1
I am happy. Wonderful flowers lie at my feet, flowers which have been
plucked and flung aside: I will pick them all up again, all of them! I
will gather them in my arms and steep myself in their scent! One by one,
I will tend them till they lift their heads again, I will blend them
cunningly; and, when I have bound the fair sheaf, fate may do its worst!
It is no longer a question of the sanity or insanity of my experiment,
or my wisdom or unwisdom. There is a just action to be accomplished;
and, this time, circumstances favour my plans. In her distress, in her
horror of her present life, all the possibilities of deliverance might
have offered themselves to the girl: she would not have seen them, she
would even have fled from them instinctively, timid as an animal too
long confined. To save her, therefore, chance must take to itself a
substance and a name. Can I not be that chance?
She suffers; I will give her joy. She is tormented; I will give her
peace again. She knows not liberty; through me she will know its
rapture. Once already she has been snatched from death, but, on that
day, while they were carrying Rose to the presbytery, her long, golden
tresses wept along the wayside. But I will carry her where she pleases.
She shall be free and happy; and her hair shall laugh around her face.
It shall help me to light her destiny, for beauty is a beacon for
benighted hearts. Many will try to steer their course towards my
Roseline. It will be easy for her to choose her happiness.
True, I am aware how perilous and uncertain is my experiment. Will it be
possible to efface the evil impress left on that mind and body? How much
of her early grace, her early vigour shall we find? What will have
become of all the forces that, at seventeen, should still be frail as
promises, tender as the little green shoots of a first spring-day?
But no matter? The impulse is irresistible and nothing can stay me now.
Have no misgivings, Rose: hand in hand we will go through peril and
suspense. Embrace the hope which I offer you: I will bring it to pass.
Let nothing astonish you: all that is happening between us to-day is
natural. You will go hence because it is right that you should go; and
you will go of your own free will. It is not so much my heart which will
bring you comfort; it is rather your heart which will open. I shall find
in you all the good that you will receive from me.
2
I send for the girl without further delay. A fortnight has elapsed since
we first talked together; and I am anxious to know the result.
I look at her. A different woman is before my eyes. Is it a mistake? Is
it an illusion? No, it is all quite simple; and my words had no need to
be forcible or brilliant. The word that shows a glimpse of hope to the
sufferer has its own power.
She says nothing and I dare not question her. The wisdom that has made
her understand how serious the effect of my plans may be must also make
her fear their possible flippancy.
I have brought her into the dining-room. Sitting at the window, with her
hands folded in her lap and her head bowed, she remains there without
moving, heedless of the sun that is scorching her neck. Her wide-eyed
gaze wanders over things which it does not take in; her lips,
half-parted in a smile, betray the indecision of her soul. At last,
blushing all over her face, she stammers out:
"I am frightened. You have awakened my longings, my dreams. I am
frightened. I would rather be as I was before I knew you, when I only
wanted to die. When your message was brought to the farm, I swore that I
would not come; and yet ... here I am!"
I put my arm round her neck:
"It's too late," I whispered, kissing her. "To discuss the idea of
rebellion means to give way to it. Resist no longer, Roseline; let
yourself go."
Her incredulous eyes remained fixed on mine; and she said, slowly:
"There is one thing that puzzles me. How am I to express it? I should
like to know why you take so much interest in me: I am neither a friend
nor a relation." And she added, with a knowing air, "You see, what you
are doing doesn't seem quite natural!"
My heart shrank. So this peasant, this rough, simple girl knew the laws
of the world! She knew that, even in the manner of doing good, there are
customs to be followed, "conventions to be observed!" Ah, poor Rose,
though your instinctive reason is like a broad white fabric which
circumstances have not yet soiled, your character already has ugly
streaks in it; the voice of the multitude spoke through your lovely
mouth and, for a brief second, it became disfigured in my eyes! Alas, if
I wore a queer head-dress and a veil down my back and a chaplet hanging
by my side and said to you, "My child, I wish to save your soul," would
you not think my insistence quite simple and natural?
Taking her poor, deformed hands in mine, I knelt down beside her:
"Rose, the happiness which I find in helping you is a sufficient motive
for me; and I will offer you no others.... I give you my confidence
blindly, for one can do nothing without faith. I give you my confidence
and I ask for yours. Will you vouchsafe it me?"
The sun is streaming upon us; our faces are close together; my smile
calls for hers; my eyes gaze into hers; and I repeat my prayer.
Then she whispers, shily:
"You see ... I have been deceived once; perhaps you don't know...."
I interrupted her:
"I know that we must have been deceived twenty times before we learn to
give our confidence blindly, like a little child!... I know that we
must have been perpetually deceived before we understand that nothing
proves anything; that everything is unforeseen, inconsistent, and
unexpected; and that we must just simply 'believe,' because it is good
to believe and because it is sweet to offer to others what we ourselves
are unhappy enough to lack."
She went on:
"But what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to go away from here."
"Why?"
"Because you are wretched here."
"Has any one said so?"
"What does it matter what any one has said? I have only to look at you
to see that you are not happy. Oh, please don't regard this as an act of
charity, I would not even dare to talk about kindness! The interest that
impels me is one which you do not yet know; it looks to none for
recompense; it is its own reward. It is the mere joy, the mere delight
of knowledge.... Do you understand?"
She shook her head; and I began to laugh:
"I suppose I really am a little obscure!... But why do you force me to
explain myself now? You learn to understand me by degrees.... I am
leading you towards a goal of which I am almost as ignorant as you are;
I am only the guide waving a hand towards the roads which he himself has
taken and never knowing what the traveller will see or feel in the
depths of his being."
She was going to speak, but I placed my hand on her lips:
"Hush! I ask nothing more of you. I shall know how to win your
confidence."
I feel that she is silenced but not convinced. Hers is not a character
to be thus persuaded: she will wait for deeds before judging the
sincerity of words. I feel clearly that she is searching and judging me,
while I myself am engaged in discovering her; and I shall have some
curiosity in bending over the untroubled waters of that soul in order to
see my image there, as soon as there is sufficient light to reflect my
image.