint Damien, near his friend, she built with her own hands a hut for him in the garden. Pain, languor4, and burning eyelids5 deprived him of sleep. Enormous rats came to attack him at night. Then he composed a joyous6 canticle in praise of our splendid brother the Sun, and our sister the Water, chaste7, useful, and pure. My most beautiful verses have less charm and splendor8. And it is just that it should be thus, for Saint Francis’s soul was more beautiful than his mind. I am better than all my contemporaries whom I have known, yet I am worth nothing. When Saint Francis had composed his Song of the Sun he rejoiced. He thought: ‘We shall go, my brothers and I, into the cities, and stand in the public squares, with a lute9, on the market-day. Good people will come near us, and we shall say to them: “We are the jugglers of God, and we shall sing a lay to you. If you are pleased, you will reward us.” They will promise, and when we shall have sung, we shall recall their promise to them. We shall say to them: “You owe a reward to us. And the one that we ask of you is that you love one another.” Doubtless, to keep their word and not injure God’s poor jugglers, they will avoid doing ill to others.’”
Madame Martin thought St. Francis was the most amiable10 of the saints.
“His work,” replied Choulette, “was destroyed while he lived. Yet he died happy, because in him was joy with humility11. He was, in fact, God’s sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that poet, Madame, if I can despoil12 myself of reason and of conceit13. For all moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom that comes from God and resembles folly14.”
“I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You will imprison15 them all in convents.”
“I confess,” replied Choulette, “that they embarrass me a great deal in my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable16 crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels.” He took his pipe, his carpet-bag, and his stick:
“The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do evil when one loves purely17. But sensual love is formed of hatred18, selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed19 by a cloud of violent thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell’s cook improvise20 magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was inundated21 by a celestial22 joy which the sight of you made me lose. It must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were lies. I felt that I was your adversary23 and your enemy; I hated you. When I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you.”
“Truly?”
“Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have inspired more than once. But common people feel it without being conscious of it, while my vivid imagination represents me to myself incessantly24. I contemplate25 my mind, at times splendid, often hideous26. If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed with fright.”
Therese smiled:
“Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara.”
He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed27 his finger:
“You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame.”
He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic28 form disappear behind the bushes of the garden.
In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an anguish29 which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased30. She did not feel the stupor31 of the first time that she had yielded for love; she did not feel the brusque vision of the irreparable. She was under influences slower, more vague, and more powerful. This time a charming reverie bathed the reminiscence of the caresses32 which she had received. She was full of trouble and anxiety, but she felt no regret. She had acted less through her will than through a force which she divined to be higher. She absolved33 herself because of her disinterestedness34. She counted on nothing, having calculated nothing.
Doubtless, she had been wrong to yield, since she was not free; but she had exacted nothing. Perhaps she was for him only a violent caprice. She did not know him. She had not one of those vivid imaginations that surpass immensely, in good as in evil, common mediocrity. If he went away from her and disappeared she would not reproach him for it; at least, she thought not. She would keep the reminiscence and the imprint35 of the rarest and most precious thing one may find in the world. Perhaps he was incapable36 of real attachment37. He thought he loved her. He had loved her for an hour. She dared not wish for more, in the embarrassment38 of the false situation which irritated her frankness and her pride, and which troubled the lucidity39 of her intelligence. While the carriage was carrying her to San Marco, she persuaded herself that he would say nothing to her of the day before, and that the room from which one could see the pines rise to the sky would leave to them only the dream of a dream.
He extended his hand to her. Before he had spoken she saw in his look that he loved her as much now as before, and she perceived at the same time that she wished him to be thus.
“You —” he said, “I have been here since noon. I was waiting, knowing that you would not come so soon, but able to live only at the place where I was to see you. It is you! Talk; let me see and hear you.”
“Then you still love me?”
“It is now that I love you. I thought I loved you when you were only a phantom40. Now, you are the being in whose hands I have put my soul. It is true that you are mine! What have I done to obtain the greatest, the only, good of this world? And those men with whom the earth is covered think they are living! I alone live! Tell me, what have I done to obtain you?”
“Oh, what had to be done, I did. I say this to you frankly41. If we have reached that point, the fault is mine. You see, women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault. So, whatever may happen, I never will reproach you for anything.”
An agile42 troupe43 of yelling beggars, guides, and coachmen surrounded them with an importunity44 wherein was mingled45 the gracefulness46 which Italians never lose. Their subtlety47 made them divine that these were lovers, and they knew that lovers are prodigal48. Dechartre threw coin to them, and they all returned to their happy laziness.
A municipal guard received the visitors. Madame Martin regretted that there was no monk49. The white gown of the Dominicans was so beautiful under the arcades50 of the cloister51!
They visited the cells where, on the bare plaster, Fra Angelico, aided by his brother Benedetto, painted innocent pictures for his companions.
“Do you recall the winter night when, meeting you before the Guimet Museum, I accompanied you to the narrow street bordered by small gardens which leads to the Billy Quay52? Before separating we stopped a moment on the parapet along which runs a thin boxwood hedge. You looked at that boxwood, dried by winter. And when you went away I looked at it for a long time.”
They were in the cell wherein Savonarola lived. The guide showed to them the portrait and the relics53 of the martyr54.
“What could there have been in me that you liked that day? It was dark.”
“I saw you walk. It is in movements that forms speak. Each one of your steps told me the secrets of your charming beauty. Oh! my imagination was never discreet55 in anything that concerned you. I did not dare to speak to you. When I saw you, it frightened me. It frightened me because you could do everything for me. When you were present, I adored you tremblingly. When you were far from me, I felt all the impieties56 of desire.”
“I did not suspect this. But do you recall the first time we saw each other, when Paul Vence introduced you? You were seated near a screen. You were looking at the miniatures. You said to me: ‘This lady, painted by Siccardi, resembles Andre Chenier’s mother.’ I replied to you: ‘She is my husband’s great-grandmother. How did Andre Chenier’s mother look?’ And you said: ‘There is a portrait of her: a faded Levantine.’”
He excused himself and thought that he had not spoken so impertinently.
“You did. My memory is better than yours.”
They were walking in the white silence of the convent. They saw the cell which Angelico had ornamented57 with the loveliest painting. And there, before the Virgin58 who, in the pale sky, receives from God the Father the immortal59 crown, he took Therese in his arms and placed a kiss on her lips, almost in view of two Englishwomen who were walking through the corridors, consulting their Baedeker. She said to him:
“We must not forget Saint Anthony’s cell.”
“Therese, I am suffering in my happiness from everything that is yours and that escapes me. I am suffering because you do not live for me alone. I wish to have you wholly, and to have had you in the past.”
She shrugged60 her shoulders a little.
“Oh, the past!”
“The past is the only human reality. Everything that is, is past.”
She raised toward him her eyes, which resembled bits of blue sky full of mingled sun and rain.
“Well, I may say this to you: I never have felt that I lived except with you.”
When she returned to Fiesole, she found a brief and threatening letter from Le Menil. He could not understand, her prolonged absence, her silence. If she did not announce at once her return, he would go to Florence for her.
She read without astonishment61, but was annoyed to see that everything disagreeable that could happen was happening, and that nothing would be spared to her of what she had feared. She could still calm him and reassure62 him: she had only to say to him that she loved him; that she would soon return to Paris; that he should renounce63 the foolish idea of rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be watched at once. But she would have to write: “I love you.” She must quiet him with caressing64 phrases.
She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth. She accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls carried away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving ocean of events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of her a fond reminiscence in a corner of his soul.
She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square. Children were playing in the twilight65. She looked from the top of the hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel. And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what the result would be.
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1
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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3
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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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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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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10
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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15
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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16
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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20
improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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21
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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22
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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25
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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26
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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29
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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30
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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32
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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33
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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34
disinterestedness
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35
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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40
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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42
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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43
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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45
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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46
gracefulness
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47
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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48
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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49
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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50
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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51
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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52
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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53
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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54
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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55
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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56
impieties
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| n.不敬( impiety的名词复数 )；不孝；不敬的行为；不孝的行为 | |
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57
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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60
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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63
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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64
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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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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