CHAPTER XIV

1

Immense black clouds scudded past in the darkness; a furious wind

stripped the groaning branches of their leaves; and, when the moon

suddenly pierced the night, gaunt figures appeared of almost bare trees

twisted and shaken by the wind. Behind the orchards, a few

cottage-windows showed a glimmer of light; and the watch-dogs howled as

I passed, to the accompaniment of their dragging chains.

I walked quickly, full of misgivings and yet undaunted. I asked myself

at intervals what was taking me to the farm, to probable suffering. Was

it Rose's silence: I had heard nothing of her for a week? Was it the

hope of saying good-bye to her, of letting her know at least that I was

to go away the next day? Or was it not rather the curiosity that makes

us wish to see, without being seen ourselves, the man or woman who

interests us?

We always influence in some way or other the looks or the words that are

addressed to us. The eye that rests on us becomes unconsciously filled

with our own rest; and the longing that awakens at the sight of us is

often born of the unspoken call of our soul or our blood. From the first

moment when our hands meet, an exchange takes place, and we are no

longer entirely ourselves, we exist in relation to the persons and the

things around us. Two honest lives cannot join in falsehood; but either

of them, if united to a vulgar nature, is perhaps capable of

deterioration.

While thus arguing, I seek to reassure myself. True, Rose could never be

at the farm, among those coarse people, what she is with me. Still, what

will she be like?

I remember something she said to me at the beginning of our

acquaintance:

"For the sake of peace with those about me, by degrees I made myself the

same as they were. After a time, I never said what I really thought and

soon I ceased to notice the difference between the two. As I thought

that it was impossible for me ever to go away, it seemed to me a wise

policy to adapt myself to the life I had to live. It was a lie at first;

later it became second nature...."

But now? Now that all that existence is no more than a temporary

unpleasantness, what is her attitude?

2

It was striking eight when I came up to the farm. As a rule, everybody

is in bed by then. But to-day was the feast of the patron-saint of the

village; and there must have been dancing and drinking till nightfall.

At that moment, the darkness was so thick that I could hardly see

anything in front of me. I found the gate locked. Clinging to the trees

and pulling myself through the thorns and brambles, I climbed across the

bank and dropped into the orchard. I at once called softly to the dog,

so that he should recognise a friend's voice, and, as soon as I was

certain of his silence, I walked quietly to the house, where there was a

light in two of the windows at the back of the farm-yard. Not daring to

take the path that led to the door, I made my way as best I could

through the long grass. I was shivering in my dress; and my feet were

frozen. Whenever the moon peeped through two clouds, I quickly flung

myself against a tree and waited without moving for the darkness to

return. Cows were lying here and there on the grass: at each lull in

the storm, I heard the heavy breathing of the sleeping animals; and

their peacefulness soothed my troubled mind.

Some thirty yards from the house, I stopped, uncertain what to do. It

can be approached only by going a little higher, for it is built on a

mound in the centre of the yard. The whole length of the one-storeyed,

thatched buildings was without a tree or any dark corner where I could

shelter.

I was still hesitating, when suddenly a shadow passed across one of the

windows. I seemed to recognise Rose, and my rising curiosity made me

cover in a moment the distance that separated me from her. Once there,

against the window-pane, I thought of nothing else.

No, it was not fear but sorrow that oppressed me from the first glance

within: Rose was laughing at the top of her voice, her mouth opened in a

paroxysm of mirth. She was laughing a silly, brutish laugh, lying back

in her chair, with her knees wide apart and her hands on her hips. A

lamp stood near her on the long table around which the men were eating

and drinking; under its torn shade the light flared unevenly, lighting

up some things with ruthless clearness and leaving others in complete

darkness. Of the men, I could see nothing distinctly except their heavy

jaws and coarse hands and the lighter patches of their white shirts and

blue smocks. I could make out very little of the large, low-ceilinged

room. A rickety chair here; an old dresser there, with a few battered

dishes on it. At regular intervals, a brass pendulum sends forth gleams

as it catches the light; and the smouldering fire in the tall

chimney-place flickers for a moment and illumines the strings of beans

and onions drying round the hearth. On the floor, in the middle of the

room, two little cowherds are quarrelling for the possession of a goose,

no doubt won as a prize in the village. The poor thing, lying half-dead,

with its wings and legs tied up, utters piteous sounds, which are the

signal for a burst of laughter and coarse jokes.

But suddenly all is silence. A door opens at the far end of the room and

on the threshold stands the mistress, with a candle in her hand and some

bottles under her arm. The fear inspired by the old madwoman is obvious

at once. The two urchins take refuge under the table with their prey,

Rose's laughter ceases abruptly and, through the window-panes, I hear

the steady ticking of the clock and the clatter of the spoons in the

bowls.

The old woman has sat down in the full light. She is eating, with bent

back, lowered head and jerky, nervous movements, while her wicked little

sunken eyes peer from under her heavy, matted brows. She speaks some

curt words in _patois_, too fast for me to catch their sense; but her

strident voice hurts my ears. The conversation becomes livelier by

degrees and soon everybody is speaking at once....

I wait in vain for an absent look, a gesture of annoyance, an expression

of pain on Rose's part. No, she seems at her ease among these people, as

she was at the great house, as she is and as she will be everywhere. She

follows the remarks of one and all and shows the same attention which

she vouchsafes to me when I speak to her. From time to time, she says a

word or two; and I recognise the shrill voice and the vulgar gestures

that used to hurt me so much during our early talks.

I remained there for a long time, always waiting, always hoping. Excited

by liquor, the men began to quarrel; and I heard the old woman hurl a

torrent of vile insults at them. Rose took the part of one of the men

and interfered, using language as coarse as theirs.

3

It was late when I went away. The clouds had dispersed, the wind had

dropped; the moonbeams were making pools of silver on the ground through

the trees; and, when I reached the open fields, they appeared to me

cold, immense, infinite under a molten sky.

The picture which I carry away with me seems to lose its colour before

my eyes: it is harder and sadder, made up of harsh lights and darker

shadows, like an etching. I see the rough hands on the white deal table,

the bony faces brutally outlined by a crude light. I hear the cracked

voice of the old madwoman, now raised in yells of abuse, now breaking

into song ... and Rose ... my beautiful Rose....

But I have stolen this sight of a life which I was never meant to see.

The dishonesty of my invisible presence makes a gulf between my actual

vision and my perception; and it seems to me that, in this case, I must

withhold my judgment even as we hold our breath before a flickering

flame.

PART THE SECOND

CHAPTER I

1

There is in love, in friendship or in the curiosity that drives us

towards a fellow-creature a period of ascendency when nothing can quench

our enthusiasm. The fire that consumes us must burn itself out; until

then, all that we see, all that we discover feeds it and increases it.

We are aware of a blemish, but we do not see it. We know the weakness

that to-morrow perhaps will blight our joy, but we do not feel it. We

hear the word that ought to deal our hopes a mortal blow; and it does

not even touch them!... And our reason, which knows, sees, hears and

foresees, remains dumb, as though it delighted in these games which

bring into play our heart and our capacity for feeling. Besides, to us

women this exercise of the emotions is something so delightful and so

salutary that our will has neither the power nor the inclination to

check it either in its soberest or its most extravagant manifestations.

The influence of the will would always be commonplace and sordid by the

side of that generous force which is created by each impulse of the

heart or mind.

Upon every person or every idea that arouses our enthusiasm we have just

so much to bestow, a definite sum of energy to expend, which seems, like

that of our body, to have its own time and season. I have known Rose for

hardly three months; her picture is still vernal in my heart; nothing

can prevent its colours from being radiant with freshness, radiant with

vigour, radiant with sunshine. I shall therefore go away without regret.

I see the childishness of all the experiments to which I am subjecting

the girl so as to know her a little better. My interest throws such a

light upon her that she cannot, do what she will, shrink back into the

shade.

She is to me the incarnation of one of my most cherished ideas. Until I

know all, I shall suspend my judgment and my intentions will not change.

I believe that every seed in the rich soil of a noble heart has to

fulfil its tender, gracious work of love and kindness.

I cannot, therefore, lay upon Rose the burden of my disappointment last

night; and my affection suggests a thousand good reasons for absolving

her. Is this wrong? And are we to consider, with the sapient ones of

the earth, that our vision is never clear until the day when we no

longer have the strength to love, believe and admire? I do not think so.

Setting aside the careful judgment which we exercise in the case of our

companion for life, it is certain that our opinions on the others, on

our chance acquaintances, are but an illusion and owe far more to our

souls than to theirs. In our brief and crowded lives, we have barely

time to catch a note of beauty here, to perceive a sign of truth there.

If, therefore, we have to pass days and years without understanding

everything and loving everything, if we have to remain under a

misapprehension, why not choose that which is on the side of love and

gladdens our hearts?

We should take care of the images that adorn our soul. Our women's minds

would possess more graciousness if we bestowed upon them a little of the

attention which we lavish on our bodies.

My beautiful Rose is kind and loving; I will deck her with my hopes as

long as I can. When enthusiasm is shared, it is easy to keep it up. It

weighs lightly in spite of its infinite preciousness. If I ever find it

a strain, the reason will be that Rose did not really bear her share of

it. It will become a burden and I shall relinquish it. All that she

will have of me will be the careless charity bestowed upon the poor.

2

"Paris, ... 19--

"If you knew, Rose, how I miss the lovely autumn landscapes! The weather

was so bright on the day of my departure that, to enjoy it to the full,

I bicycled to the railway-town. After leaving the village, I took the

road through the wood and it was delightful to skim along through the

dead leaves, the softly-streaming tears of autumn. Sometimes, when a

gust of wind blew, I went faster; and little yellow waves seemed to rise

and fall and chase one another all around me. Some of the trees, not yet

bare, but only thinned, traced an exquisite russet lacework against the

blue sky; and the birds warbled, cooed and whistled as in spring. I saw

the noisy, crowded streets of Paris waiting for me at the end of my day;

and this gave a flavour of sadness to the calm of the high roads, the

pureness of the air, the dear beauty of the lanes....

"It was quite early in the morning and the fields were still bathed in

a dewy radiance. I sat down for a little while on a roadside bank; an

immense plain began at the level of my face and ended by rising slowly

towards the sky. It was a very young field of corn, which the splendour

of the day turned into pearly down. I could have looked at it for ever,

at one moment letting the full glory of it burst on my dazzled eyes and

then gradually lowering my lids down to the tiny threads that trembled

and glittered in my breath. Then my mouth formed itself into a kiss; and

I amused myself by slowly and lovingly making the cool pearls of the

morning die on my warm lips...."

3

"Paris, ... 19--

"I see you, my Rose, laying supper in the wretched kitchen, while the

farm-hands gather round the hearth. I like to picture you going

cautiously through the old woman's room at night, so as to write to me

by the rays of the moon, without disturbing the household with an

unwonted light. You come and sit on the ledge of the open window, to

receive the full benefit of the moonbeams, and then you write on your

knee those trembling lines which convey your emotion to me.

"I see you in the wonderful setting of the silver-flooded orchard. The

golden silk of your long tresses embroiders your white night-dress. Your

eyes are filled with peace; you are beautiful like that; and there is

nothing so sweet as an orchard in the moonlight. The apple-trees seem to

lay their even shadows softly upon the pallor of the grass; and their

ordered quiet spreads a serene and simple joy over nature's sleep....

"Rose, at the moving period that brought us together, how I would that

your sweet composure had been sometimes a little ruffled! It would have

appeared to me of a finer quality had I found it more variable. A

woman's reason should be less rigid; and I should loathe mine if it were

not a leaven of indulgence and forgiveness in my life....

"Oh, Rose, Rose, tell me that the coldness of your soul springs from its

wonderful purity! Tell me that your heart is so deep that the sound of

the joys which fall into it cannot be heard outside! Tell me that it is

the storm of your life that has crushed the flowers of your sensibility

for the time....

"I well know that our interest cannot always be active, that it must be

suppressed; I know that indifference is essential to the happy

equilibrium of our faculties and that, beside the exaltation of our

soul, it is the untroubled lake fertilising and refreshing the earth.

And you will find, Rose, how necessary it is to be on our guard against

it in our judgments and how it can take possession of some natures and

slowly destroy them under a hateful appearance of wisdom! I would rather

discover ugly and active defects in you than that beautiful

impassiveness. Besides, as I have told you many a time, the excellence

that seems to me ideal has its weaknesses. It is rather a way of

perfection for our poor humanity, a way that is all the better because

it is adapted for our feeble and wavering steps!...

"Once, at harvest-time, I met you in the little road near the church. It

was the end of the day; and you were coming back from the fields. You

were standing high on a swaying mountain of hay, you were driving a

great farm-horse, which disappeared under its load. Your tall figure

stood out against the sky ablaze with the last rays of the sun; and I

still see your look of absolute unconcern. You wore a long blue apron

that came all round you and a bodice of the same colour. In that blue

faded by the sun, with your hair a pale cloud in the gold of the

sunset, you looked like an archangel taken from some Italian fresco.

"As you passed me, you timidly returned my smile; and I followed you for

a long time with my eyes. Do you still remember the trouble you had in

passing under the dark vault of the old oaks? Every now and again, a

branch, longer and lower than the others, threatened your face: you

caught it with a quick movement and lifted it over your head. At one

time, there were so many of those branches and they were so heavy that

you were obliged to lie back on the hay, holding both arms over your

face to save it from being struck. Then, when the lumbering wagon

stopped in front of the farm, my archangel stepped down humbly into the

mud, took the horse by the bridle and disappeared from sight....

"The reason why this memory now comes back to me is that I find in it

some affinity with what I would ask of your reason: those simple

movements by which you will be able to thrust aside the bad habits that

disfigure you! May your reason be the beautiful archangel to guide and

sway your humble life, but may it sometimes know how to descend and

stoop in obedience to the necessities of chance. Even as, on the day

when I saw you, you could not alter the road which you had to follow, so

you cannot alter your real nature; but you must 'know the way,' you must

guide and control."

4

"Paris,... 19--

"I am longing to have you here so that I may watch carefully over the

slightest details of your life and put your temperament incessantly to

the test. They say that enthusiasm cannot be acquired. But how can they

tell that it is not merely sleeping, unless they try to awaken it? Those

around us have sometimes, quite unconsciously, an unhappy way of

subduing and oppressing us.

"Even the most emotional have often to struggle lest their souls should

shrink in the presence of certain people, like the flowers whose petals

exposed to the light timidly hide their hearts as soon as day declines.

You, whom a placid humour reserves for gentle emotions, must try not to

let that very beautiful nature exceed its rights, or cast an unnecessary

shadow over your feelings, or ever check your finest bursts of

admiration with doubt and misgiving. Circumstances have failed to form

your taste; and at first you will pass marvels by and prefer to marvel

at some hideous thing. Never mind! I like to think that, after all, the

best part of a noble work is the enthusiasm which it arouses and that

the greatest dignity of art lies in the flame which it kindles.

"Time was when I wept in front of things that now leave me unmoved; but,

in captivating my childish heart, did they not accomplish their task

even as those do now which quicken the beating of my woman's heart?...

"Learn to appreciate life and to look upon all that does not enhance it

as vain and wearisome. As there is nothing in this world which has not

its relation to life, in loving it, my Roseline, you will understand

everything and accept everything.

"I want your eyes, when presenting to your mind whatever is best in a

great work, to learn the luxury of lingering on it; I want your ears to

perceive the wonderful, voluptuous charm of sounds, your hands to

rejoice in things soft to the touch; I want you to learn how to breathe

with delight and how to eat with pleasure. Don't smile. None of all this

is childish; it is made up of tiny joyous movements which the simplest

existence can command when it knows how to recognise them. And yet ...

and yet I feel a selfish wish to leave you still in your prison, so that

your desire to escape from it may keep on growing! I love that desire, I

love your actual distress, I love the wretchedness of your past, the

wretchedness of your present, I love you to see difficulties in the way

of your deliverance....

"Oh, if those obstacles could give you, as they do me, that sort of

intoxication for which I cherish them! When at last I see the goal

beyond them, my heart leaps for joy. But hardly is the goal attained

when I rejoice in it only because it brings me to another, higher and

more distant; and my imagination resumes its course, never looking back

except to measure the road already traversed.... In this way, never

satisfied and yet happy in the mere fact that I am advancing and in the

knowledge that no more can be asked of a poor human will, I have the

feeling that my life never stops."

5

"Paris,... 19--

"Dearest, it is evening; it is cold and wet out of doors; but peace and

gaiety shed their radiance in the great drawing-room which you will

soon know, white and bare as a convent-parlour, living and bright as joy

itself. Chance gave me to-day a long day of solitude, like those at

Sainte-Colombe. And yet the hours passed before me and I could not make

them fruitful. When such favours come to me in the midst of excitement,

I am too glad of them to be able to profit by them; I can but feel them;

and they control me without leaving me time to control them in my turn.

I listen to my life, I contemplate it. It has too many opposing voices,

too many absolutely different shapes; my consciousness is lost in it as

a precious stone is swallowed up by the sea. I blush at such chaos. My

soul appears to me only fit to compare with one of those wretched

table-cloths which country dressmakers patch together, at the end of the

year, out of the thousand scraps of the thousand different materials

which they have cut during the season. But is not this the natural

result of the diversity of our feminine souls?

"Antagonistic elements have long been at war in me; and the violence of

their blows has sometimes torn my life asunder. I no longer have cause

to complain of it now, because time and love have helped me to reconcile

them. Our powers are injurious to us so long as we do not know how to

use them. I have suffered, I still suffer from my creeping knowledge. I

would like to increase the pace of yours. Is it impossible?

"And so I dreamed all day and, of course, I dreamed of you, the Rose

whom I am always picturing. I imagined that we had arranged to see each

other this evening. You walked into the drawing-room, drenched with the

rain, pink-cheeked with the cold. You looked very pretty, in a frock

that suited your face and your figure. You knew how to hold yourself!

You knew how to walk! Your movements were graceful! After talking for a

little while by the fire, we both sat down at the table, under the

lamp-light, and there began our usual work. What work it was I cannot

tell; but it will be easy for us to choose: we have everything to learn;

and I feel that both our minds must follow the same path for some time

to come. By placing the same objects before them, we shall succeed in

discovering what you really feel and what you really wish. That is the

only way of delivering your mind from my involuntary dominion and of

distinguishing your image from mine. I have no other ideal than to feel

myself actually moving, even though the movement be an inconsistent

one. How could I invite you to a similarity which is nothing but a

perpetual dissimilarity?

"You must cease to be an echo. I shall map out no course for you; and we

do not know what will become of you. Let us first walk at random. The

goal is not always visible; but very often the road travelled tells us

which road to take next. It matters little what work we do, provided

that it gives a sort of tone to our meetings and that it regulates our

hours. The freaks of chance and the youthfulness of our minds will

always furnish colour and fancy in plenty....

"Understand me, Roseline: it is not a friend that I am seeking, not one

of those uncertain, light-hearted, capricious relations which encumber

life without adding to it. I am dreaming like a child, of a woman who

should realise the greatest possible amount of beauty in her mind and

person and who should add her strength to mine in the service of the

same ideals. Rose, are you that woman? Will you help me to deliver other

women still who are oppressed by circumstances or people, to deliver

those who are shackled by prejudice or fear, to deliver the beauty that

is unable to show itself and the will that dares not act? To deliver!

What a magic word! Rose, does it ring in your heart as it rings in

mine?...

"But, as you see, my dreams are carrying me too far; and I blush at my

audacity. When I look at you and judge myself, it often seems to me that

what I have done for you is only a form of vanity, that all my generous

aspirations are but vanity!... Is it true?

"And, if it were! Is it not still greater and more foolish vanity to

require that all our actions should spring from pure and sublime

motives? If, in contributing to your development, I am conscious that I

am assisting my own, will yours be any the less complete for that? If I

no longer know which is dearer, you, who represent my dreams, or my

dreams, which have become embodied in yourself, will you on that account

be less fondly and less nobly loved?

"And, if it be true that vanity there is, is the vanity vain that sheds

happiness and joy?"

CHAPTER II

1

A long month has passed since my return to Paris. Twice Rose has written

to announce her arrival: I waited for her at the station and she did not

come. Poor child! We all know how difficult it is to break one's bonds,

even the most detested. A thousand invisible ties keep us in the place

where chance has set us; and, when we are about to rend them, they

become so many unsuspected pangs. Instinct blindly resists all change,

as though it were unable to distinguish what reason dimly descries

beyond the trials and dangers of the moment. Rose is leaving nothing but

wretchedness; in front of her is a fair and pleasant prospect.

Nevertheless, she hesitates and she is unhappy.

In my present restless state, I no longer know what I wish. If she came

to-morrow, should I be glad or not? I cannot tell. I can no longer tell.

Those who do not suffer from this absurd mania for action escape those

painful moments when we are at the mercy of a distracted will that no

longer knows exactly what it ought to want. In absence, our feelings

pass through so many contradictory phases! When the hour of return

comes, finding it impossible to collect so many conflicting sentiments

or to bring back to one point so many different desires, we surrender

ourselves to the impression of the moment; and this impression often has

nothing in common with what we had previously felt and hoped.

I have done my utmost to make her come. Lately, I have been sending her

urgent and encouraging letters daily. Now, the hour is approaching; and

my only feeling is one of anguish.

I have told her twenty times that the talk about responsibility which I

hear all around me brings a smile to my lips. I have told her how, by

making my conduct depend on hers, I relieved myself of all personal

anxiety. And to-day my task appears to me so heavy that I can only laugh

at my presumption.

2

It was foolish of me to write to her:

"What are your faults? Teach me to know you. Tell me what you are."

In reality, our faults arise from our circumstances. Events alone set us

the questions to which our actions give a definite answer. Up to the

present, Rose has not lived; she has been accumulating forces that are

now about to come into being. What will they be? Whither will they tend?

We can assume nothing in a life that is but beginning; and is it not

just this that encourages us to seek and to help? Each of us has only to

look back in order to know that, in the shifting soil of characters, we

can fix or establish nothing. I found her acquiescing in a shameful

servitude; and yet I have faith in the nobility of her soul. She was

untruthful; there was no relation between her wishes and her actions,

her thoughts and her words. Nevertheless, I do not doubt her essential

honesty.

The atmosphere that surrounds us is so often treacherous to our pliant

natures! We women are obliged to lie. So long as we have not found our

"love," we look in vain for a little confidence. No one believes us, no

one receives the best part of our soul. One would think that, for those

who listen to us, our sincerest words are poisoned as they pass through

our fairest smiles. And, when nature has made us beautiful and gifted,

people take pleasure in judging us severely, as they might look at the

summer days through dark-tinted window-panes.

We are always refused recognition. The first feeling which any work that

we perform arouses is one of doubt. Its merit is disputed. And yet we

have devoted a part of our youth to it; we have left with it a little of

our freshness and our bloom. Very often, it is the ransom of our sorrow.

Our love is written upon it; and it bears the imprint alike of our

smiles and of our tears. Do we not know that woman, for all her culture,

remains closer than man to her instinct and her "soil?" She is less

purely intellectual but more sensitive than man; and, while he can

create everything in the silence of his imagination, she has to live and

suffer everything that she brings into the world. She conceives and

realises with her flesh and with her blood.

A woman said to me, one day:

"If I had to begin life over again, I should not have the courage to

avoid a single danger, pain or disappointment. In surmounting them, I

have gained a power of resistance which forms the framework of my

present and my future. I can see the sparkle of my happiness better when

I keep in the shadow of my sad memories; and all that I accomplish, all

that I write seems to me to flow from my past tears."

To refuse recognition to a woman's work is to refuse to recognise her

soul, her existence and every throb of her heart!...

Man does not know that torture which every true woman suffers when she

feels that those who are listening to her do not hear her real words,

that those who are looking at her do not see what she is making every

effort to show. Even when she is obeying the simplest impulses of her

nature, people distrust what she says and what she does; and in some

women, good and kind and beautiful, we see repeated the artless miracle

of the flowers that exhaust themselves in giving too much fragrance and

too much blossom. How fearful and timid this moral isolation makes us!

And how thrice courageous we must be in the hour of realisation! If

effort sometimes seems useless to men, what about women, who see

themselves ever confronted by a blank wall of scepticism?

A man is valued by the weight of the forces which he stirs up for and

against himself. The forces which woman encounters are nearly all

hostile.

3

I was close upon sixteen. One day, I heard some one say, speaking of

some trifling thing of which I was wrongly suspected:

"She is no longer a child. She's a woman now and she's lying."

That was a cruel speech, the sort of speech that influences a whole

life. My eyes were gradually opened to the dreary injustice that casts

its shadow over the fairest destinies of women. Nothing around them

seems clear and natural. Doubt lies in wait for them, calumny rends

them. Now my hour was coming: my skirts, touching the ground for the

first time, had suggested the suspicion of deceit and hypocrisy.

It was perhaps this wound, inflicted on the soul of the growing girl,

that left the most serious mark on my soul as a woman. Thanks to a

strange prick of conscience, to a singular need to give to others what I

did not obtain, I wanted to trust and I did trust! I gave my confidence

passionately, utterly, rapturously! And this made wells of such deep and

impetuous joy spring up in me that I felt no bitterness when I saw my

confidence marred as it passed through others, even as a clear stream

is muddied in following its course.

Still, I wanted more; I sought to concentrate in one person, herself

generous and confiding, the happiness which I lacked and whose infinite

value I suspected. Ah, what a blessed relief when I found her! I was as

one who has never seen his face save in distorting mirrors and who

suddenly sees himself as he hoped to be. It seems to me that my

happiness dates from that day. Before then, I suffered, I was all

astray, an ill wind hovered round me; and, on the sands of other lives,

there was never a trace of my footsteps where I believed that I had

passed. Henceforth, another soul would read mine! Another's eyes would

own the candour of my eyes!

It was little more than a child that introduced me to love and kindness.

She was treated with iron severity, she was unhappy; I was alone: she

became my daily companion. Alas! too early ripe, too intelligent, she

was of those who cannot stay. Is it a presentiment that makes them hurry

so, or is it rather their eagerness to live, their over-sharpened senses

that wear out their strength?

4

She was not fifteen; but, already matured in body and mind, she

attracted immediate attention. Her walk was so superb that I cannot

think of her without seeing her come swiftly to me, with that dear smile

of hers and with her lovely arms outstretched in greeting. Her limpid

eyes obeyed the light, the light of her heart and the light of the sky,

whereas her dark hair, always tangled and rebellious, bore witness to

the protest of her dauntless spirit. In her company I tasted for the

first time the delight of souls that join and blend and unite in mutual

trust. In an ecstasy of sincerity, for hours I imagined myself baptising

her whole life with my faith. I said to her, over and over again:

"I believe in you.... I believe in you.... Do you understand what that

means? It is something greater and better than 'I love you:' it means

that one can never be alone again!"

She died a few months later; and for years I was to seek in vain in

others' hearts and eyes the pure and limpid faith which reflects

everything that bends over it.

One can love people without knowing them fully; one cannot believe in

them without mingling one's soul with theirs; and the moral luxury of it

is so great that, when we have once known it, if only for a moment, we

demand it from all with whom we come in contact.

Roseline, all that I then wished for, that charming bond of tenderness

and confidence which should link women together, that difficult and

precious happiness which I knew for one hour through that child-soul:

that is what I am trying to offer you.

And perhaps you will have something better still, because the assistance

which you receive is deliberate and has stood the test. In the place of

that artless faith rushing to meet life, you find a soul that has been

steeped in it. Rose, may my faith and my soul be your two mirrors. In

one, you will see your forces rise even as we catch the first swell of a

cornfield at dawn. In the other, they will appear to you enlarged,

multiplied, transformed according to nature's laws, ripened by the

dazzling suns of noon, utilised by the intellect, ready at last to

nourish you and nourish others.

5

Then I met men, I met other women, without ever attaining the wish of my

heart. They came and went. But, at each soul that I lost, I found my own

a little more and I remember most gratefully those who were the most

cruel. This man was ill and unconscious of his actions; that woman was

wicked; that man too frivolous; and another was a liar....

A liar! Even to-day, among those withered attachments which it pleases

me to evoke, this last arrests my thoughts. For it was he--O singular

contrast!--who, by his lying and duplicity, finished the work begun by

the frank confidence of the child.

He was a liar.--Lying came to him so easily and naturally that he

himself did not discriminate between what he had done and what he had

said, between what he had actually experienced and the life which he

pretended to have lived. His was a strange nature, which, in its

eagerness to seem, forgot to be, a nature which, no longer

distinguishing its frontiers from another's, lost in the end its own

domain! A strange example of a strayed consciousness which, knowing no

dividing line, attributed the acts of others to itself, spoke from their

hearts and led their existences! He walked through life as one walks

through a gallery whose walls are panelled with mirrors. He could not

take a step without thinking that he was taking a thousand; and his

vanity enhanced his least actions to such a degree that he actually

believed himself the lover of a woman if he merely kissed her hand. It

was thus that he boasted of making innumerable conquests at every hour

of the day; and, to hear him talk, always tired and exhausted with love,

he was a wreck at twenty, as the price of his inordinate exploits.

Enamoured of his appearance, he saw nothing beyond the blankness of his

little soul, or rather he made it the origin and the end of everything.

Poor empty head! Wretched puppet, whose spring was the vanity which

every passer-by could set in motion at will!

At a time when I myself did not know it, he had cleverly discovered what

he must appear to be in order to arouse my enthusiasm, thus offering me

the illusion of that faith which I aspire to awaken in you, my Roseline.

Certainly, I owe him much! If an exact copy of a masterpiece can stir us

as deeply as the original, the perfect impersonation of a fine intellect

and a noble character can influence us very happily. How grateful I am

to him for the trouble which he took to give me a representation of

virtues which he did not possess! They were painted on his soul in such

relief, a relief which no reality gives, as I was afterwards to learn!

The artificial lilies that decorate the chapel of the church hard by

have an assurance that is absent from those which will soon fade over

there, on the table. The false boasts an unvarying brilliance, an

imposing emphasis which we never find in the true. And, no doubt, the

qualities of which he vouchsafed me the sight would never have had such

value in my eyes, if his fatuousness had not displayed them to my

youthful admiration as one shows an object behind a magnifying-glass.

And what does it matter to me now that they were false, those gifts with

which that soul seemed laden, if for a moment I pictured them as real!

After the error was dispelled, the image which I once thought true

remained in me. It had determined my tastes, fixed my opinions, set my

mind at rest. Subsequently, I was to try and refashion the perfection of

which I had beheld the mirage and, with still greater ardour, I was to

pursue in others and conquer at last the reality of the once-known

happiness which I thought that I had found in him.

We are none the poorer when a sad truth takes the place of a beautiful

dream. Knowledge has already filled the void which the lost illusion

leaves behind it....

6

Let us seek then, Rose, let us seek even after we have found! Whether we

be denied or heard, let us go on seeking! When we have lovingly

performed the little things necessary that a flower may peradventure

blossom, if it does not give us what we hoped for, does that prevent us

from loving another exactly like it and from tending it with all the

greater skill and care?

Our ignorance must be renewed in the presence of each life that touches

ours. May the quest suffice to keep our faith eternally young, that

wonderful, childlike faith which alone encourages, finds and sets free.

CHAPTER III

1

It was eleven o'clock when I went to meet Rose this morning; but the day

was so dark and the fog so dense that the street-lamps were still lit.

It was gloomy and depressing. Wrapped in a long cloak and huddled in a

corner of the cab, I shivered with cold and nervousness. I reread her

telegram, dispatched from a railway-station before daybreak; and the

pathos of those few words went to my heart:

"Am starting. Ran away yesterday.

"YOUR BABY."

Yesterday? Then she had spent the night at an inn? Why?

Alas, in such circumstances, do not we women usually behave like that,

blindly and illogically? We prepare everything, we look out the trains

and choose the most favourable time for flight; we announce the minute

of our arrival to those expecting us; everything is ready, everything is

decided.... Then the appointed day arrives. The hour strikes, the hour

passes and we do not stir. We have been kept by some meaningless trifle

which is magnified in our excitement and acquires an importance which it

never had before: a word, a look from those whom we are going to desert.

We forgive them when we are on the point of leaving them for ever. We

invest them with a little of our own gentleness and kindness. Even as

the colour of things blurs and fades when our eyes are dim with tears,

so the hardest people do not appear so to the anxious heart of a woman.

And pity gains the upper hand, time slips by and we put off to the

morrow and, on the morrow, we put off again....

Then, one day, we depart all at once, for no definite reason, depart

empty-handed, with an impassive face and without looking round. We

perform the most energetic action almost without knowing it, for even

our will shirks the too-heavy task. It dreads the preparations, it would

like to be able to tell us feebly that nothing is done, that nothing is

decided, that we can still go back to the past; and this is enough to

hurry our steps towards the future. We go, we walk on and on, we walk

till we are tired. Then does it not seem as if each minute shifted the

problem of our destiny a little more? And in a few hours would it not

need more courage to return than to continue our road?

But it is nearly always so, by little unforeseen acts, by fear as much

as by weakness, that we perform the inaugural act of our

enfranchisement. We flee bewildered, like poor beasts that have broken

loose; and the first movements of our liberty echo in our hearts with a

melancholy sound of dangling chains.

2

My dear Rose!... As I go through the damp, dark station, I am already

picturing her fright....

The train arrives, full of passengers, who hurry towards the exit in

surging black masses. How shall I recognise her in this crowd, in the

fog? I do not know what she will look like. A lady? A servant? A

servant, I expect, because she will have had nothing ready. I hope so;

and I look out eagerly for a black knitted hood on a head of golden

hair. I am afraid lest she should not see me in her excitement and

nervousness. The flood of passengers separates on either side of the

ticket-collector; and I keep close to him, standing desperately on

tip-toe....

The crowd has passed and I have not caught sight of her. There are still

a few people coming from the far end of the train; it is so dark that I

can hardly see.... There is a tall figure all over feathers in the

distance, but it cannot be ... And yet ... yes, yes, it is she! Gracious

goodness, what a sight!... I feel that it would be better to laugh, but

I can't; and I am furious with myself for keeping a grave face. It is

Rose! Rose dressed like a Sainte-Colombe lady!

She comes along, calmly, smiling and self-possessed; and I am now able

to distinguish the painful hues of that appalling garb: the little

red-velvet hat, studded with glass stones of every imaginable colour and

trimmed with green feathers of the most aggressive shade and style; the

serge skirt, too short in front; the black jacket, quite simple, it is

true, but so badly cut that it murders the figure of the lovely girl!

She has a large basket, carefully corded, on her arm. I really suffer

tortures while she kisses me effusively and says, gaily:

"You are looking very well, dearest; but you're upset: what's the

matter?" And, before I have time to answer, she adds in a triumphant

tone, "I have a great surprise for you. Look in the basket, look!"

I need not trouble: at that moment there comes from the basket a

pandemonium of terrified quacks and flapping wings.

"Yes," Rose continues, laughing merrily, "I stole the old woman's best

two ducks and that's why I'm here.... But first I must tell you, I have

been looking after them for a month, fattening them for your benefit; I

would not go before they were just right. And what do you think? All of

a sudden, she said, at dinner, that she was going to market to-day to

sell them! It gave me an awful turn. As soon as I could leave the

kitchen, I flew to the poultry-yard and I took the train to ---- and

slept there. Luckily, I had already sent my trunk to an hotel."

I looked at Rose in stupefaction:

"Your trunk?"

She went on, with her eyes full of cunning:

"Oh, your baby was rather clever!... As the old woman never paid me

during the whole of the four years, I worked out what a farm-servant

gets a year and I decided that I was justified in opening an account in

her name with one of our customers who keeps a big drapery-store. And so

I now have a trunk and a complete outfit, as well as these pretty things

which I have on. It was only fair, wasn't it?"

I turned away my head without a word. It was certainly quite fair; but I

felt my cheeks flushing scarlet.

Rose gave a yawn which ended in a groan:

"I'm starving. Suppose we had some lunch; we could come back for the

trunk afterwards."

I eagerly agreed and hurried her to the exit. From the top of the

stairs, I saw that the fog had lifted at last; the gas-lamps had been

put out and the street lay before us in a melancholy, wan light. The

pavements were covered with mud and the houses showed yellow and

smoke-grimed. Then I looked at Rose and my torture suddenly became more

than I could bear. I placed her in front of me and feverishly unbuttoned

the clumsy jacket, which was too tight at the neck, too narrow across

the shoulders and gave her no waist at all. It fell away on either side;

her bust showed full and uncompressed in a light-coloured blouse; and I

breathed more freely.

"Now, take off your hat."

She slowly obeyed; and the gloomy station and the wretched, grimy day

were suddenly illuminated. Oh, those lovely fair curls, which had been

crushed and pushed away under the hideous hat with its too narrow brim,

what bliss it was to see them again full of life and laughter! There

they were in their graceful, natural clusters, some drooping over her

forehead, some brushing her cheeks, others kissing her neck and ears!

How pretty she was! I recognised my Rose at last in her soft, golden,

shimmering, impalpable, incredible tresses. I passed my fingers lightly

over that silk for love's loom, while my eyes feasted on its delicate

colour. No, indeed, nothing was lost. Rose was beautiful, more beautiful

than ever; and the glad words came crowding to my lips. I forgave her

and was angry with myself for my coldness.

Poor child, she did not know! She had thought, no doubt, that, to go to

Paris, she must absolutely have a hat; and how was she to choose one in

a village-shop? And I told her over and over again how fond I was of

her.

Rose, a little uncomfortable, with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes,

stood awkwardly turning the unfortunate object in her hands. I looked

round: a few people, intent on their business, were hurrying this way

and that; there was no one on the staircase. Then, bursting with

laughter, I dashed the hat to the floor and, with the tip of my shoe,

precipitated it into space....

"Come over to the other side," I said to Rose. "Quick!... Suppose they

brought it back!"

Good-natured as always and pleased at my amusement, she laughed because

I laughed; and, while we ran to the other exit, the masterpiece of

Sainte-Colombe millinery rolled and rolled and hopped from stair to

stair.

3

The bustle of the restaurant and the noise of the street outside

affected me tremendously. I was nervous and excited, with a wild desire

to laugh at everything and nothing. I asked Rose all sorts of questions;

and, whenever any one passed:

"Look!" I said. "Do look!... You're not looking!... There, that's a

pretty dress, a regular Parisienne!... And, over there, by the door:

don't you see that queer woman?"

The girl looked and then turned to me and, before I could prevent her,

bent down and kissed my hand. I wanted to say:

"You mustn't do that, Rose!"

But it was the first charming impulse she had shown: how could I scold

her? Oh, what a miserable thing our education is; and how often should I

not find myself in some ridiculous dilemma!

Besides, I wished this first day of hers to be all happiness and

expectation! And, while we gaily discussed plans for the future, I tried

to guess what she must be feeling, I scrutinised her movements, I

interpreted her words. But it appeared too soon yet; and it was I, alas,

I who had the best part of her happiness! My eyes fell on her chapped

and swollen hands. She noticed it and murmured, sadly:

"It's the beetroots. You understand, it's the hard season now."

"But the beetroot-days are past, my Roseline! The bad seasons are over,

over for good, over for good and all!"

And I laid stress on every syllable; and, though I was whispering in her

ear, I heard the words "for good and all" bursting from my lips like a

triumphant shout.

She smiled and went on eating, doing her best to eat nicely, with her

elbows close to her sides and her hands by her plate. Heaven above, did

she understand what I said?

4

There are some people who seem detached from themselves. They do

something; and the whole flood of their life does not surge into the

action! They draw near to the object of their love; and their whole soul

does not fill their eyes! Their soul is not on their lips, to breathe

love; it is not at their finger-tips, to seize upon happiness; it is not

there to watch life, to attract all that passes, eagerly, greedily and

rapturously! Then where is it and what is it doing outside this dear,

delightful earth?...

And yet woman, the creature who learns through love the admirable gift

of life, knows better than man how to throw the whole of herself into

fleeting moments. She lives nearer to the edge of her actions. Her mind,

which rarely attaches itself to abstract things, seems to float around

her in search of every sensation. Woman passes and has seen everything;

she remembers and she quivers as though the caressing touch were still

upon her. Her light and charming soul drinks eternity straight out of

the present; and through a man's kisses she has known the art of

absolute oblivion.

I am afraid that Rose is not much of a woman. Ah, were I in her place, I

should be wild with excitement, out of my mind with joy, as though I

were hearing my own name spoken for the first time!

5

After lunch, our shopping was a difficult matter. Rose, with her

uncommon figure, could hardly find anything ready-made to suit her. I

had to hunt about and to contrive with thought, for I would not wait a

single day. I was careful to select the quietest and most usual things

for her, so as to conceal her rusticity as far as possible. The neat

dark-velvet toque could have its position altered on her head without

much harm. The black veil would tone down the vividness of a complexion

too long exposed to the open air; and its fine plain net would set off

the admirable regularity of her features. Lastly, the deep leather belt

to her tailor-made frock and the well-starched collar and cuffs would

more or less hide the effort which it cost her to hold herself upright.

6

Two hours later, I introduced Rose to her new home. We climbed a dark,

interminable staircase. I held a flickering candle in my hand; and, all

out of breath, I explained to her the advantages of this boarding-house,

a quiet place where her privacy would not be invaded and where she could

make useful acquaintances if she wished....

At last, we reached the fifth floor. The daylight had faded. A sea of

roofs was beneath us; and, through the panes above our heads, a great

red sky cast lurid gleams over our faces and hands. The girl gave a

start of pleasure as she entered her room. It was peaceful and white;

but the flaming fire and sky at that moment turned it quite rosy,

smiling and aglow. From the rather high window we could see nothing but

space. I had placed a writing-table underneath it, with some books and a

few flowers in a dainty crystal bowl. On the walls, several photographs

of Italian masterpieces disguised the ugliness of the typical

boarding-house paper. The chimney-mantel was bare and the furniture very

simple.

We were both happy, both talking at once, Rose exclaiming:

"It's really too lovely, too beautiful!"

And I was saying:

"I should have liked to have a room for you arranged after my own taste,

but I had to keep within bounds. So I brought a few little things, as

you see, and bundled the ugly pictures, the tin clock and the plush

flowers into the cupboards. But come and see the best part of it."

I threw open the window; and, leaning out, we beheld a great expanse

beyond the enormous gutter that edged the roof. Unfortunately, the last

glow of the sunset was swiftly dying away in the mist rising from the

Seine. Opposite us, on the other bank, the Louvre became a heavy,

shapeless mass; on the right, Notre-Dame was nothing but a shadowy

spectre; here and there, in a chance, lingering gleam, we could just

distinguish a steeple, a turret, a house standing out above the rest.

"We came in too late, Rose; we can see nothing; but how wonderful it all

is! The sound of the quays and bridges hardly reaches us, the city might

be veiled; at this height, its activity is like a dream and I seem to

be living over again those quiet moments which we used to spend side by

side at Sainte-Colombe. Are you happy?"

Smiling and with her eyes still fixed on the sky, she says:

"Yes."

"Perfectly?"

"Yes."

"You are not afraid of the future?"

"Not for my sake, but I am for yours."

I question her with my eyes; and she adds:

"I am afraid that I shall never be what you want."

I put my hand on her shoulder and said:

"You will be what you are to be; and that is the main thing. It seems to

me at this moment that the greatest ideas are nothing, that the fairest

dreams are childish compared with the simple reality of a human being's

first taste of happiness. You were hidden; and I bring you to the light.

You were a prisoner; and I set you free. I see nothing to fetter you;

and that is all I ask. The life of a beautiful woman should be like a

star whose every beam is the source of a possible joy.... I am glad, for

this is the day of your first deliverance."

Rose murmured:

"What will the second be, then?"

I hesitated for a moment. Then I replied:

"It is difficult to say, dear; you will come to know gradually. I might

answer, that of your mental or moral life; but I do not wish to lay down

any rule. You are about to start on life's journey; I do not wish to

trace your road with words. How much more precious your smallest actions

are to me!"

I closed the window and went and sat in a chair by the fire-place. Rose,

standing with uplifted arms in front of the glass, took off her hat and

veil, then undid her mantle and her scarf and put everything carefully

away in the wardrobe. My eyes followed her quiet movements and my heart

rested on each of them. I spoke her name and she came and sat at my

feet, against my knees, with her soft, fair head waiting for my caress.

It was now night; the fire lit our faces, but the room was dark wherever

the flames did not cast their gleams. A chrysanthemum on a longer stalk

than the others bent its petals into the light. Opposite the fire-place,

within the shade of the bed-curtains, stood a white figure from the

Venice Accademia, an allegory representing _Truth_. We could not see

the mirror which she holds nor the details that surround her. The

pedestal that raises her above mankind was also invisible; only the nude

body of the woman invited and retained the light.

I called Rose's attention to her:

"Look, she is more interesting like that. In the doubt which the shadow

casts around her, I see in her a more human and a truer truth."

After a moment's contemplation, Rose said, gravely:

"I will never hide one of my thoughts from you."

Her statement makes me smile; but why disappoint her? She did not yet

know that those who are most sincere find it more difficult than the

others to say what they think. Words, in their souls, are like climbing

plants which, sown by chance in the middle of a roadway, waver and

grope, send out tendrils here and there in despair and end by entangling

themselves with one another. Whereas most people, just as we provide

supports for flowers, bestow certainties and truths upon their words to

which they cling, the sincere refuse to yield to any such illusions.

They hesitate, stammer and contradict themselves without ceasing....

7

I drew her head down on my knees; and, softly, in little sentences

interrupted by long pauses, we spoke of the new life that was opening

before her. Soon she said nothing more. The fire went out, the room

became dark and a clock outside struck six. I whispered:

"I am going, darling...."

She did not move and I saw that she was asleep. Then I gently released

myself, put a pillow under her head and a wrap over her shoulders and

was almost at the door, when suddenly I pictured her awakening. It would

not do for her to open her eyes in the dark, to feel lost and alone in

an unknown house. I lit the lamp, drew the blinds and made up the fire.

Roseline was sleeping soundly. Her breathing was hardly perceptible. At

times, a deep sigh sent a quiver through her placid beauty, even as a

keener breath of air ripples the surface of a pool.

What would she do if she should soon awake?... I looked around.

Everything was peaceful and smiling; the flowers looked fresh and

radiant in the light; the books on the table seemed to be waiting.... I

searched among them for some page to charm her imagination and guide her

first dreams along pleasant paths....

CHAPTER IV

1

Rose is sitting by the fire with her bare feet in slippers and a

dressing-wrap flung loosely round her.

"Are you ill?"

"No," she says, smiling.

And her cool hands, pressing mine, and her gay kisses on my cheeks are

no less reassuring than the actual reply.

"But why are you not dressed?"

"I don't know; time passed and I let them bring my lunch up to me."

I look round the darkened bedroom. Through the blind which I lowered

yesterday, the light enters timidly, in a thousand broken little shafts;

on the table, the books still lie as I placed them; on the

chimney-shelf, the flowers, withered by the heat of the fire, are fading

and drooping.

All these things which had been left untouched were evidence of a

lethargy that hurt me. All the emotions which I had been picturing Rose

as experiencing since the day before had not so much as brushed against

her. One by one, they dropped back sadly upon my heart.

I rose, moved the flowers, opened the window; and the bright sunshine

restored my confidence.

"Come, darling, dress and let's go out."

A thousand questions come crowding to my lips while I help her do her

hair:

"Do they look after you well? Do you feel very lonely? What are the

other boarders like? Are any of them interesting?"

Her answers, sensible and placid as usual, did not tell me much, except

that the food was good, that she had slept well and that she was very

comfortable.

I resolved to wait a few days before asking her any more.

2

Roseline throws off her wrap and begins dressing. The water trickles

from the sponge which she squeezes over her shoulders, runs down,

lingers here and there and disappears along the flowing lines of her

body, which, in the broad daylight, looks as though it were flooded with

diamonds. A cool fragrance mingles with the scent of the roses. The room

is filled with beauty.

CHAPTER V

1

It snowed last night for the first time; then it froze; and the trees in

the Tuileries are now showing the white lines of their branches against

a dreary sky. The daylight seems all the duller by comparison with the

glitter of the snow-covered ground.... I slowly follow the little black

path made by the sweepers; I receive an impression of solitude; the

streets are very still; it is as though sick people lay behind the

closed windows; and the voices of the children playing as I pass seem to

come to me through invisible curtains.

Rose is walking beside me. A keen wind plasters our dresses against us

and raises them behind into dark, waving banners. The icy air whitens

the fine pattern of our veils against our mouth.

"Where are we going?" asks Rose.

I hesitate a little before replying:

"We are going to the Louvre."

And to put her at her ease and also to guard against a probable

disappointment, I hasten to add:

"It is a picture-book which we will look at together. You will turn

first to what is bright and attractive to the eye; later on, you will

perceive the shades in the colour, the lines in the form and the

expression in the subject. And, if at first our admiration is given to

what is poor and unworthy, what does it matter, so long as it is aroused

at all?"

2

We had reached the foot of the stairs that lead to the _Victory of

Samothrace_. After staring at it for a minute, Rose remarked, in a voice

heavy with indifference:

"It's beautiful, very beautiful."

I felt that she had no other object than that of pleasing me; but her

natural honesty soon prevailed when I asked her what she admired; and

she answered, simply:

"I don't know."

It is in this way, by never utterly and altogether disappointing me,

that she keeps her hold on me. She sees and feels nothing of what we

call beautiful; on the other hand, she is cheerfully oblivious to the

necessity of assuming what she does not feel; she has no idea of posing

either to herself or to others; and the strange coldness of her soul

makes my affection all the warmer. By not trying to appear what she is

not, she constantly keeps alive in me the illusion of what she may be or

of what she will become.

We walked quickly through a number of rooms and sat down in a quiet

corner. I was already under the spell of that deep, reposeful life which

emanates from some of the Primitives; but Roseline, who had stopped on

the way in order to have a better view of various ugly things, was

talking and laughing loudly.

This annoyed me; and I was on the point of telling her so. However, I

restrained myself: I should have felt ashamed to be angry with her. Was

she not gay and lively, as I had wished to see her? What right have we

to let ourselves be swayed by the vagaries of our instinct and expect

our companion to feel the same obligation of silence or speech at any

given moment? Our emotion should strike chords so strong and true that

no minor dissonances of varying temperaments can make them ring false.

Rose chattered away for a long time, speaking all in the same breath of

her convent days, of her terrible godmother, of the scandal which her

sudden disappearance must be creating in the village. Then she stopped;

and I felt her eyes resting vacantly by turns upon myself and upon the

square in the ceiling which at that moment framed a patch of grey sky

studded with whirling snow-flakes. At last, she raised her veil with an

indolent movement, put her hand on my shoulder and, with a long yawn

that revealed all the pearly freshness of her mouth, asked:

"But what _do_ you see in it?"

I slipped my arm under hers and led her away through the deserted rooms.

I ought to have spoken. But how empty are our most pregnant words, when

we try to express one iota of our admiration!

"Why should you mind what I see, my Roseline? It is you and you alone

who can discover what you like and what interests you."

We were passing in front of Titian's _Laura de' Dianti_. I was struck

with the relationship that existed between her and my companion.

Although Rose was different in colouring, fairer, with lighter eyes, she

had the same purity of feature, the thin, straight nose, the very small

mouth and, above all, the same vague look that lends itself to the most

diverse interpretations. She squeezed my arm:

"Speak to me, speak to me!"

I glanced at her. Must it always be so, would she never feel anything

except when my own emotion found utterance? Impressions reached her soul

only after filtering through mine. Love, I thought to myself, love alone

would perhaps one day set free all the raptures now jealously hidden in

those too-chaste nerves. And, in spite of myself, I exclaimed:

"Don't you think that admiration in a woman is only another form of

love?"

"But when she is no longer young?" Rose retorted, with a laugh.

"When she is no longer young, nature doubtless suggests other means of

enthusiasm. Her heart is no longer a bond of union between her and

things. Then her calmer eyes are perhaps able to look at beauty itself,

without having all the joys of a woman's love-filled life to kindle

their fires."

The Rubens pictures were around us, in all their brilliancy and in all

their glory, uttering cries of passion and luxury with voices of flesh

and blood and youth. They were another proof of what I had just said;

and I confessed to my companion:

"It is not so long ago, Rose, that I used to pass unmoved through this

dazzling room where the Rubens flourish in their luscious beauty. I used

to look at them: now, I see them; I used to brush by them: now, I grasp

them. I enter into all this riot of happiness around us, which is a

thousand miles away from you, Rose; and it adds to my own joy in

life...."

"But then what has come to you?" exclaimed the girl.

I could not help smiling, for, when I tried to explain myself, it seemed

to me that, in the depths of my heart, I was playing with words:

"All that hurt me yesterday has become a source of admiration to me

to-day. Excess appears riches and plenty, tumult becomes orderly; and I

seem to see in these works the glorification of all that we are bound to

hold supreme in life: health, beauty, strength, love. Is not the

exaggerated splendour of these pictures a triumphant challenge, the

expression of a magnificent principle?"

We stood silent for a moment; then I added:

"We never actually realise all that we have in our minds; but one would

think that this man's life and work reached the farthest bounds of his

visions. Or else we are unable even to catch a glimpse of what he saw."

And, musing upon that mystery, our frail feminine imagination seemed to

us like a landscape fading into the mist: when the day is clear, we can

distinguish the chain of blue mountains whose summits touch the sky, but

our imagination, if it would not be lost in the haze, must keep to the

foreground, in the avenues laid out by man.

I resumed:

"We are very far, Rose, from the parsimony of the Primitives, each of

whose works contains almost a human life. In their room and in this, you

will find all the contradictory and complementary instruction which one

would like to give you. Over there, sobriety, patience, assiduous

effort, absolute conscientiousness in the smallest detail; life bowed in

all humility, but yet steadfast and fervent; imagination and beauty that

do not strive to shine: if you want a proof, look at the great number

that remained anonymous! Here, on the contrary, prodigality, exultant

love, blood coursing triumphantly through conquered veins. Rubens is the

apostle of wholehearted happiness. The biggest things seem easy when you

are in his presence. If ever you feel tired and ready to be

discouraged, you should come and look at him. Oh, I wonder, yes, I

wonder to what, to whom I owe this new enthusiasm? What have I seen,

what have I learnt? Through what chance acquaintance, what casual word,

what gesture or action, doubtless far removed from Rubens and his works,

did I suddenly enter into that wonderful kingdom?"

And, in fact, that is how it had happened. An unknown treasure falls

into the cup of emotion; and the level is raised. Oh, to feel the

long-slumbering sensation rise within one's self; to see that which was

obscure to us yesterday become crystal-clear to-day; to love more

passionately, to understand a little better, to know a little more: that

is, to us women, the real progress, the only progress which we must

desire and seek after! But how can I hope that Rose will progress if she

never feels?

3

In vain I roamed about with her for an hour, not among the pictures,

whose value she could not yet appreciate, but among the dreams that were

born of them, among the most moving and delectable visions; vain my

emotion, vain my rapture: no answering spark lit her indifferent eyes.

True, there was no question of failure or success; I was putting nothing

to the test: that would have been insanity. But why this weight of

oppression on my spirits? I could not get rid of disturbing memories:

memories of childish raptures finding utterance by chance; memories of

those first loves which fasten upon anything in their haste to live;

memories of virgin hearts nurtured on dreams!

O enthusiasm, admiration, love, if you were not at first wanderers,

neither seeking nor choosing, if you did not blaze fiercely and

foolishly like a flame burning in the noon-day sun, will you ever be

able to light the darkness with all the splendours that are awaiting

your spark in order to burst into life?

O sweet eyes of my Roseline, sweet eyes that shine under your soft, fair

lashes like two opals set in pure gold, will you close for all time

without having gazed for a moment upon the wonders of the earth, upon

the real sky of our human life? Is it true that your beams extinguish

life and beauty wherever they rest?

CHAPTER VI

1

It is six o'clock in the evening; I am taking Rose along the boulevards,

which are so interesting at this time of the year. As usual, I am

astonished at everything that does not astonish her. I look at her as

she walks, beautiful and impassive; I keep step with her stride; and my

thoughts hover to and fro between this life of hers which refuses to

take form and my ideals which are gradually fading out of existence.

Alas, the days pass over her without arousing either desire or

weariness! From time to time, I suggest some simple, trifling work for

her. But, whether the task be mental or material, whether the duty be

light or complex, she acquiesces in the suggestion only to make it

easier for her to put it aside later, gently and as a matter of course,

like tired arms laying down a burden too heavy for them.

This evening, I am merciful to her indolence. Going through the hall of

her boarding-house just now, I saw the long table laid, at which the

boarders meet. And I think of those destinies which have been linked

with Rose's during the past fortnight, while I am still unable to obtain

a clear idea of any one of them from her involved and incoherent

accounts.

The house, which is in the old-fashioned style, has at the back a sort

of glass-covered balcony overhanging the garden of the house next door.

Here the boarders take their coffee after meals, while the proprietress,

a gentle, amiable creature, strives to establish some sort of intimacy

among them, to create an imaginary family out of these strangers who

have come from all parts of the world with varying objects and for

diverse reasons.

I know from experience the surprises latent in people like these. To

look at them, one would set them down as belonging to stereotyped

models: invalids, travellers, globe-trotters, runaways or students, as

the case may be. I call up figures from my own recollection and describe

them to Rose to encourage her to tell me her impressions. Stray

reminiscences marshal themselves, images rise before my eyes,

obliterating the things and people around me, and a vision appears over

which my memory plays like a reflection in a sheet of water. I see a

long house and its white-and-green front mirrored in a clear lake. A man

and a woman arrive there at the same time; and I tell Rose the story of

the two old wanderers:

"It was very curious. Imagine those two people unknown to each other,

leaving the same country at about the same age and making the same

journeys in opposite directions. When I met them, they were two

grey-haired, wizened figures, with the same short-sighted eyes blinking

behind the same kind of spectacles. It amused me from the first to look

at them as one and united beforehand, at a time when they were still

unacquainted. I watched them at the meals which brought them closer

together daily, as it were perusing each other with the pleasure of

finding themselves to be alike, as though they were two copies of the

same guide-book. In their equally commonplace minds, recollections took

the place of ideas. To them, life was a sort of long classification;

they recognised no other duty but that of taking notes and cataloguing.

I don't know if they saw some advantage one day in uniting for good, or

if they began at last to think that there are other roads to follow in

the world beside those which lead to lakes, cities, waterfalls and

mountains. At any rate, after a few weeks, they were sharing the same

room; and we learnt that in future they meant to live side by side."

"Had they got married?"

"No. And, though they performed a very natural action with the utmost

simplicity, this was certainly not due to loftiness of soul or breadth

of mind. But one felt that their knowledge of the manners and morals of

other civilizations had simplified their moral outlook, just as their

actual physical outlook had been dimmed through seeing nature under so

many aspects."

Rose began to laugh:

"There is nothing of that kind at the boarding-house," she said. "For

the moment, we have no old people: nothing but students, two American

women, a Spanish lady...."

Then she hesitated a little and added:

"There's an artist, too, an artist who has begun to paint my portrait."

"Your portrait! And you never told me?"

I am interrupted by a violent movement from Rose. She has turned round

and, in the gathering dusk, her whirling umbrella comes down furiously

on a man's hat, smashing it in and knocking it off his head. A

gentleman is standing before us, very well-dressed and looking very

uncomfortable. He stammers out a vague excuse and tries to escape, but

the indignant girl addresses him noisily. An altercation follows; the

loafers stop to listen; a crowd gathers round us; and a policeman

hurries towards us from the other side of the road. Fortunately, an

empty cab passes; and I just have time to jump in, followed by Rose, who

continues to brandish a threatening umbrella through the window.

Then at last I obtain an explanation of the disturbance. It appears

that, without my noticing it, the man had been following us for an hour;

and his silent homage had ended by incensing the girl.

I kiss her at the door of the boarding-house and walk back thoughtfully

through the streets, reflecting on the surprises which that uncivilised

character holds in store for me.

2

Rose had perhaps insulted a man who was simply taking pleasure in

admiring her, I thought to myself. What did she know of his intentions?

In any case, is not a silent look enough to keep importunity at a

distance?

Generally speaking, those who go after us in this way because of the

swing of our hips, or the mass of hair gleaming on our neck, or a

shapely shoe under a lifted skirt, are uninteresting; and among all the

coarse, silly or timid admirers whom a woman can encounter in the street

there are perhaps one or two at most who will leave an ineffaceable mark

on her memory. But why not always admit the most charitable

construction?

3

I had been wandering a long time at random. Feeling a little tired, I

turned into the Parc Monceau, at the time when it was too late for the

mothers and babies and too early for the lovers' invasion. I sat down by

the transparent lake which so prettily reflects its diadem of arbours. A

young willow drooped in gentle sadness over the face of the water; and

white ducks glided past me in the evening mist. The waning blue light

mingled with the pale vapour that rises over Paris at nightfall; and all

this made a mauve sky behind the dark trees. It was soft and

melancholy, but not grave; and I lingered on, amid the beauty of the

scene, rapt in some woman's reverie. Then a lamp was lighted behind the

bench on which I sat; and on the ground before me I saw a shadow beside

my own. I understood and did not turn my head.

A man had followed me. I felt his eyes resting heavily on my profile, on

my cheek and on my ungloved hands. He was evidently going to speak.

Annoyed at this, I took a little volume from my pocket and, to protect

my solitude, began to read.

But soon I guessed that he was reading with me; and my mind thus

mingling with a stranger's passed over the words without quite following

them. His persistency angered me; and I closed the book.

Then he said to me:

"Yes, you are very beautiful."

The words fell into my soul with a disquieting resonance. I rose with a

flushed face and then hesitated. It was certainly one of those gross and

lying pieces of flattery which we all of us hear at times. Nevertheless,

I resisted the instinctive impulse that would have made me move away. Is

not modesty in such a case merely another stratagem of our coquetry? We

flee, the man pursues and the wrong impression is confirmed.

Standing in front of him, I frankly turned my eyes on his. Then he

softly repeated the same words.

Was it the exquisite modulation of his voice? Or again were the gentle,

friendly words the sudden revelation of a troubled life, a sensitive

soul ready to pour itself out in a single phrase and longing to

crystallise itself in one unparalleled second? They surprised me, those

words of his, they seemed to me new words, grave words, because I had

not believed that it was possible to speak them in that way to a

stranger, to speak them in a voice that asked for nothing.

My whole attitude must have betrayed my twofold astonishment. My eyes

questioned his. Their expression underwent no change. He was really

asking for nothing. Then I smiled and answered, simply:

"I thank you. A woman is always glad to be told that."

Taking off his hat, he rose and bowed. I moved away with a slight

feeling of discomfort: would he commit the stupidity of following me?

Had I made a mistake? No, he resumed his seat. He had not blundered

either.

4

When two people do not know each other and will not meet again, the

words exchanged between them, if they are not mere commonplaces, become

fraught with a strange significance and leave behind them a trail of

melancholy like a mourning-veil; it is the surprise of those voices

which speak to each other and will never be heard again, the fleeting

encounter between glance and glance, the smile which knows not where to

rest and yet would fain enrich the remembrance with a ray of kindness.

The essential image of a human life is contained in a moment like that.

It awakens, hesitates, seeks, thinks that it has found, speaks a word

and relapses into nothingness.

CHAPTER VII

1

Rose's profile stands out in relief against the dark velvet of the box.

Her soft, fair hair parts into two waves that are like two streams of

honey following the curve of her cheek. Her long neck is very white in

the black gown that frames it; and her gloved hands rest near the fan

that lies opened on her knees like a swan's wing. She is sitting

straight up, with her eyes fixed in front of her. Her attitude is as

dignified and cold as a circlet of brilliants on a beautiful forehead.

I am alone, at the back of the box. I prefer to listen like that, in the

shadow, unseen. Is not the attention of a woman who is anything of a

coquette, that slight, fitful attention, always affected a little by the

thought, however unconscious, of the effect which she is producing?

2

I am struck by the general attitude of reverence. In the great silence

through which the music swells, the lives of all those present seem

penetrated with harmony.

I look at them as at so many open temples, which their thoughts have

deserted in order to join one another in an invisible communion. There

is a kind of homage in the bent heads and lowered eyes of the men. The

women are silent. The fans cease fluttering. The souls of the audience

are uplifted like the silent instruments of a human symphony that

mysteriously rises and rises till it mingles with the other and is

absorbed in it. If some part of us exists beyond words and forms, if our

thought sometimes floats in regions of pure mentality, is it not this

principle deprived of consciousness which bathes in the tremulous waves

of sound?

3

And Rose is also listening. But Rose listens without hearing. She, whom

the most beautiful things leave unmoved, here preserves an appearance of

absolute attention better than any one else in the audience. She

listens in that passive manner which is characteristic of her nature.

She lives a waking sleep. There is no consciousness, no effort, but

neither any desire.

When the orchestra fills the house with a song of gladness, I forget my

anxiety and let my imagination soar into its heights and weave romances

around that strange, cold beauty; but, if the music stops, if Rose moves

or speaks, then it comes to earth again with some simple little plan,

quite practical and quite ordinary.

4

She leant forward and I saw glittering under the electric lamp the

little silver chain which she wore round her neck on the day when I saw

her first, in the Normandy cornfields, standing amid the tall golden

sheaves; and, as I recalled that first impression, the difference

between then and now came like a blinding flash. In the cool morning

breeze, the sickles advance with the sound and the surge of waves; and

the golden expanse bows before the oncoming death. The sky is blue, the

village steeple shimmers in the sunlight, a great calm reigns ... and a

woman stands there, bending over the ground. What have I done? What have

I done? Was not everything better so?

CHAPTER VIII

1

"It looks like snowing," says Rose.

The words falling upon an absolute silence distract me from my work.