AT D——, VIA BLOIS.
Do not worry, dear sister, for here I am, at Paris, without accident or fatigue1. I have slept a few hours, breakfasted on a cup of coffee, made my toilet, and, in a moment, I am going to take a carriage to Madame d'Arglade's, that she may present me to Madame de Villemer. This evening I will write you the result of the solemn interview, but I want first to mail you these few words, that you may feel easy about my journey and my health.
Take courage with me, my Camille; all will go well. God does not abandon those who depend upon him, and who do their best to second his tender providence2. What has been saddest for me in my resolution are your tears,—yours and the dear little ones'; it is hard for me to restrain mine when I think of them; but you must see it was absolutely necessary. I could not sit with folded hands when you have four children to rear. Since I have courage and health, and no other claim upon me in this world than that of my tenderness for you and for those poor angels, it was for me to go forth3 and try to gain our livelihood4. I will reach that end, be sure. Sustain me instead of regretting me and making me weaker; that is all I ask of you. And with this, my much-loved sister, I embrace you and our dear children with all my heart. Do not make them weep by speaking to them of me; but try, nevertheless, not to let them forget me; that would pain me beyond measure.
CAROLINE DE SAINT-GENEIX.
January 3, 1845.
SECOND LETTER.—TO THE SAME.
Victory, great victory! my good sister. I have just returned from our great lady's, and—success unhoped for, as you shall see. Since I have one more evening of liberty, and that probably the last, I am going to profit by it in giving you an account of the interview. It will seem as if I were chatting with you again at the fireside, rocking Charley with one hand and amusing Lili with the other. Dear loves, what are they doing at this moment? They do not imagine that I am all alone in a melancholy6 room of a public house, for, in the fear of being troublesome to Madame d'Arglade, I put up at a little hotel; but I shall be very comfortable at the Marchioness's, and this lone5 evening is not a bad one for me to collect myself and think of you without interruption. I did well, besides, not to count too much upon the hospitality which was offered me, because Madame d'Arglade is absent, and so I had to introduce myself to Madame de Villemer.
You asked me to give you a description of her: she is about sixty years old, but she is infirm and seldom leaves her arm-chair; that and her suffering face make her look fifteen years older. She could never have been beautiful, or comely7 of form; yet her countenance8 is expressive9 and has a character of its own. She is very dark; her eyes are magnificent, just a little hard, but frank. Her nose is straight and too nearly approaches her mouth, which is not at all handsome. Her mouth is ordinarily scornful; still, her whole face gleams and mellows10 with a human sympathy when she smiles, and she smiles readily. My first impression agrees with my last. I believe this woman very good by principle rather than by impulse, and courageous11 rather than cheerful. She has intelligence and cultivation12. In fine, she does not differ much from the description which Madame d'Arglade gave us of her.
She was alone when I was conducted into her apartment. Gracefully13 enough she made me sit down close to her, and here is a report of our conversation:—
"You have been highly recommended to me by Madame d'Arglade, whom I esteem14 very much indeed. I know that you belong to an excellent family, that you have talents and an honorable character, and that your life has been blameless. I have therefore the greatest wish that we may understand each other and agree. For that, there must be two things: one that my offer may seem satisfactory to you; the other that our views may not be too much opposed, as that would be the source of frequent misunderstandings. Let us deal with the first question. I offer you twelve hundred francs a year."
"So I have been told, Madame, and I have accepted."
"Have I not been told, too, that you would perhaps find that insufficient15?"
"It is true, that is little for the needs of my situation; but Madame is the judge of her own affairs, and since I am here—"
"I cannot say that. It is probably more than my services are worth."
"I am far from saying so, and you—you say it from modesty17; but you fear that will not be enough to keep you? Do not let it trouble you; I will take everything upon myself; you will have no expense here except for your toilet, and in that regard I make no requirement. And do you love dress?"
"Yes, Madame, very much; but I shall abstain18 from it, because in that matter you make no requirement."
The sincerity19 of my answer appeared to astonish the Marchioness. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken without restraint, as it is my habit to do. She took a little time to collect herself. Finally she began to smile and said, "Ah, so! why do you love dress? You are young, pretty, and poor; you have neither the need nor the right to bedizen yourself?"
"I have so little right to do it," I answered, "that I go simply clad, as you see."
"That is very well, but you are troubled because your toilet is not more elegant?"
"No, Madame, I am not troubled about it at all, since it must be so. I see that I spoke20 without reflection when I told you that I was fond of dress, and that has given you a poor idea of my understanding. I pray you to see nothing in that avowal21 but the effect of my sincerity. You questioned me concerning my tastes, and I answered as if I had the honor to be known to you; it was perhaps an impropriety, and I beg you to pardon it."
"That is to say," rejoined she, "if I knew you, I would be aware that you accept the necessities of your position without ill-temper and without murmuring?"
"Yes, Madame, that is it exactly."
"Well, your impropriety, if it is one at all, is far from displeasing22 me. I love sincerity above all things; I love it perhaps more than I do understanding, and I make an appeal to your entire frankness. Now what was it that persuaded you to accept such slight remuneration for coming here and keeping company with an infirm and perhaps tiresome23 old woman?"
"In the first place, Madame, I have been told that you are very intelligent and kind, and on that account I did not expect to find life tiresome with you; and then, even if I should have to endure a great deal, it is my duty to accept it all rather than to remain idle. My father having left us no fortune, my sister was at least well enough married, and I felt no scruples24 in living with her; but her husband, who had nothing but the salary of his place, recently died after a long and cruel illness, which had absorbed all our little savings25. It therefore naturally falls upon me to support my sister and her four children."
"With twelve hundred francs!" cried the Marchioness. "No, that cannot be. Ah! Madame d'Arglade did not tell me that. She, without doubt, feared the distrust which misfortune inspires; but she was very much mistaken in my case; your self-devotion interests me, and, if we can agree in other respects, I hope to make you sensible of my regard. Trust in me; I will do my best."
"Ah! Madame," I replied, "whether I have the good fortune to suit you or not, let me thank you for this good prompting of your heart." And I kissed her hand impulsively26, at which she did not seem displeased28.
"Yet," continued she, after another silence, in which she appeared to distrust her own suggestion, "what if you are slightly frivolous29 and a little of a coquette."
"I am neither the one nor the other."
"I hope not. Yet you are very pretty. They did not tell me that either, and the more I look at you, the more I think you are even remarkably30 pretty. That troubles me a little, and I do not conceal31 it from you."
"Why, Madame?"
"Why? Yes, you are right. The ugly believe themselves beautiful, and to the desire to please they add the faculty32 of making themselves ridiculous. You would better perhaps have the art of pleasing,—provided you do not abuse it. Well now, are you good enough girl and strong enough woman to give me a little account of your past life? Have you had some romance? Yes, you have,—have n't you? It is impossible that it could have been otherwise? You are twenty-two or twenty-three years old—"
"I am twenty-four, and I have had no other romance than the one of which I am going to tell you in two words. At seventeen I was sought in marriage by a person who pleased me, and who withdrew when he learned that my father had left more debts than capital. I was very much grieved, but I have forgotten it all, and I have sworn never to marry."
"Ah! that is spite, and not forgetfulness."
"No, Madame, that was an effort of the reason. Having nothing, but believing myself to be something, I did not wish to make a foolish marriage; and, far from having any spite, I have forgiven him who abandoned me. I forgave him especially the day when, seeing my sister and her four children in misery33, I understood the sorrow of the father of a family who dies with the pain of knowing that he can leave nothing to his orphans34."
"No, never. He is married, and I have ceased to think of him."
"And since then you have never thought of any other?"
"No, Madame."
"How have you done?"
"I do not know. I believe I have not had time to think of myself. When one is very poor, and does not want to give up to misery, the days are well filled out."
"But you have, nevertheless, been much sought after, pretty as you are,—have you not?"
"No, Madame, no one has troubled me in that way. I do not believe in persecutions which are not at all encouraged."
"I think as you do, and I am satisfied with your manner of answering. Do you, then, fear nothing for yourself in the future?"
"I fear nothing at all."
"I do not foresee it in any way. I am naturally cheerful, and I have preserved my command over myself in the midst of the most cruel tests. I have no dream of love in my head; I am not romantic. If I ever change I shall be very much astonished. That, Madame, is all I can tell you about myself. Will you take me such as I represent myself with confidence, since I can after all but give myself out for what I know myself to be?"
"Yes, I take you for what you are,—an excellent young woman, full of frankness and good-will. It remains38 to be seen whether you really have the little attainments39 that I require."
"What must I do?"
"Talk, in the first place; and upon that point I am already satisfied. And then you must read, and play a little music."
"Try me right away; and if the little I can do suits you—"
At the end of a page she took the book away from me, with the remark that my reading was perfect. Then came the music. There was a piano in the room. She asked me if I could read at sight. As that is about all I can do, I could satisfy her again on that point. Finally she told me that, knowing my writing and my style of composition, from letters of mine which Madame d'Arglade had shown her, she considered that I would be an excellent secretary, and she dismissed me, giving me her hand, and saying many kind things to me. I asked her for one day—to-morrow—in order to see some people here with whom we are acquainted, and she has given orders that I should be installed Saturday.—
Dear sister, I have just been interrupted. What a pleasant surprise! It is a note from Madame de Villemer,—a note of three lines, which I transcribe41 for you:—
"Permit me, dear child, to send you a trifle on account, for your sister's children, and a little dress for yourself. As you are fond of dress we must humor the weaknesses of those we like. It is arranged and understood that you are to have a hundred and fifty francs a month, and that I take upon myself to keep you in clothes."
How good and motherly that is,—is it not? I see that I shall love that woman with all my heart, and that I had not estimated her, at first sight, as highly as she deserved. She is more impulsive27 than I thought. The five hundred franc bill I enclose in this letter. Make haste! some wood in the cellar, some woollen petticoats for Lili, who needs them, and a chicken from time to time on that poor table. A little wine for you; your stomach is quite shattered, and it will take so little to restore it. The chimney must be repaired; it smokes atrociously: it is unbearable42; it may weaken the children's eyes,—and those of my little girl are so beautiful!
Really, I am ashamed of the dress which is intended for me,—a dress of magnificent pearl-gray silk. Ah, how foolish I was to say that I liked to be well dressed! A dress for forty francs would have satisfied my ambition, and here I am attired43 in one worth two hundred, while my poor sister is repairing her rags. I do not know where to hide myself; but do not at least think that I am humiliated45 by receiving a present. I shall relieve my conscience of the burden of these kindnesses, my heart tells me. You see, Camille, everything succeeds with me as soon as I enter upon it. I light, the first thing, upon an excellent woman, I get more than I had agreed to take, and I am received and treated as a child whom it is desired to adopt and spoil. And then to think that you kept me back a whole six months, imposing46 an increase of privations upon yourself and tearing your hair at the idea of my working for you! Good sister, were you not then a bad mother? Ought not those dear treasures of children to have been considered above all things, and should they not have silenced even our own regard for each other? Ah! I was very much afraid of failure, nevertheless, I will confess to you now, when I took out of the house our last few louis for the expenses of my journey, at the risk of returning without having pleased this lady. God has been concerned in it, Camille; I prayed to him this morning with such confidence! I asked him so fervently47 to make me amiable48, decorous, and persuasive49. Now I am going to bed, for I am overcome with fatigue. I love you, my little sister, you know, more than anything else in the world, and much more than myself. Do not grieve about me then; I am just now the happiest girl that lives, and yet I am not with you and do not see our children as they sleep! You see, indeed, that there is no true happiness in selfishness, since, alone as I am, separated from all that I love, my heart beats with joy in spite of my tears, and I am going to thank God upon my knees before I fall asleep.
CAROLINE.
While Mlle de Saint-Geneix was writing to her sister, the Marchioness de Villemer was talking with the youngest of her sons in her little drawing-room in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The house was large and respectable; yet the Marchioness, formerly50 rich and now in very narrow circumstances,—we shall soon see why,—had of late occupied the second floor in order to turn the first to account.
"Well, dear mother," said the Marquis, "are you satisfied with your new companion? Your people have told me that she has arrived."
"My dear child," answered the Marchioness, "I have but one word to say of her, and that is that she has bewitched me."
"Really? Tell me about it."
"Upon my word, I am not too sure that I dare. I am afraid of turning your head in advance."
"Fear nothing," was the sorrowful reply of the Marquis, whom his mother had tried to win into a smile; "even if I were so easy to inflame51, I know too well what I owe to the dignity of your house and to the repose52 of your life."
"Yes, yes, my friend; I know too that I can be at ease upon a question of honor and delicacy53, when it is with you that I have to do; I can also tell you that the little D'Arglade has found for me a pearl, a diamond, and that, to commence with, this phoenix54 has led me into follies55."
The Marchioness gave an account of her interview with Caroline, and described her thus: "She is neither tall nor short, she is well formed, has pretty little feet, the hands of a child, abundant light blond hair, a complexion56 of lilies and roses, perfect features, pearly teeth, a decided57 little nose, large sea-green eyes, which look straight at you unflinchingly, without dreaminess, without false timidity, with a candor58 and a confidence which please and engage; nothing of a provincial59, she has manners which are excellent because they do not seem to be manners at all; much taste and gentility in the poverty of her attire44; in a word, all that I feared and yet nothing that I feared, that is, beauty which inspired me with distrust and none of the affectations and pretensions60 which would have justified61 that distrust; and more, a voice and pronunciation which make real music of her reading, sterling62 talent as a musician, and, above all that, every indication of mind, sense, discretion63, and good-nature: to such an extent that, interested and carried away by her devotion to a poor family to which I see plainly she is sacrificing herself, I forgot my projects of economy, and have engaged to give her the eyes out of my head."
"Has she been bargaining with you?" demanded the Marquis.
"Quite the contrary, she was satisfied to take what I had determined64 to give her."
"In that case you did well, mother, and I am glad that you have at last a companion worthy65 of you. You have kept too long that hungry and sleepy old maid who worried you, and when you have a chance to replace her by a treasure, you would do very wrong to count the cost."
"Yes," replied the Marchioness, "that's what your brother also says; neither he nor you care to count the cost, my dear children, and I fear I have been too hasty in the satisfaction which I have just given myself."
"That satisfaction was necessary to you," said the Marquis with spirit, "and you ought the less to reproach yourself with it since you have yielded to your need of performing a good action."
"I acknowledge it, but I was wrong perhaps," replied the Marchioness, with a careworn66 expression; "one has not always the right to be charitable."
"Ah! my mother," cried the son, with a mingling67 of indignation and sadness, "when you are forced to deny yourself the joy of giving alms, the injury that I have done will be very great!"
"The injury! you? what injury?" rejoined the mother, astonished and troubled; "you have never done an injury, my dear son."
"Pardon me," said the Marquis, greatly moved. "I was to blame the day I engaged, out of respect to you, to pay my brother's debts."
"Hush68!" cried the Marchioness, turning pale. "Let us not speak of that, we would not understand each other." She extended her hands to the Marquis to lessen69 the involuntary bitterness of this answer. The Marquis kissed his mother's hands and retired70 shortly afterward71.
The next day, Caroline de Saint-Geneix went out to mail with her own hands the registered letter which she sent to her sister, and to see some people from the remotest part of her province with whom she kept up her acquaintance. These were old friends of her family, whom she did not succeed in meeting, and she left her name without giving her address, as she no longer had a home which she could consider her own. She felt a species of sadness to think of herself thus lost and dependent in a strange house; but she did not indulge in long reflections upon her destiny. In addition to the fact that she refused once for all to nourish in herself the least unnerving melancholy, she was not at all a timid character, and any test, howsoever unpleasant, did not set her at variance72 with life. There was in her organization an astonishing vitality73, an ardent74 activity, which was all the more remarkable75 because it arose from great tranquillity76 of mind and from a singular absence of thought about herself. This character, which is exceptional enough, will develop and explain itself as much as we can make it do so, by the events of the following narrative77; but the reader must necessarily remember, what all the world knows, that no one can explain completely and set in an exact light the character of another. Every individual has in the depth of his being a mystery of power or of weakness which he himself can as little reveal as he can understand. Analysis should seem satisfactory when it comes near to truth, but it could not seize the truth in the fact without leaving some phase of the eternal problem of the soul incomplete or obscure.
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1
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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mellows
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| （使）成熟( mellow的第三人称单数 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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impulsively
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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conceal
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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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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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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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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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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