Philippe Dechartre, infatuated with the architecture of the fifteenth century in France, had reproduced there very cleverly the characteristics of a private house of the time of Louis XII. That house, begun in the middle of the Second Empire, had not been finished. The builder of so many castles died without being able to finish his own house. It was better thus. Conceived in a manner which had then its distinction and its value, but which seems to-day banal10 and outlandish, having lost little by little its large frame of gardens, cramped11 now between the walls of the tall buildings, Philippe Dechartre’s little house, by the roughness of its stones, by the naive12 heaviness of its windows, by the simplicity13 of the roof, which the architect’s widow had caused to be covered with little expense, by all the lucky accidents of the unfinished and unpremeditated, corrected the lack of grace of its new and affected14 antiquity15 and archeologic romanticism, and harmonized with the humbleness17 of a district made ugly by progress of population.
In fine, notwithstanding its appearance of ruin and its green drapery, that little house had its charm. Suddenly and instinctively18, Therese discovered in it other harmonies. In the elegant negligence20 which extended from the walls covered with vines to the darkened panes21 of the studio, and even in the bent22 tree, the bark of which studded with its shells the wild grass of the courtyard, she divined the mind of the master, nonchalant, not skilful23 in preserving, living in the long solitude24 of passionate25 men. She had in her joy a sort of grief at observing this careless state in which her lover left things around him. She found in it a sort of grace and nobility, but also a spirit of indifference26 contrary to her own nature, opposite to the interested and careful mind of the Montessuys. At once she thought that, without spoiling the pensive27 softness of that rough corner, she would bring to it her well-ordered activity; she would have sand thrown in the alley28, and in the angle wherein a little sunlight came she would put the gayety of flowers. She looked sympathetically at a statue which had come there from some park, a Flora29, lying on the earth, eaten by black moss30, her two arms lying by her sides. She thought of raising her soon, of making of her a centrepiece for a fountain. Dechartre, who for an hour had been watching for her coming, joyful31, anxious, trembling in his agitated32 happiness, descended33 the steps. In the fresh shade of the vestibule, wherein she divined confusedly the severe splendor34 of bronze and marble statues, she stopped, troubled by the beatings of her heart, which throbbed35 with all its might in her chest. He pressed her in his arms and kissed her. She heard him, through the tumult36 of her temples, recalling to her the short delights of the day before. She saw again the lion of the Atlas37 on the carpet, and returned to Jacques his kisses with delicious slowness. He led her, by a wooden stairway, into the vast hall which had served formerly38 as a workshop, where he designed and modelled his figures, and, above all, read; he liked reading as if it were opium39.
Pale-tinted Gothic tapestries40, which let one perceive in a marvellous forest a lady at the feet of whom a unicorn41 lay on the grass, extended above cabinets to the painted beams of the ceiling. He led her to a large and low divan42, loaded with cushions covered with sumptuous43 fragments of Spanish and Byzantine cloaks; but she sat in an armchair. “You are here! You are here! The world may come to an end.”
She replied “Formerly I thought of the end of the world, but I was not afraid of it. Monsieur Lagrange had promised it to me, and I was waiting for it. When I did not know you, I felt so lonely.” She looked at the tables loaded with vases and statuettes, the tapestries, the confused and splendid mass of weapons, the animals, the marbles, the paintings, the ancient books. “You have beautiful things.”
“Most of them come from my father, who lived in the golden age of collectors. These histories of the unicorn, the complete series of which is at Cluny, were found by my father in 1851 in an inn.”
But, curious and disappointed, she said: “I see nothing that you have done; not a statue, not one of those wax figures which are prized so highly in England, not a figurine nor a plaque44 nor a medal.”
“If you think I could find any pleasure in living among my works! I know my figures too well — they weary me. Whatever is without secret lacks charm.” She looked at him with affected spite.
“You had not told me that one had lost all charm when one had no more secrets.”
He put his arm around her waist.
“Ah! The things that live are only too mysterious; and you remain for me, my beloved, an enigma45, the unknown sense of which contains the light of life. Do not fear to give yourself to me. I shall desire you always, but I never shall know you. Does one ever possess what one loves? Are kisses, caresses46, anything else than the effort of a delightful47 despair? When I embrace you, I am still searching for you, and I never have you; since I want you always, since in you I expect the impossible and the infinite. What you are, the devil knows if I shall ever know! Because I have modelled a few bad figures I am not a sculptor; I am rather a sort of poet and philosopher who seeks for subjects of anxiety and torment48 in nature. The sentiment of form is not sufficient for me. My colleagues laugh at me because I have not their simplicity. They are right. And that brute49 Choulette is right too, when he says we ought to live without thinking and without desiring. Our friend the cobbler of Santa Maria Novella, who knows nothing of what might make him unjust and unfortunate, is a master of the art of living. I ought to love you naively50, without that sort of metaphysics which is passional and makes me absurd and wicked. There is nothing good except to ignore and to forget. Come, come, I have thought of you too cruelly in the tortures of your absence; come, my beloved! I must forget you with you. It is with you only that I can forget you and lose myself.”
He took her in his arms and, lifting her veil, kissed her on the lips.
A little frightened in that vast, unknown hall, embarrassed by the look of strange things, she drew the black tulle to her chin.
“Here! You can not think of it.”
He said they were alone.
“Alone? And the man with terrible moustaches who opened the door?”
He smiled:
“That is Fusellier, my father’s former servant. He and his wife take charge of the house. Do not be afraid. They remain in their box. You shall see Madame Fusellier; she is inclined to familiarity. I warn you.”
“My friend, why has Monsieur Fusellier, a janitor, moustaches like a Tartar?”
“My dear, nature gave them to him. I am not sorry that he has the air of a sergeant-major and gives me the illusion of being a country neighbor.”
Seated on the corner of the divan, he drew her to his knees and gave to her kisses which she returned.
She rose quickly.
“Show me the other rooms. I am curious. I wish to see everything.”
He escorted her to the second story. Aquarelles by Philippe Dechartre covered the walls of the corridor. He opened the door and made her enter a room furnished with white mahogany:
It was his mother’s room. He kept it intact in its past. Uninhabited for nine years, the room had not the air of being resigned to its solitude. The mirror waited for the old lady’s glance, and on the onyx clock a pensive Sappho was lonely because she did not hear the noise of the pendulum51.
There were two portraits on the walls. One by Ricard represented Philippe Dechartre, very pale, with rumpled52 hair, and eyes lost in a romantic dream. The other showed a middle-aged53 woman, almost beautiful in her ardent54 slightness. It was Madame Philippe Dechartre.
“My poor mother’s room is like me,” said Jacques; “it remembers.”
“You resemble your mother,” said Therese; “you have her eyes. Paul Vence told me she adored you.”
“Yes,” he replied, smilingly. “My mother was excellent, intelligent, exquisite55, marvellously absurd. Her madness was maternal56 love. She did not give me a moment of rest. She tormented57 herself and tormented me.”
Therese looked at a bronze figure by Carpeaux, placed on the chiffonier.
“You recognize,” said Dechartre, “the Prince Imperial by his ears, which are like the wings of a zephyr58, and which enliven his cold visage. This bronze is a gift of Napoleon III. My parents went to Compiegne. My father, while the court was at Fontainebleau, made the plan of the castle, and designed the gallery. In the morning the Emperor would come, in his frock-coat, and smoking his meerschaum pipe, to sit near him like a penguin59 on a rock. At that time I went to day-school. I listened to his stories at table, and I have not forgotten them. The Emperor stayed there, peaceful and quiet, interrupting his long silence with few words smothered60 under his big moustache; then he roused himself a little and explained his ideas of machinery61. He was an inventor. He would draw a pencil from his pocket and make drawings on my father’s designs. He spoiled in that way two or three studies a week. He liked my father a great deal, and promised works and honors to him which never came. The Emperor was kind, but he had no influence, as mamma said. At that time I was a little boy. Since then a vague sympathy has remained in me for that man, who was lacking in genius, but whose mind was affectionate and beautiful, and who carried through great adventures a simple courage and a gentle fatalism. Then he is sympathetic to me because he has been combated and insulted by people who were eager to take his place, and who had not, as he had, in the depths of their souls, a love for the people. We have seen them in power since then. Heavens, how ugly they are! Senator Loyer, for instance, who at your house, in the smoking-room, filled his pockets with cigars, and invited me to do likewise. That Loyer is a bad man, harsh to the unfortunate, to the weak, and to the humble16. And Garain, don’t you think his mind is disgusting? Do you remember the first time I dined at your house and we talked of Napoleon? Your hair, twisted above your neck, and shot through by a diamond arrow, was adorable. Paul Vence said subtle things. Garain did not understand. You asked for my opinion.”
“It was to make you shine. I was already conceited62 for you.”
“Oh, I never could say a single phrase before people who are so serious. Yet I had a great desire to say that Napoleon III pleased me more than Napoleon I; that I thought him more touching63; but perhaps that idea would have produced a bad effect. But I am not so destitute64 of talent as to care about politics.”
He looked around the room, and at the furniture with familiar tenderness. He opened a drawer:
“Here are mamma’s eye-glasses. How she searched for these eye-glasses! Now I will show you my room. If it is not in order you must excuse Madame Fusellier, who is trained to respect my disorder65.”
The curtains at the windows were down. He did not lift them. After an hour she drew back the red satin draperies; rays of light dazzled her eyes and fell on her floating hair. She looked for a mirror and found only a looking-glass of Venice, dull in its wide ebony border. Rising on the tips of her toes to see herself in it, she said:
“Is that sombre and far-away spectre I? The women who have looked at themselves in this glass can not have complimented you on it.”
As she was taking pins from the table she noticed a little bronze figure which she had not yet seen. It was an old Italian work of Flemish taste: a nude66 woman, with short legs and heavy stomach, who apparently67 ran with an arm extended. She thought the figure had a droll68 air. She asked what she was doing.
“She is doing what Madame Mundanity69 does on the portal of the cathedral at Basle.”
But Therese, who had been at Basle, did not know Madame Mundanity. She looked at the figure again, did not understand, and asked:
“Is it something very bad? How can a thing shown on the portal of a church be so difficult to tell here?”
Suddenly an anxiety came to her:
“What will Monsieur and Madame Fusellier think of me?”
Then, discovering on the wall a medallion wherein Dechartre had modelled the profile of a girl, amusing and vicious:
“What is that?”
“That is Clara, a newspaper girl. She brought the Figaro to me every morning. She had dimples in her cheeks, nests for kisses. One day I said to her: ‘I will make your portrait.’ She came, one summer morning, with earrings70 and rings which she had bought at the Neuilly fair. I never saw her again. I do not know what has become of her. She was too instinctive19 to become a fashionable demi-mondaine. Shall I take it out?”
“No; it looks very well in that corner. I am not jealous of Clara.”
It was time to return home, and she could not decide to go. She put her arms around her lover’s neck.
“Oh, I love you! And then, you have been to-day good-natured and gay. Gayety becomes you so well. I should like to make you gay always. I need joy almost as much as love; and who will give me joy if you do not?”
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1
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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2
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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10
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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11
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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12
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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13
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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14
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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15
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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16
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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17
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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18
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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19
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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20
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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21
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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23
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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24
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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25
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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26
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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28
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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29
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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30
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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31
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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32
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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33
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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34
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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35
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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36
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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37
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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38
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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39
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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40
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
unicorn
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| n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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42
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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43
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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44
plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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45
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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46
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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49
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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50
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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51
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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52
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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54
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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55
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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56
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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57
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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58
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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59
penguin
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| n.企鹅 | |
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60
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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61
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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62
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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63
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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64
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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65
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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66
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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67
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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68
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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69
mundanity
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| 世俗的 | |
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70
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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