She had decided4 to return home. Her husband recalled her in every one of his letters. If, as he asked her to do, she returned to Paris in the first days of May, they might give two or three dinners, followed by receptions. His political group was supported by public opinion. The tide was pushing him along, and Garain thought the Countess Martin’s drawing-room might exercise an excellent influence on the future of the country. These reasons moved her not; but she felt a desire to be agreeable to her husband. She had received the day before a letter from her father, Monsieur Montessuy, who, without sharing the political views of his son-in-law and without giving any advice to his daughter, insinuated5 that society was beginning to gossip of the Countess Martin’s mysterious sojourn6 at Florence among poets and artists. The Bell villa took, from a distance, an air of sentimental7 fantasy. She felt herself that she was too closely observed at Resole. Madame Marmet annoyed her. Prince Albertinelli disquieted8 her. The meetings in the pavilion of the Via Alfieri had become difficult and dangerous. Professor Arrighi, whom the Prince often met, had seen her one night as she was walking through the deserted9 streets leaning on Dechartre. Professor Arrighi, author of a treatise10 on agriculture, was the most amiable11 of wise men. He had turned his beautiful, heroic face, and said, only the next day, to the young woman “Formerly, I could discern from a long distance the coming of a beautiful woman. Now that I have gone beyond the age to be viewed favorably by women, heaven has pity on me. Heaven prevents my seeing them. My eyes are very bad. The most charming face I can no longer recognize.” She had understood, and heeded12 the warning. She wished now to conceal13 her joy in the vastness of Paris.
Vivian, to whom she had announced her departure, had asked her to remain a few days longer. But Therese suspected that her friend was still shocked by the advice she had received one night in the lemon-decorated room; that, at least, she did not enjoy herself entirely14 in the familiarity of a confidante who disapproved15 of her choice, and whom the Prince had represented to her as a coquette, and perhaps worse. The date of her departure had been fixed16 for May 5th.
The day shone brilliant, pure, and charming on the Arno valley. Therese, dreamy, saw from the terrace the immense morning rose placed in the blue cup of Florence. She leaned forward to discover, at the foot of the flowery hills, the imperceptible point where she had known infinite joys. There the cemetery17 garden made a small, sombre spot near which she divined the Via Alfieri. She saw herself again in the room wherein, doubtless, she never would enter again. The hours there passed had for her the sadness of a dream. She felt her eyes becoming veiled, her knees weaken, and her soul shudder18. It seemed to her that life was no longer in her, and that she had left it in that corner where she saw the black pines raise their immovable summits. She reproached herself for feeling anxiety without reason, when, on the contrary, she should be reassured19 and joyful20. She knew she would meet Jacques Dechartre in Paris. They would have liked to arrive there at the same time, or, rather, to go there together. They had thought it indispensable that he should remain three or four days longer in Florence, but their meeting would not be retarded21 beyond that. They had appointed a rendezvous22, and she rejoiced in the thought of it. She wore her love mingled23 with her being and running in her blood. Still, a part of herself remained in the pavilion decorated with goats and nymphs a part of herself which never would return to her. In the full ardor24 of life, she was dying for things infinitely25 delicate and precious. She recalled that Dechartre had said to her: “Love likes charms. I gathered from the terrace the leaves of a tree that you had admired.” Why had she not thought of taking a stone of the pavilion wherein she had forgotten the world?
A shout from Pauline drew her from her thoughts. Choulette, jumping from a bush, had suddenly kissed the maid, who was carrying overcoats and bags into the carriage. Now he was running through the alleys26, joyful, his ears standing27 out like horns. He bowed to the Countess Martin.
“I have, then, to say farewell to you, Madame.”
He intended to remain in Italy. A lady was calling him, he said: it was Rome. He wanted to see the cardinals28. One of them, whom people praised as an old man full of sense, would perhaps share the ideas of the socialist29 and revolutionary church. Choulette had his aim: to plant on the ruins of an unjust and cruel civilization the Cross of Calvary, not dead and bare, but vivid, and with its flowery arms embracing the world. He was founding with that design an order and a newspaper. Madame Martin knew the order. The newspaper was to be sold for one cent, and to be written in rhythmic31 phrases. It was a newspaper to be sung. Verse, simple, violent, or joyful, was the only language that suited the people. Prose pleased only people whose intelligence was very subtle. He had seen anarchists32 in the taverns33 of the Rue30 Saint Jacques. They spent their evenings reciting and listening to romances.
And he added:
“A newspaper which shall be at the same time a song-book will touch the soul of the people. People say I have genius. I do not know whether they are right. But it must be admitted that I have a practical mind.”
Miss Bell came down the steps, putting on her gloves:
“Oh, darling, the city and the mountains and the sky wish you to lament34 your departure. They make themselves beautiful to-day in order to make you regret quitting them and desire to see them again.”
But Choulette, whom the dryness of the Tuscan climate tired, regretted green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said:
“There are woods and rocks, a fair sky and white clouds. I have walked there in the footsteps of good Saint Francis, and I transcribed35 his canticle to the sun in old French rhymes, simple and poor.”
Madame Martin said she would like to hear it. Miss Bell was already listening, and her face wore the fervent36 expression of an angel sculptured by Mino.
Choulette told them it was a rustic37 and artless work. The verses were not trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven38, for the sake of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous39 voice, he recited the canticle.
“Oh, Monsieur Choulette,” said Miss Bell, “this canticle goes up to heaven, like the hermit40 in the Campo Santo of Pisa, whom some one saw going up the mountain that the goats liked. I will tell you. The old hermit went up, leaning on the staff of faith, and his step was unequal because the crutch41, being on one side, gave one of his feet an advantage over the other. That is the reason why your verses are unequal. I have understood it.”
The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly deserved it.
“You have faith, Monsieur Choulette,” said Therese. “Of what use is it to you if not to write beautiful verses?”
“Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame.”
“Oh, we commit sins without that.”
Madame Marmet appeared, equipped for the journey, in the tranquil joy of returning to her pretty apartment, her little dog Toby, her old friend Lagrange, and to see again, after the Etruscans of Fiesole, the skeleton warrior42 who, among the bonbon43 boxes, looked out of the window.
Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage.
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1
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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7
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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8
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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10
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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12
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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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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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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17
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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18
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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19
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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20
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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23
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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24
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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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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28
cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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29
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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30
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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31
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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32
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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33
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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34
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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35
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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36
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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37
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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38
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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39
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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40
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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41
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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42
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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43
bonbon
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| n.棒棒糖；夹心糖 | |
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