1
I took the road leading to the farm at which she lives. The yard is a
large one, the trees that hem it in are old and planted close together.
One can hardly see the straggling, thatched buildings from the road; and
I walked round the place without being able to satisfy my curiosity. She
lives there, I was told, with an old woman, her godmother, about whom
the people of the countryside tell stories of murder and debauchery. I
have seen her sometimes. She gives a disagreeable impression. She is a
tall, lean woman, with wisps of white hair straggling about her face.
Her waving arms and twitching hands carry a perpetual vague menace. The
black, deep-set eyes gleam evilly in her ivory face; and her hard thin
mouth, which opens straight across it, often hums coarse ditties in a
cracked voice.
Her curious attire completes the disorder of her appearance. Over her
rough peasant's clothes, some article of cast-off apparel cuts a strange
and lamentable figure: a muslin morning-wrap, once white and covered
with filmy lace; long, faded ribbons, which fasten a showy Watteau pleat
to the back, with ravelled ends spreading over the thick red-cotton
skirt; old pink-satin slippers, with pointed heels that sink into the
mud. In point of fact, I could say the exact number of times when I have
seen her and why I noticed her, for the sight of her always hurt me
cruelly when I met her in the sweet stillness of the country lanes.
For a long time, I wandered round the farm. I was moving away, picking
flowers as I went, when suddenly, at a bend in the road, I saw the girl
who filled my thoughts. She was sitting on a heap of stones; and two
large pails of milk stood beside her. Her attitude betokened great
weariness; and her drooping arms seemed to enjoy the rest.
I lingered a little while in front of her. Her face appeared to me
lovelier than on the first occasion, though her uncovered head allowed
me to see her magnificent hair plastered down so as to leave it no
freedom whatever. She answered my smile with a blush; and, when I looked
at her thick and awkward hands, she clasped and unclasped them with an
embarrassed air.
2
Just now, at the wane of the day, I was singing in the drawing-room,
with the windows open. I caught sight in the mirror of the sky ablaze
with red and rose quickly from the piano to see the sun dip into the
sea.... Near the garden, behind the hedge, I surprised the young girl
trying to hide....
3
I had never seen her; but now, because I saw her one day, I am always
seeing her.
Do we then behold only what we seek? It is a sad thought. We shall be
called upon to die before we have seen everything, understood
everything, loved and embraced everything. Our skirts will have brushed
against joys which we shall not have felt; our streaming tresses will
have passed through perfumes which we shall not have breathed; our mouth
will have kissed flowers which our hands have not known how to pick; and
very often our eyes will have seen without acquainting our intelligence.
We shall not have been observant continually.
It is a pity that things possess no other life than that which we
bestow upon them. I dislike to find that, for me, everything is subject
to my observation and my knowledge. The first is great indeed, but the
second is so small!...
4
A few years ago, the parish priest was on his way to the church at four
o'clock one morning, to celebrate the harvest mass, when he saw a
strange thing floating on the surface of the pool that washes the steps
of the wayside crucifix. As he approached, he perceived that it was a
woman's long hair. A moment later, they drew the body of a young and
beautiful girl to the bank. With nothing on her but her night-dress, she
seemed to have run straight from her bed to the pond. The gossips of the
neighbourhood will never cease chattering over this incident and the
shock which it gave the priest; and, though there is no other pond in
the village, the poor girl will be everlastingly reproached with
choosing "God's Pool" for her attempt at suicide.
Is it not enough for me to know that she is out of place amid her coarse
surroundings and that she is not happy there?
5
I have been expecting her for a week. I am wishing with all my might
that she may come; I am drawing her with my eyes, with my smile, with my
manner and with my will. But I say nothing to her. She must be able to
take to herself all the credit of this first act of independence.
Moreover, it will give me the evidence which I require of some sympathy
between us.
Outwardly, I am following a strict principle. Really, I am yielding to a
fear: am I not about to perform a dangerous and rather mad action, in
once more taking upon myself the responsibility of another's life?
We are not always unaware of the follies which we are about to commit;
but it is natural that the immediate joys should eclipse the probable
misfortunes and help us to go boldly forward.
Besides, the inquisitive know no weariness. They go with outstretched
hand to the assistance of events, heedless of increasing the chances of
suffering, because they always find, in return, something to occupy
their restlessness. Let us not blame them. In contemplating the good or
evil outcome of an action, we behold but its main lines; we do not see
the thousand little broken strokes that go to compose it. They make the
total of our days; and they have to be lived.