SÉVAL, near CHAMBON (CREUSE), May 1, '45.
At last, my sister, we are here, and it is a terrestrial paradise. The castle is old and small, but well arranged for comfort and picturesque2 enough. The park is sufficiently3 large, not any too well kept, and not in the English fashion—thank Heaven!—rich in fine old trees covered with ivy4, and in grasses running wild. The country is delightful5. We are still in Auvergne, in spite of the new boundaries, but very near to the old limits of La Marche, and within a league of a little city called Chambon, through which we passed on our way to the castle. This little town is very well situated6. It is reached by a mountain ascent7, or rather, through a cleft8 in a deep ravine; for mountain, properly speaking, there is none. Leaving behind the broad plains of thin, moist soil, covered with small trees and large bushes, you descend9 into a long, winding10 gorge11, which in some places enlarges into a valley. In the bottom of this ravine, which soon divides into branches, flow rivers of pure crystal, not navigable, and rather torrents12 than rivers, although they only whirl along, boiling a little, but threatening no danger. As for myself, having never known anything but our great plains and wide, smooth rivers, I am somewhat inclined to look upon all here as either hill or abyss; but the Marchioness, who has seen the Alps and the Pyrenees, laughs at me, and pretends that all this is as insignificant13 as a table-cover. So I forbear to give you any enthusiastic description, lest I mislead your judgment14; but the Marchioness, who cannot be accused of an undue15 love of nature, will never succeed in preventing me from being delighted with what I see.
It is a country of grasses and leafage, one continual cradle of verdure. The river, which descends16 the ravine, is called the Vouèze, and then, uniting with the Tarde at Chambon, it becomes the Char17, which, again at the end of the first valley, is called the Cher, a stream that every one knows. For myself, I like the name Char (or car); it is excellent for a stream like this, which in reality rolls along at about the pace of a carriage well under way down a gentle slope, where there is nothing to make it jolt18 or jar unreasonably19. The road also is straight and sanded like a garden walk, lined too with magnificent beeches20, through which one can see outspread the natural meadows that are just now one carpet of flowers. O, these lovely meadows, my dear Camille! How little they resemble our artificial plains, where you always see the same plant on ground prepared in regular beds! Here you feel that you are walking over two or three layers of vegetation, of moss21, reeds, iris22, a thousand kinds of grasses, some of them pretty, and others prettier still, columbines, forget-me-nots, and I know not what! There is everything; and they all come of their own accord, and they come always! It is not necessary to turn over the ground once in every three or four years to expose the roots to the air and to begin over again the everlasting23 harrowing which our indolent soil seems to need. And then, here, some of the land is permitted to go to waste or poorly tilled, or so it seems; and in these abandoned nooks Nature heartily24 enjoys making herself wild and beautiful. She shoots forth25 at you great briers which seem inexhaustible and thistles that look like African plants, they flaunt26 such large coarse leaves, slashed27 and ragged28, to be sure, but admirable in design and effect.
When we had crossed the valley,—I am speaking of yesterday,—we climbed a very rugged29 and precipitous ascent. The weather was damp, misty30, charming. I asked leave to walk, and, at the height of five or six hundred feet, I could see the whole of this lovely ravine of verdure. The far-off trees were already crowding toward the brink31 of the water at my feet, while from point to point in the distance rustic32 mills and sluices33 filled the air with the muffled34 cadences35 of their sounds. Mingled36 with all this were the notes of a bagpipe37 from I know not where, and which kept repeating a simple but pleasing air, till I had heard more than enough of it. A peasant who was walking in front of me began to sing the words, following and carrying along the air, as if he wanted to help the musician through with it. The words, without rhyme or reason, seemed so curious that I will give them to you—
The sun melts them not,—
The sun, nor yet the moon!
The lad who would love
Seeketh his pain."
There is always something mysterious in peasant songs, and the music, as defective39 as the verses, is also mysterious, often sad and inducing revery. For myself, condemned40 as I am to do my dreaming at lightning speed, since my life does not belong to me, I was forcibly impressed by this couplet, and I asked myself many times why "the moon," at least, did not melt the rocks; did this mean that, by night as well as by day, the grief of the peasant lover is as heavy as his mountains?
On the top of this hill, which appropriately bristles41 with these large rocks, so cruelly hard,—the Marchioness says they are small as grains of sand, but then I never happened to see any such beautiful sand,—we entered upon a road narrower than the highway, and, after walking a little way amid enclosures of wooded grounds, we found ourselves at the entrance of the castle, which is entirely42 shaded by the trees, and not imposing43 in appearance; but on the other side it commands the whole beautiful ravine that we had just passed through. You can see the deep declivity44, with its rocks and its bushes, the river too with its trees, its meadows, its mills, and the winding outlet45 through which it flows, between banks growing more and more narrow and precipitous. There is in the park a very pretty spring, which rises there, to fall in spray along the rocks. The garden is well in bloom. In the lower court there is a lot of animals which I am permitted to manage. I have a delightful room, very secluded46, with the finest view of all; the library is the largest apartment in the house. The drawing-room of the Marchioness, in its furniture and arrangement, calls to mind the one in Paris; but it is larger, not so deadening to sound, and one can breathe in it. In short, I am well, I am content, I feel myself reviving; I rise at daybreak, and until the Marchioness appears, which, thank Heaven, is no earlier here than in Paris, I am going to belong to myself in a most agreeable fashion. O, how free I shall be to walk, and write to you, and think of you! Alas! if I only had one of the children here, Lili or Charley, what delightful and instructive walks we could take together! But it is in vain for me to fall in love with all the handsome darlings that I meet, for it does not last. A moment after I compare them with yours, and I feel that yours will have no serious rivals in my affections, and in the midst of my rejoicing at being in the country, comes the thought that I am farther from you than I was before!—and when shall I see you again?
"Alas! how hard are the rocks!" But it's of no use to struggle against all of those which cumber47 the lives of poor people like us. I must do my duty and become attached to the Marchioness. Loving her is not difficult. Every day she is more kind to me; she is really almost like a mother to me, and her fancy for petting and spoiling me makes me forget my real position. We expected to find the Marquis on our arrival, since he promised to meet his mother here. It cannot be long before he comes. As for the Duke, he will be here, I think, next week. Let us hope that he will be as civil to me in the country as he has been lately in Paris, and not oblige me to show my temper.
At another time Caroline reported to her sister the opinions of the Marchioness on country life.
"'My dear child,' said she to me not long since, 'in order to love the country one must love the earth stupidly, or nature unreasonably. There is no mean between brutal48 stupidity and enthusiastic folly49. Now you know that if I have anything excitable or even sanguine50 in my composition, it is for the concerns of society rather than for what is governed by the laws of Nature, which are always the same. Those laws are the work of God, so they are good and beautiful. Man can change nothing in them. His control, his observation, his admiration51, even his descriptive eloquence52, add nothing at all to them. When you go into ecstasies53 over an apple-tree in bloom, I do not think you are wrong; I think, on the contrary, that you are very right, but it seems to me hardly worth while to praise the apple-tree which does not hear you, which does not bloom to please you, and which will bloom neither the more nor the less, if you say nothing to it. Be assured that when you exclaim, "How beautiful is the spring!" it is just the same as if you said, "The spring is the spring!" Well, then, yes, it is warm in summer because God has made the sun. The river is clear because it is running water, and it is running water because its bed is inclined. It is beautiful because there is in all this a great harmony; but if it had not this harmony, all the beauty would not exist.'
"Thus you see the Marchioness is nothing of an artist, and that she has arguments at her service for not understanding what she does not feel; but in this is she not like the rest of the world, and are we not all acting54 like her, with respect to any faculty55 we may happen to lack?
"As she was thus talking, seated on a garden bench much fatigued56 with the 'exercise' she had taken,—namely, a hundred paces on a sanded walk,—a peasant came to the garden gate to sell fish to the cook, who was bargaining with him. I recognized this peasant as the one who had walked before me on the day of our arrival, singing the song about the 'hard rocks.' 'What are you thinking of?' asked the Marchioness, who saw that I was observing him.
"'I am thinking,' I replied, 'of watching that stout57 fellow. It is no longer an apple-tree or a river, you see, and he has a peculiar58 countenance59, with which I have been struck.'
"'How, pray?'
"'Why, if I were not afraid to repeat a modern word of which you seem to have a horror, I should say that this man has character.'
"'How do you know? Is it because he is obstinate60 about the price of his fish? Ah! that's it; but pardon me. Character! the word, you see, has become a pun in my mind. I have forgotten to think of it as used in literature—or art. A piece of dress goods, a bench, a kettle, have character now; that is to say, a kettle has the shape of a kettle, a bench looks like a bench, and dress goods have the effect of dress goods? Or is it the contrary, rather? Have dress goods the character of a cloud, a bench that of a table, and a kettle that of a well? I will never admit your word, I give you warning!'—and then she began to talk about the neighboring peasantry. 'They are not bad people,' said she; 'not so much given to cheating as to wheedling61. They are eager for money, because they are in want of everything; but they allow themselves nothing from the money which they make. They hoard62 up to buy property, and, when the hour has come, they are intoxicated63 with the delight of acquisition, buy too largely, borrow at any price, and are ruined. Those who best understand their own interests become usurers and speculate on this rage for property, sure that the lands will return to them at a lower price, when the purchaser shall have become bankrupt. This is why some peasants climb up into the citizen class, while the greater number fall back lower than ever. It is the sad side of the natural law, for these people are governed by an instinct almost as fatal and blind as that which makes the apple-tree blossom. So the peasant interests me but little. I assist the lame64 and the half-witted, the widows and children, but the healthy ones are not to be interfered65 with. They are more headstrong than their mules66.'
"'Then, Madame, what is there here to interest one?'
"'Nothing. We come here because the air is good, and because we can benefit our health and purse a little. And then it is the custom. Everybody leaves Paris at the earliest possible moment. One must go away when the others do.'"
* * * * *
"You see, dear Camille, by this specimen67 of our conversation, that the Marchioness looks gloomily upon the present age, and you can, too, by the same means, now form some idea of this 'talking life' of hers, which you said you could not understand. Upon every subject she has an intelligent criticism always ready, sometimes bright and good-natured, sometimes sharp and bitter. She has talked too much in the course of her life to be happy. Thinking of two or three or thirty people, continually, and without taking time to collect one's self, is, I believe, a great abuse. One ceases to question one's self, affirming always; for otherwise there could be no discussion, and all conversation would cease. Condemned to this exercise, I should give way to doubt or to disgust of my fellow-creatures, if I had not the long morning to recover myself and find my balance again. Although Madame de Villemer, by her wit and good-humor, throws every possible charm about this dry employment of our time, I long for the Marquis to come and take his share in this dawdling68 oratory69."
The Marquis did really arrive in the course of a week or ten days, but he was worried and absent-minded, and Caroline noticed that he was peculiarly cold toward her. He plunged70 directly into his favorite pursuits, and no longer allowed himself to be seen at all till the hour of dinner. This peculiarity71 was the more evident to Mlle de Saint-Geneix, because the Marquis seemed to be making more effort than he had ever done before to stand his ground in discussions with his mother,—to the very great satisfaction of the latter, who feared nothing in the world but silence and wandering attention; so that Caroline, seeing herself no longer needed to spur on a lagging conversation, and getting the impression that she paralyzed the Marquis more than she assisted him, was less assiduous in profiting by his presence, and took it upon herself to withdraw early in the evening.
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1
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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2
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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3
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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5
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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6
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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9
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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10
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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11
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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12
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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13
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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14
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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15
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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16
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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17
char
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| v.烧焦；使...燃烧成焦炭 | |
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18
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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19
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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20
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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21
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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23
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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24
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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25
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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26
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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27
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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28
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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29
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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30
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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31
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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32
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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33
sluices
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| n.水闸( sluice的名词复数 )；（用水闸控制的）水；有闸人工水道；漂洗处v.冲洗( sluice的第三人称单数 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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34
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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35
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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36
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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37
bagpipe
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| n.风笛 | |
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38
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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39
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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40
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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42
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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43
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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44
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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45
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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46
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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47
cumber
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| v.拖累，妨碍；n.妨害；拖累 | |
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48
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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51
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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52
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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53
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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54
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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55
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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56
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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59
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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60
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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61
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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62
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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63
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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64
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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65
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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66
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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67
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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68
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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69
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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70
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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71
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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