THE EMBROIDERY STRIP
I suffered to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought that
toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at the
accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While the
needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers gives
to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her work has I
know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and makes haste.
Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the workwoman of to-day has
found again the active serenity of the innocent. Speak to her heart, it
will answer you.
Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she
should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed to me
that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or other and
she mingling her dream with the thread of her embroidery, would unite us
in a gentler and deeper friendship. She accepted this idea of work as
she accepts each one of my wishes, with a passive obedience, a singular
mixture of indifference and resignation.
After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing to
trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until
midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning. I
watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad expression
had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and regularly, told me
that her body alone was working, her mind taking no part in the task.
The old lady pronounced the muslin badly embroidered; she declared to me
that it was the work of a poor embroiderer, and that I never could find
any one who would be satisfied with such long stitches and so little
grace. I had feared this. The poor girl, having possessed jewels at
fifteen, could not have had much experience with the needle.
Fortunately, I sought in her work the slow cure of her heart, and not
the skill of her fingers or the profit of her toil. In order not to give
her back to idleness by imposing upon her a task myself, I resolved to
hide from her the discouraging refusal of the old lady to employ her
further.
I bought a stamped embroidery strip as I walked home. On entering, I
told her that her work had given satisfaction and that she had been
entrusted with more. Then, I handed her the few sous I had left, telling
her I had received them as her pay. I knew that on the morrow, perhaps,
I could not repeat this, and I regretted it. I desired to make her love
the savor of bread honestly earned.
Laurence took the money without disturbing herself about the evening
meal. She hastened away to purchase a row of velvet-covered buttons for
her blue dress, which was already torn and stained. Never had I seen her
so active; a quarter of an hour sufficed for her to sew on these
buttons. She made a grand toilet, then admired herself. When night came
on, she was still walking back and forth in the chamber, looking at her
new buttons. As I lighted the lamp, I told her gently to go to work. She
did not seem to understand me. I repeated my words, and then she sat
down roughly, angrily seizing the embroidery strip. My heart was filled
with sorrow.
"Laurence," said I, "it is not my wish to force you to work; put aside
your needle, if you feel inclined to do nothing. I have not the right to
impose a task upon you. You are free to be good or bad."
"No, no," she replied, "you want me to toil like a slave. I understand
that I must pay for my food and my share of the rent. I might even pay
your part, too, by working later at night."
"Laurence!" cried I, sadly. "Go, poor girl, and be happy. You shall not
touch a needle again. Give me that embroidery strip."
And I threw the muslin into the fire. I saw it burn, regretting my
hastiness. I had been unable to control my anguish, and was overwhelmed
at the thought that Laurence was escaping from me. I had restored her to
idleness. I trembled as I thought of the outrageous accusation she had
made against me--that I wanted the money she might earn; I realized that
it was no longer possible for me to advise her to work. So, it was all
over; a single outburst on her part had sufficed to make me withdraw
from her the means of redemption.
Laurence was not in the least surprised at my sudden rage. I have told
you that she more readily accepts anger than affection. She even smiled
at conquering what she called my weariness. Then she crossed her hands,
happy in her idleness.
As I stirred the warm cinders on the hearth, I sadly asked myself what
word, what sentiment, could awaken her stupefied soul! I was
horror-stricken that I had not yet been able to restore to her the
innocence of her childhood. I would have preferred her ignorant, eager
to know. I was filled with despair at this sad indifference, this night
satisfied with its gloom, and so dense that it refused to admit the
light. Vainly had I knocked at Laurence's heart: no answer had been
returned to me. I was tempted to believe that death had passed over it
and had dried up all its fibres. But a single quiver and I should have
thought the girl saved.
But what was to be done with this nothingness, this desolated creature,
this insensible marble which affection could not animate? Statues
frighten me: they stare without seeing and have no intellect to
understand.
Then, I said to myself that, perhaps, it was my fault if I could not
make Laurence understand me. Didier loved Marion; he did not seek to
save a soul--he simply loved--and yet he effected the miracle which my
reason and kindness had sought in vain to accomplish. A heart awakes
only at the voice of a heart. Love is the holy baptism which of itself,
without the faith, without the science of good, remits every sin.
I do not love Laurence. That cold and wearied girl causes me only
disgust.
Her voice and gestures seem insults in my eyes; her entire form wounds
me. Deprived of every delicacy of mind, she makes the kindest word
odious, and thrusts an outrage into each one of her smiles. In her
everything becomes bad.
I strove to feign tenderness and approached her. She sat motionless,
leaning towards the hearth, and allowed me to take her cold and inert
hands. Then, I drew her near me. She lifted her head, questioning me
with a look. Beneath that look I recoiled, repulsing her.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked.
What did I want! My lips were open to cry to her: "I want you to take
off that wretched silk dress and put on honest calico. I want you to
cease pining after your past career. I want you to listen to me and
understand what I say. I want you to turn your thoughts towards
innocence and goodness. I want to make you a worthy woman."
But, brothers, I did not say this. If I had loved her, I should without
doubt have spoken, and, perhaps, she would have understood me.