to gaze upon her longer, but because I could not make advances.
"I find myself again in that state of languor and expectation, but
without cause. My thoughts are quite fixed upon the future. Elizabeth,
Elizabeth, when you came into my life, I believed the sun rose in you.
Why have you allowed the darkness to fall? Our hearth exhales death and
night. I can no longer bear that state of apathy which is neither sorrow
nor joy, that listlessness into which I am sinking. Do you not see the
danger? And if the well-spring of my mental activity, thus parched, were
to dry up! A man's brain is a delicate mechanism. An awkward hand is
sufficient to warp it. And it is because I am tired that I am returning
to lectures, articles, essays, to all those rapid works which mislead us
about our power of production. But you were not capable of giving me a
different love, not to me, nor to anyone else...."
"April 25th: Next week a history congress in London. They have asked me
for a lecture on the condition of the peasant in France before the
Revolution."
The second of Albert Derize's note-books concluded with this
information.
IV
ANNE DE SÉZERY
There was only one more book. On the first blank page appeared this
notice in pencil: "To be destroyed without reading," as a precaution
taken in case of accident.
Elizabeth conscientiously hesitated to turn the page. Had she the right
to go on? But Philippe Lagier, who was Albert's representative, had made
no reservation in giving her the package. It was then expected that she
should gain complete information without restriction. Her scruples, it
is true, were in accord with an instinctive fear. She surmised that
there would be less mention of her and more of another, and she
regretted in advance the accusations which she had found, and to which
perhaps there would be no further allusion. Finally she experienced an
absolute reluctance to hear anything about this woman who was about to
appear on the scene, and whom she utterly despised and wished to forget.
After trying unsuccessfully to conquer the obsession of her awakened
curiosity, of her anxiety, she lost her self-control and inner peace,
and applied herself distractedly to the reading.
There were no more crosses. The unfinished book was wholly consecrated
to the intimate life, the new life of Albert Derize.
"London, May 3, 1904. The hall of the Imperial Institute at Kensington,
where I gave my lecture on the condition of the peasant before the
Revolution, holds a thousand persons. The government was well
represented. The Lord Mayor, the Sheriff of the City, the Ambassador of
France, the Consul General, a delegation from the Royal Academy were
present. Poor little French peasant whom I lead through the capitals,
how I sometimes envy your work in the open air and the fruitful sweat of
your brow! The lawyer and the man in politics have the excitement of the
game, whereas I, so frequently during my lectures, feel an impression of
empty show.
"Later I was introduced to all the official society, and, of course, to
a number of ladies. My imperfect knowledge of English complicated the
ceremony. At the end of the procession, like those gathered at our
churches for an important wedding, a young woman came up to me and said
in French:
"'Do you not recognize me?'
"'Mademoiselle de Sézery.'
"'Yes, I have not changed very much then?'
"'Scarcely at all, Mademoiselle.'
"'You have made me ten years younger just now when you spoke about
Dauphiné which I have never revisited--I thank you.'
"'Have you settled in London?'
"'Yes, will you not come to see me?'
"'To-morrow the Historical Society is giving us a reception, and in the
evening we are to be at the French Embassy.'
"'I am invited to the Embassy. Well, until to-morrow then! I leave you
now to your admirers.'
"She left me with that easy step which was characteristic of her, even
in our little mountain tramps when I never saw her fatigued. Her hat,
trimmed with a black feather, did not cast sufficient shadow to hide the
glowing color of her light chestnut hair."
"May 4th: I was not able to see her until rather late in the evening. I
scarcely belonged to myself. At table I saw her from a distance flirting
with her neighbor, whose clean-shaven face appeared insignificant to me,
despite the reflected honor of aristocratic family.
"She was wearing a mauve dress, that pinky mauve which recalls the shade
of fading hydrangea. As when she walked, all the lines of her body
seemed to enjoy their freedom. A strap which passed over the shoulder
left its curve bare. I believed her to be slighter. Her complexion, a
delicate flesh-color, slightly bronzed, as if caressed by the heat of
the sun, harmonized perfectly with the delicate mauve of her gown.
"Yesterday, although I had recognized her directly--she is so
individual--it was from a motive of politeness that I said she looked as
she did ten years ago. This evening she is as young as at the time of my
visits to the Castle of Saint Ismier. It is true that at Saint Ismier, I
scarcely noticed her. With what was I then occupied? How interesting to
find on another's face, after ten years, lines of having lived, and how
consoling to recognize thereon the power of youth! However, she has
changed. Down there she passed for an independent, bold young girl,
eager for all extremes of feeling and thought--Now, I find in her more
reserve, a feminine grace, and that indefinable expression seen in those
for whom life has its depths--and whose confidence must be slowly
gained--For her narrow eyes have long lashes to shield their vague
expression: those eyes in which Philippe Lagier (who was mad about them)
believed he saw golden flashes.
"About us were some of those Englishwomen, who, living in a country of
extreme cold and heat, have complexions only comparable to snow aglow
with the light of the setting sun. She was not the most beautiful woman
present, far from it, and it can scarcely be said that she was beautiful
at all. I know another woman who could much better bear comparison--with
the contrast of her black eyes and childlike hair. But one discovers her
charm gradually. She is like those waters, whose clearness is at first
doubted, because one cannot see to the depths. Her face, for instance,
which is less youthful than her body, has a very mobile expression. In
repose it shows the thirty years which she must have reached. Then the
drooping corners of the lips, the bluish circle which accentuates the
sad look in her eyes, the little wrinkles at the meeting of the eyebrows
tell of years of struggle, of cares, of years of which I know nothing,
but yet can imagine. When she is animated--she was talking to me of my
'Life of Beethoven'--those indications of despair smooth out and are
forgotten. The amber complexion colors lightly, and in her eyes I too
see golden points, little lights which are not the reflection of the
lamp light--but come from a fire within. Finally, her voice, with its
deep tone, to which a slight English accent has given a more singing
inflection and which lingers delicately on the French words, as if, not
having used them for some time, she hesitates to say them, that unusual
voice accompanies the words like soft music, and leaves a greater
impression on the memory.
"Official receptions give opportunity to be alone in the noise of the
crowd, as in the silence of a wood.
"There comes a time when all the places in our hearts seem to be
completely filled. One cannot welcome a new face, even that of a woman,
without a little wonder, and the discomfort of useless confusion. But
when we find again after some years, someone whose real worth we had
never suspected, and who was merely congenial, the discovery of that
person, added to the attraction of newness, has the advantage of
recalling our youthful past, sharing a common interest.
"It seems to me that I discover Mlle. de Sézery in this way.
"When she was ready to go I offered--at all hazards--to escort her home.
"'If you like,' she replied, without showing any preference. Her face
had resumed its almost sorrowful immobility. I took more time than she
in saying good-by, because of my official position--When I left the
embassy, I could not find her. She was already seated in one of those
cabs between two large wheels known as a hansom. She called to me, and I
got in beside her. On leaving Albert Gate House, we crossed Hyde Park,
whose damp verdure shone in places under the electric lamps which
encircled it, like a halo, because of a slight fog. From time to time we
passed a swift carriage, but the park was otherwise almost deserted. It
was very late. After our very animated conversation, we were silent. I
felt an impression of loneliness in this unknown quarter of an immense
city, whose language I scarcely knew, which recalled my autumnal walks
in the woods of Dauphiné. In place of dead leaves I was walking over
years. We were thinking of the same thing, and she broke the silence
with these words:
"'I hesitated to come this evening. I know why. It seemed that I have
just completed a pilgrimage to Saint Ismier. It was so far, and again,
it is so near.'
"I looked at her. What a strong effect the sad expression of a face
which is pleasing has upon us! But she was loth to reveal her thoughts
any further and asked almost indifferently:
"'You are leaving to-morrow?'
"'No, the day after. I want to visit the Tower of London and to see the
National Gallery again.'
"A moment later, I added:
"'And to see you, if you will permit me--'
"'You will not have time.'
"'I shall take it.'
"'I am free to-morrow. I will call for you at your hotel. Hotel--?'
"'Northumberland. Northumberland Avenue.'
"'At ten o'clock. The Tower is open only at ten. I will be your
guide--shall I?'
"'With pleasure. No one here understands my English. And you will lunch
with me.'
"'On one condition. You will dine at Bladen Lodge in the evening.'
"'Bladen Lodge?'
"'Yes, Bolton Gardens. That is my home. I am living in a suite at the
hotel. Have you a pencil, a card? Quickly, we are here. This is my
address.'
"The rather wide street we were passing through--Bolton Gardens--was
lined with private hotels with little gardens in front of them. The cab
stopped. Mlle. de Sézery said 'good-by' to me--jumped lightly from the
high step, and called to the cabman, whom I did not see, 'Northumberland
Avenue.' She was mounting the stairs, when I lost sight of her.
"I was invited for the next evening to Lady Bartlett's, to meet the
élite of English society. This forgetfulness of my interests and of
propriety is rather like the action of a schoolboy. The number of
hansoms was increasing. They drove between the lights of the sidewalks,
the horses trotting easily with their light vehicles. In almost every
one I saw a man with a woman in her evening wrap. I was nearing the
section where the theaters are located. In thus going about London, I
was taking in impressions quite new to me."
"May 5th: I scarcely know any place more impressing to a historian than
the Tower of London. The past of England, of blood and horror, remains
there as its last prisoner. The twelve towers which protect the inner
court and are kissed by the morning mist, resemble a gathering of black
penitents who accompany a corpse. They shelter the crimes of Edward IV,
Richard III, Henry VIII, of Mary Tudor. They have nothing with which to
reproach themselves. Each has its tragic memories.
"I had special permission to visit Saint Peter ad Vincula and the
neighboring cemetery, of which Macaulay said that there was not a place
in the world more steeped in sorrow, because the horror of death is here
intensified by the memories of infinite miseries and appalling
destinies. In the church, which is too well restored, are interred Anne
Boleyn, Catherine Howard and poor Lady Jane Grey who was beheaded at
seventeen, and whose brief youth was constantly threatened with the
scaffold. They showed us the exact spot where all three were executed.
"This visit gave me a kind of historical intoxication. With exaltation I
explained to my companion the dismal succession of the houses of York
and the Tudors. Suddenly fearing ridicule, I interrupted myself:
"'I am boring you, no doubt?'
"And I looked at her. I still see her as I then saw her: her face raised
to mine; and her narrow eyes, only half open, increasing their light by
contracting, like shutters, which, half-closed, give an exact shape to
every sunbeam which penetrates, despite all obstacles. She waited a
second or two before replying laughingly.
"'I was about to weep over Jane Grey. It is a pity. The charm is
broken.'
"As we left the Tower, we found a desert--compared to the crowded city
which we had crossed in going there. The contrast was startling. She
explained to me:
"'It is Saturday and past twelve o'clock. All the banks, business
houses, exchanges close at noon to-day. The weekly day of rest is
thirty-six hours. The Englishman applies himself seriously to his
business, devotes himself to it, and then earns his peace of mind.'
"'You like English life?' I asked.
"With what pride she replied:
"'I am free here--'
"I dared not question her any further. While we were lunching in the
large dining-room at the hotel, she told me quite freely in a few words
how she had gained her independence. An old friend of Saint Ismier
days,--married in London, had recommended her to Miss Pearson.
"'Miss Pearson?'
"'Yes, Miss Pearson is quite a personage here. Did you not see her at
the Embassy? She has a boarding school for girls. But it is not such as
they have in France. She takes only twenty-five select pupils in that
fine house to which you escorted me last night. It is very
expensive--two hundred and forty pounds a year. There are only young
girls of the aristocracy there. The best masters in London come to
instruct them. They ride and go into society. I was teaching music and
French literature. My extreme love of Beethoven and Chateaubriand helped
me, saved me. Now I am Miss Pearson's partner and friend. She is as kind
as she is clever. You will dine with her this evening.
"'You live together?'
"'No, in England one has a better understanding of liberty than that.
She has given me a little suite which has a private entrance. But we
frequently invite each other.'
"To end her short confidences, she added laughingly, as she blushed
slightly:
"'I am earning a great deal of money. At least for a woman. Would you
have thought me capable of it when you came to my father's house to
decipher our old charts for your history of Dauphiné? You made fun of
my education then, which was quite scattered and broadened only by
chance--'
"'I did not laugh at you--'
"'Oh, yes, you did--you disliked me very much then. Admit it.'
"'You are mistaken. In any case you are mistaken now.'
"It was quite unnecessary to modify by compliments the relation of
good-fellowship which we had attained the evening before, and which
English customs so willingly permit. She had the wisdom not to heed my
remark, and following her own thoughts, she concluded:
"'I have worked a great deal--'
"I then asked her, not indiscreetly--
"'You left very suddenly eight or nine years ago. And you went at once
to Miss Pearson?'
"'No, not at once. Three years later.'
"She looked at me, then lowered her head over the custard that had been
served to her. But instead of taking the vanilla cream with her spoon,
she mechanically put a piece of bread in her mouth. I watched her
actions. Again I saw those evidences of distress which had struck me the
evening before, and although I cannot explain it, I was convinced, with
absolute certainty, that during those three years she had not always had
enough to eat.
"She had been obliged to travel the same road as I.
"'We owe no more debts over there,' she answered with a little air of
victory. 'So I can go back if I choose.'
"I didn't answer these last words. I understood them better than anyone
else. I, too, had known the satisfaction of paying off my father's last
creditor with the proceeds of my own work. But for these inglorious
struggles, I know one wants neither praise nor pity, and I spared her
both.
"One need only cross Trafalgar Square to reach the National Gallery. My
visit had to be limited to a few old English masters. I have quite a
choice of favorites scattered throughout the world. The 'Musidora' of
Gainsborough--that poem of limpid and voluptuous beauty, Romney's 'Lady
Hamilton,' caressing Bacchante with the golden skin, blonde, lissome and
impassioned--then a few marine pictures of Turner, fireworks on the
waters, whose excessive light augments the darkness of the figures. I
would make the trip only to see them again. My companion inhaled art as
her native air. We experienced the same exaltation and agreed in our
interpretation. I have rarely enjoyed so much pleasure in a museum, for
it was deepened by that emotion which I knew she was experiencing with
me.
"'You should see the English country,' she said. 'Then you would have a
better understanding of our painters. The lawns and trees are more
beautiful because of the dampness of the air. I have discovered that
while riding. That is my favorite pastime. Only I am not alone and the
horse does not belong to me.'
"My presence constantly brought back memories of former days. Her eyes
grew dim, and that delicate moisture reminded me of eyes which become
more expressive when veiled.
"It was painful to me to leave her even for a short time, before I was
again to see her at her house. After a few hours one is generally tired
of the best company, and it is an art to know when to separate, in order
to leave a good impression. As our friendship continued, it revealed new
depths to me.
"I was not to see her alone again. Miss Pearson and M. Portal, the
French professor, were invited also. The latter is a very young man,
distinguished and certainly in love with Mlle. de Sézery. As to Miss
Pearson, I was prepared to meet an old governess. She is scarcely forty,
and her very smart gown, though subdued, indicated a woman of the world,
rather than the principal of a boarding school. After dinner she showed
us a programme with this heading: 'Royal Naval and Military Tournament,'
and suggested that we go to Olympia where it was taking place.
"'To you,' she assured me, 'this will be more interesting than any of
our theaters. I have a box.'
"So it was decided. As a mark of courtesy, I got into the same hansom
with Miss Pearson, but throughout the drive she spoke of nothing but
Mlle. de Sézery:
"'She is a young girl who is--how do you say? very captivating. You knew
her before I did. She is sincere and enthusiastic. When she was
introduced to me she was planning to go to India to devote herself to
invalids and children. Now, from time to time, she still speaks of
going. I have great difficulty in persuading her not to. She is not
suited to ordinary life. Lord Howard, do you know him? No, well, Lord
Howard, who is highly respected and a millionaire, proposed to her. As
his wife she would have held an important position in England. She
refused him. Lord Howard is old. M. Portal has no money, no family
connections, but he is young and charming. He has adored her for a long
time. She listens to him, but reserves her decision.
"'She listens to him?'
"'Yes. In England we listen for a long time to young men before
deciding. In France you have to say yes or no at once, when you are not
sure.'
"As an unpleasant effect of these confidences, I realized that Mlle. de
Sézery, to whom I had not given a thought in nine years, had required
but two days to awaken my deepest interest. I was pleased to find the
other couple waiting at the entrance to the hall, but I pretended to be
particularly interested in Miss Pearson's conversation.
"This tournament--a championship encounter of cavalry, of batteries of
artillery and then of marine artillery, was an illustration of English
imperialism. Olympia holds ten thousand spectators. It was crowded.
Hurrahs welcomed the conquerors. The sailors aroused especial
enthusiasm. An immense pride stirred this crowd, when the military
bands, the royal Guards in their red coats and enormous busbies--and the
bare-legged Scots in kilts passed by. The bagpipes recalled melancholy
countries and legends, but the piercing fifes shook my nerves like
Rudyard Kipling's stories. They could be heard above the noise of the
drums, upon which the drumsticks beat so violently as almost to burst
them.
"The exhibition of a tournament of the Tudors' time was too much for us,
and we went to have tea with Mlle. de Sézery. I invited the ladies to
come to Paris. They graciously promised that they might come, and that
was our last word. M. Portal took me home and proposed to show me
Piccadilly at night, but I was eager to be alone to write up an account
of the day's doings."
"May 6th: At sea. I watched the coast of Dover as long as I could see
its sand hills and forts."
"May--still: I am more content at home. I expect nothing, but my
thoughts are definitely focussed."
"June 12th: No other woman has her walk, graceful and languid, nor her
almond-shaped eyes, with their golden glints, nor the modulating
inflection of her voice. When I walk in Paris, I cannot mistake any
passer-by for her. This evening I was crossing the Luxembourg garden; as
I followed the terrace overlooking the Medicis Fountain, I was surprised
to recognize her, and in my astonishment, was allowing her to pass, when
she stopped, and blushing, held out her hand:
"'I am pleased to see you again.'
"'You here, Mademoiselle? You were coming to see us perhaps? The Rue
Bara is quite near.'
"I noticed that she was in mourning.
"Too candid to mislead me she explained:
"'No, I am going home.'
"'To your home?'
"'Yes,' she replied, smiling, 'Rue Cassini, not far from the
observatory. It is a little flat belonging to my aunt from Liéville, an
aunt of the Breton sort. She left me her lease and sufficient income on
condition that I give up teaching. Poor, dear woman, she chafed under
what she called my "loss of caste." She is the only relative who showed
me any sympathy in time of need. She offered to have me to live with
her, but I preferred my independence.'
"'Now you are rich?'
"'Oh, eight or ten thousand francs a year. If I accept it.'
"'Why should you refuse?'
"'I should have to leave London and begin my life anew. It comes too
late--at my age.'
"'You do not think of marrying Lord Howard ... or M. Portal?'
"'Who told you?'
"Her youthful laughter contrasted with her mourning garments and the
mention of her age. However, she gave me no direct reply.
"'I never cared to come back to France. This return affects me more than
I believed possible. It takes away my courage and determination, which
were so natural to me over there. How we do feel the influence of
environment! Here I am quite weakened!'
"I reproached her for not informing me of her arrival. I offered her my
services and invited her to lunch with me on the following day. She made
me ask her many times, and finally accepted. Gracious and shy by turns,
she is more irresolute, less determined here than in England.
"While chatting, we stopped at the balustrade which borders the terrace.
Between two vases of geraniums, we saw in the foreground, the large
central lawn and the flower beds, and as a background, the leaves of the
trees which limit the view of the garden. The watering-hose was at work.
Children were playing. An old invalid, assisted by his wife, was
greedily inhaling the evening air, as though for the last time. Pigeons
were flying above us and one of them lighted on the raised hand of a
stone goddess. It was the delicious hour when everything assumes a
golden hue, when a man's brain, after the day's work, is unable to
resist the soothing influence of such impressions.
"I watched her going toward the Avenue de l'Observatoire until she was
out of sight. However, I preferred her in London, struggling bravely and
somewhat subdued."
"June 13th: In inviting her to my home, I had no other thought than to
establish pleasant relations and to give Elizabeth a friend of
stimulating influence, because of her active intelligence and the charm
of her society. No, truly, I had no other thought. Had she even inspired
in me a more passionate interest, I should never have permitted this
emotion to go beyond that inner sanction, where each one retains his
individual liberty. I should have conquered my exaltation and bitterness
alone.
"Well, after Anne de Sézery's departure, I asked Elizabeth her
impression. I had told her that morning that Mlle. de Sézery,
completely crushed by fate, had remolded her life.
"'Yes, I know she has been pretty,' she answered. 'But now she has too
little hair and too big a mouth.'
"I had not noticed it. But I knew her eyes, her face, her figure. Why so
much injustice? I was not seeking a detailed description. When
everything has been made easy for us, when we have exerted neither
effort nor will-power, why show ourselves to be so miserably
contemptuous? There are words so unkind that they become fixed in our
memory like milestones and serve to measure the distance which separates
us from those who have uttered them."
"June 25th: I made no attempt after this setback to invite Anne de
Sézery to my house again. We are near neighbors: I am going to call on
her in the Rue Cassini. It is a little deserted street, hidden by the
trees on the Avenue de l'Observatoire. No one goes through it, and one
might think oneself very far from Paris. We are both going away--she to
London, where she must discontinue her former life, and I to the
country. Each visit should have been the last. But day by day our
departure was deferred. In the evening after my work I meet her
returning from her walk, and we both find relaxation in a few minutes'
conversation.
"'In England,' she had said almost at the beginning of this new
friendship, 'I could see you frequently without any difficulty. Here, I
do not know ...'
"'But since we are going away?'
"With no relatives, she was lost in Paris, as I was in my unhappy home
life."
"June 27th: Little Marie Louise asked me why I no longer take her out
walking in the evening."
"June 29th: Visited the Carnavalet Museum with Anne de Sézery. The
story of the Revolution is an endless source of pathos which one can
never exhaust.
"We have agreed that next winter I shall show her an unknown Paris, the
Paris which bears traces of the long centuries and of great men. With
her, interchange of thought is unlimited. There is always a little
embarrassment when I arrive; the first subject of conversation dispels
it. She assures me that I make her live an intellectual life such as one
does not know in London."
"June 30th: The farewell.
"'You will marry in England.'
"'I think not.'
"'However, you will marry.'
"'I am thirty. I am afraid I shall be unable to make up my mind. When I
was quite young I expected so much life and love.'
"'And now?'
"'Now I demand more.'
"'Would you not come to Dauphiné?'
"'To what purpose? Go to Saint Ismier for me some day. You will tell me
when you return if the château has not been repaired, if the trees in
the park have not been pruned or cut down, if my country of former days
is not made unrecognizable. I hope it is not.'
"My good-by was so inadequate. The feeling of separation crushed the
words on my lips. But she? English habits have accustomed her to these
companionships, to these friendships, which are less common, more
difficult in France. As a result of my consideration and her natural
candor, I trust that ours may last for a long time."
"Saint Martin d'Uriage--July. A letter from London, confident and calm,
too calm, calm like the summer days that I detest when not a leaf stirs
in the dry air."
"August: Now her letters come regularly from the other side of the
Channel. The appearance of English stamps is accepted as a matter of
course. Is it not natural that I should have made acquaintances during
my last voyage?"
"September: From week to week this strange friendship draws us closer
together, despite the distance. And I am adapting myself to accept its
unrealized desires and incompleteness, for the sake of the interest it
adds to my life. In these September days whose changing freshness is at
the same time an indication of decline, I feel I am unfaithful to her,
in forgetting her for the gentle fall of the first leaves, which drop
off without apparent reason for the distressing peace of the evening.
Unless it be that without my knowledge she is giving a new interest to
these impressions! Our love is growing, so that it forms a part of all
our thoughts which scatter to the four winds, and is influenced by
nature, which, by ceaseless activity, awakens our emotions and then
focusses all our power of feeling. Have I written correctly: 'Our
love'?"
"September 28th: Her letter is dated from Paris. She has left England
forever. 'I am leaving ten years behind me,' she tells me--'the most
beautiful years of one's life which have given me the impression of
years of more mature age. Am I an old maid or a débutante? I no longer
know. I see my youth behind me and I have made nothing of it. I have
lived so much, and yet so little. I feel happy, care-free and weak at
the same time. From this side of the water I lost all my
self-confidence, and I find myself unsettled. I miss the English life.
In France you do not know the joy of the open air, of independence, of
the honesty of friendship. So we have given each other our friendship:
do you know that that means much, and is a very serious pact? I fear
that you did not realize it, and before we meet again I want to remind
you....'
"Was the tone of my last letters unconsciously impassioned? My thoughts
fly to her like arrows, and do they not strike her heart?"
"Paris, October 15th: I have returned to Paris to make some historical
researches without which I could not go on with my books. I left my wife
and children at Grenoble; they will join me in the beginning of
November.
"No, I came back to see her, and I see her every day at the same hour in
the evening."
"October 18th: We have had our first discussion. She had heard during
the day of the remarriage of a friend in England who had divorced her
husband.
"'Has she children?' I asked.
"'Yes, why?'
"'Because I believe children make marriage indissoluble.'
"Surprised, she asked me:
"'Is that a religious conviction?'
"'I have no religion. Catholicism, moreover, does not permit divorce
under any circumstances. There are other reasons.'
"I explained mine to her, influenced by the interest of society and the
primordial importance of the family. She naturally believed in the
rights of the individual.
"'We must above all be sincere. A home cannot exist without truth.'
"In Dauphiné she had already condemned those unchangeable principles to
which one cannot give expression to-day without audacity. Life has only
served to confirm her desire of revolt.
"'Our feelings may change,' I said to her. 'Facts which are the result
of them do not change. These facts have engendered responsibility,
created obligations.'
"'They do not necessitate the loss of one's liberty.'
"'But there are no free men.'
"'Then is there no longer truth?'
"I defended this miserable lie, so derided, which insures men's peace in
every society, because one is not capable of hearing the truth. One
minute she detested me--I could not bear it, and I discontinued that
tone of sarcasm which allows us to treat serious subjects too lightly.
"'We have liberty only in the inner sanction. The chief aim of marriage
is not the happiness of husband and wife.'
"She started.
"'Certainly not. It is the foundation of a family, the child. That alone
gives marriage a positive value. After the birth of the child life
ceases to be a search for happiness. That event ends that period of
sentimental restlessness of which Nature no longer takes notice. And if
it is not suppressed, at any rate, it maintains a fixed course from
which we can never stray with impunity.'
"As she listened to me without replying, I picked up a volume of Byron
which she was translating.
"'Be careful of these romanticists. Their bouquets are poisoned. They
make the world reflect their point of view. They believe we have every
right to the highest realization, and that our personality creates the
worth of the world. The more unbridled it is, the more powerful it seems
to them. They add the decadence of their emotions to that of their
minds.'
"From intellectual habit, I waxed enthusiastic in this defense of the
social order, to which I have devoted so much thought and effort. She
looked at me with her golden eyes, which can assume fleeting expression
of unutterable woe--when they become like those of wild beasts in their
cage: she said nothing, but her look disturbed me.
"'So,' she said at last, 'if love comes too late, it is not worthy of a
sacrifice?'
"I had not foreseen what one must always foresee with a woman, however
intelligent: the immediate application of our general ideas to the
present experiences.
"'Yes,' she answered in her musical voice, 'the earth bums a long time
with a slow fire. And one can always break one's heart. Is it not so?'
"These words were uttered in such an impersonal manner that any personal
allusion was excluded. I could not discover in them the confession I was
trembling to find. I was silent. In venturing into this discussion, I
did not expect to be struck with my own weapons.
"Darkness, although not precipitated by the half-stripped trees near the
avenue, was gradually coming on. And I carried away from her home an
uncertainty, an unspeakable distress."
"October 20th: Nobody knows I have returned to Paris. However, finding
Mlle. de Sézery's door shut, I paid a visit to my old friend, Doctor
Heaume, who is incurably ill, as a result of excessive expenditure of
mental energy. I found him seated, or rather strapped to his work table
from which he no longer has strength to rise. Only his eyes are alive
and pitiful. One knows from a distance that his cheeks are already
paralyzed. With superhuman energy, he is completing his treatise on
nervous diseases. Then he will die.
"'If I cease working,' he said to me, 'my trouble is unbearable.'
"His pain is an unfortunate marriage which has destroyed him day by day.
On account of his children he has borne everything without a murmur.
Yesterday I admired him: to-day I pity him."
"October 22nd: The lack of outdoor life has broken down Anne's health.
We now go out together every afternoon. On our return, we have tea and
she sings Grieg or Schumann for me, or songs new to me, of coming
Russian musicians, Mouscorgsky or Rimsky Korsakof. Her musical memory
makes it possible to leave the lamps unlighted until night has come on.
In the twilight one is so happy. But in her dark drawing-room her
powerful voice is cramped, as is her soul in life.
"Paris is kind to intimate sentiments. One feels oneself as lost and
free as in a desert.
"Apropos of some character in history or a novel, we often speak of
love. I concluded by asking her in the most serious manner this question
which was tormenting me:
"'You have already loved?'
"'Oh, already,' she replied, laughing. 'At thirty, my friend?'
"'That is not an answer.'
"'Well, yes. Does that interest you?'
"'Very much. Many times?'
"'No, once. And other times a little.'
"'Tell me.'
"But she immediately became serious. 'To tell about one's love means to
give up part of it.'
"'Are you still in love?'
"'Leave me my secrets.'
"This scene took place in the Luxembourg Garden at the close of day. The
girl had turned her head away. Before her and back of the trees, stirred
by the autumn winds, there were lights in the sky. A roll of drums
warned us that it was time to leave. I looked at the graceful, supple
body which has already been embraced. How could I have doubted it? Her
woman's charm is so complete. I shall always see that spot where I have
been jealous, so horribly jealous."
"October 23rd: I am no longer master of my feelings. In the midst of my
work, I must let my thoughts go free--they may return wounded or tired.
And I see myself going adrift.
"I did not seek complex happiness. She whose outlook on life I have
tried to broaden will never know how she has disappointed my hopes. I
did not ask the impossible of her. She was satisfied to accept her lot.
But so often one does not know the meaning of that word: to accept.
"Am I quite sure that I am not seeking excuses for the passion which
absorbs me? Elizabeth has held herself aloof from what is essential to
my life. Had she not done so, would I be more certain of my heart? There
is always within us something unknown which circumstances reveal to us,
and surprised, we find ourselves to be on the borders of youth, richer
in desire and weaker in will.
"I observe this ebb and flow of contradictory emotions. Does not each
and everyone of them indicate some portion of my ego? Happy are those
who realize unity within themselves and know their own limitations! I
have left off the work I had in hand to undertake a new work. I am
applying myself enthusiastically to it, and when I stop short, I am
exhausted. I find myself in turn more powerful and weaker. Exaltation is
only a transitory condition, and without it I am helpless."
"October 25th: As each day passes, it speaks to me of separation, of
absence. The restriction of our liberty will be painful to me. And the
precarious season adds its restlessness to that growing in me.
"This evening it was so fine that we went to the Bois in an open
carriage. It takes us a long time to choose the horses when we drive
together--she will not permit the coachman to whip them.
"'Where are the English vehicles?' she asks with regret.
"We walked side by side in the Allée of Mortemart, near Auteuil. It is
a road little frequented, and there the dead leaves had not been swept
away. They were heaped up at the edges. As the wind rose, they began to
turn about in a whirl and then lay down again. Those remaining on the
branches rustled with a crackling noise. We waited to see them fall.
When we returned, Anne pointed them out to me:
"'It seems as though we are abandoning defenseless beings.'
"And just then one of them broke off, hesitated an instant, then blew on
my knees, as a butterfly struck by death. It was a golden beech leaf. I
looked at Anne and noticed her pallor.
"'You are cold?' I asked.
"'A little,' she answered.
"The sun had set without our noticing it. Dampness was rising from the
ground; the morning rain had not had time to dry. The mist was still
under the trees. The air we were breathing was full of malaria germs.
Lacking a better covering, I asked the coachman for one, and wrapped it
about her shoulders. She did not refuse it and smiled to thank me. She
had never seemed more delicately charming to me. At the Porte Dauphiné
we found a closed carriage."
"October 28th: Why did I speak? She had accepted my invitation to spend
the day at Chantilly. To-morrow we should not be able to go. To-morrow
my house will no longer be empty. We had lunched at the keeper's near
the Château of the White Queen. The weather was so fine that we were
able to remain outdoors a long time, and we had a good view of the pond
of Comelle which continues along the Thève and the zigzag slopes of the
forest. We could even see, standing out in the heart of the wood, the
black tree-trunks growing more and more slender, the ground being
covered with a mass of their leaves. However, they still retained
sufficient foliage to show us from a distance, like a bouquet, their
varied tones of gold and reddish copper.
"I suggested that we walk along an unsanded path as far as the crossways
of the Table. About her head and over her neck floated one of those
white veils such as women are wearing nowadays, which seem befitting to
a certain type of face, as sea gulls to a ship on the water. From time
to time I watched her as she walked. She trod so gently on the dead
leaves that they scarcely rustled. I followed the delicacy of her
movements. In her long falcon eyes flashed sparks of pleasure. The sun
was already setting in the woods through which we could see the horizon;
the days have grown so short. A pleasant forest whose extent is not
overwhelming like the German forests--whose order rests and soothes,
instead of suffocating one, and which invites us to the hunt, to
merry-making, to sentimental walks. A stag, crossing an avenue, looked
at us fearlessly. At the crossways of the Table we saw twelve short
roads comparable under their light archways to a dozen slender rays.
"Our return was much slower. I felt her nearness to me. I should only
have had to bend a little to take her in my arms. But the expression of
her eyes often seems somewhat distant to me. I walked more slowly and
said to her:
"'Why do we realize life so powerfully when we are together?'
"'Because we are friends.'
"She understood immediately whither I was tending. Her face is so
expressive that I read her impressions at once. She was overwrought. She
tried to stop me.
"'Say no more,' she begged.
"It was too late. She realized, even if she did not already know it, the
place she filled in my heart. With teeth clenched, trembling and
shrinking, taken unawares as a stream which freezes, she listened to my
love. Was I mistaken in believing I saw her grow and brighten? She did
not hide from me her agitation, nor even her joy.
"'I should have interrupted you; I had not the courage. Forgive me. I
have not been happy, and it is so inspiring for a woman to hear a man
like you say these things, which have entered into my soul as the sun
into the forest. I did not know how to resist them. Be indulgent with
me--why have you come so late into my life?'
"'Too late?'
"'Yes.'
"'I had forgotten. You still love?'
"She dismissed my emotion with a smile.
"'Yes, perhaps.'
"'Let us go back,' I said, somewhat brusquely. 'The train to Paris
leaves at five.'
"'We shall take the next one.'
"'No, Anne, it is better to go back now.'
"And I explained to her gently, as an arrangement of necessity, that it
was better that we did not see each other again, at least, not for a
while. I was amazed at the peace which followed my exaltation. She
protested energetically, almost violently.
"'No, no, I cannot lose you. You have become indispensable to my moral
life. Since I met you my dull days have taken on color. I do not wish to
fall back into my old state of indifference.'
"The unexpected outburst surprised me.
"'But how about me?'
"'Cannot a man love unselfishly? I shall help you.'
"'To forget you?'
"'Yes. You will have no difficulty. In seeing me frequently you will not
fail to see that I am no longer beautiful. A sincere friendship is not
impossible. Will you not try? I ask it of you.'
"Her request was disconcerting insistence. By what strange and sudden
change was she now pleading with me? I concluded by saying:
"'Let us decide nothing, Anne. Circumstances will decide for us.'
"'No, not circumstances. We! I assure you that we can.'
"During this discussion darkness had come on. Between the branches the
sky was crimson. We had to hurry to escape the cold. In the carriage we
looked at each other without speaking. The light which served as a
background to the tree-trunks grew fainter by degrees, and the forest
embraced us with added mystery. The wheels made no noise; only the sound
of the horses' hoofs could be heard sinking into the thick bed of sand
as we rode along the avenue. It was a dull, regular sound. Nothing
disturbed our emotion. I took her hand which was still ungloved and
raised it to my lips. It was frozen, but its touch was like fire to me.
"'Friends, are we not?' she said to me later as she left me.
"She smiled. I feared to promise more than I could perform, so I said
nothing, nothing. The impressions of nature, of art which I have enjoyed
alone all these years, that I wanted to enjoy alone, to gain a deeper
understanding of them, I now share with her. She has broadened my
outlook on life."
"November: I have hardly been out of the house for a fortnight. I tried
to become absorbed in my work. At the time I generally went to see her,
I feel as though fever had attacked me. No longer able to bear it, I
told her so last evening.
"'Why do you not come?' she replied, laughing. 'I shall give you some
quinine.'"
"December: Every time I come back from the Rue Cassini, it seems to me,
as I enter my house, that I put on a mask or hide something I have
stolen. It is a sensation of cruel restraint. But the welcome I receive
dissipates it at once. There is no comparison whatsoever between the
intellectual stimulation which I experience in my unlimited
conversations with Anne, and the colorless calm which awaits me at home.
I now feel the need of that thought and our excitement to make me know
that I am alive. And I am growing accustomed to this sort of double
life.
"How can a woman so blindly accept the deepest of all separations, the
moral separation? After more than seven years of marriage, I am still
amazed at it. She lacks curiosity as she does distrust. The daily round
satisfies her. Just now I was studying her under the lamplight. She is
scarcely thirty, and her expressionless face reveals no doubt of the
heart, no personal thought. She can see in me neither a new joy, nor
despair. I am all in all to her, but I do not know to-day how I have
been able to please her. I no longer think of her love. Nevertheless I
am so weak or so complex that her youth still touches me, and that my
desire to animate her, futile as it is, is not entirely crushed. I have
loved her too much for her happiness or grief ever to be indifferent to
me, yet I am giving myself with delight to the danger which threatens
us. The younger we are, the less we can discern in reality the object of
our devotion. We modify it, we recreate it, and later, when we awake to
our mistake, we blame the object, instead of our capacity to idealize.
We should know how to make use of the truth, which, although different,
still has its attractions. But we do not forgive it for having deceived
us.
"What I am passionately fond of never interests Elizabeth. She does not
know or else she disregards the treasures of life. Either through
thoughtlessness or indifference, she takes no part in it and narrows her
life, when I try to enlarge it. We live together: she knows nothing of
me and never will. There is neither discussion nor intimacy between us.
It is the peace of the household, of so many households unconsciously
divided against themselves. Children and the active life of Paris give
to this secret divorce an appearance of harmony."
"December 28th: Marie Louise and Philippe are asked to two children's
matinées on the same day. Philippe would try to get out of going to
both of them, but his sister will give up neither. She is offered her
choice: she goes from one to the other, and as soon as we wish to carry
out her decision, she takes it back. Her desire for amusement is not
gratified by one affair."
"January 1st, 1905: What has this New Year in store for us?
"Anne is very sad on these days of family gatherings, and wishes to hide
it from me.
"'One cannot help regretting Christmas,' she said to me with a smile,
belied by the drooping corners of her mouth.
"Two or three English friends on a trip came to greet her effusively.
After they had gone, I said to her:
"'Everybody kisses to-day. Is it not my turn?'
"She began to laugh.
"'There is no mistletoe, my friend. Ah, if there were only mistletoe!'
"'Would you go under it with me?'
"'In Paris your drawing-rooms are so small.'
"My exaltation of the Autumn has quieted itself, or rather has become as
the red leaves inlaid in a Galle vase that I gave her as a souvenir.
That which I thought impossible is materializing little by little. A
lasting tie ill-defined and somewhat uncertain is binding us. I prefer
her glance to her eyes, her voice to her lips, her friendship to my
desire."
"January 2nd: Dr. Heaume died yesterday, regardless of so untimely a
date. I saw him in his bed. He had regained his stature. His face was
impressively calm, with a serenity which startles one--yes, startles and
attracts--on features that have only appeared sorrowful and tortured.
"In reality, he adored life. It was his only faith. Instead of finishing
his treatise on nervous diseases, he had begun a study of the
development of the passions. He multiplied the reasons for prolonging
his life and did not fear failing his masterpiece as everyone had failed
him.
"At his side, his wife was weeping as if she had always recognized the
rare force of that spirit now fled.
"Overcome by the realization of so much lost power, I went to share my
reflections with Anne. Even our silence is the echo of our thoughts. At
home mine have no echo."
"January: Visited the Conciergie together. One of her ancestors was
killed in this court on the first day of the September massacres.
"'He once appeared to me,' she told me.
"At the beginning of our conversations there is always a short
digression. Her indifferent manner keeps me on the alert; then I find
again her candor and her deep soul. It always requires time to
harmonize.
"She does not try to convince me. I ask at all hazards:
"'Where and when?'
"'Do you want to know? It was in a lawyer's office.'
"'An extraordinary place for a ghost.'
"'Yes, they were advising me to give up my father's estate. He looked at
me severely and showed me this wound. The dead always advise us to
consent. They don't have to bear the consequences. At that time I
thought that there were no useless sacrifices.'
"'And now?'
"'All sacrifices are useless.'
"Her golden eyes fixed me boldly as if she were defying me. I recalled
her look of pride in London when she told me she had paid the last
family debt.
"Along the quay, behind Notre Dame, she talked to me of her childhood,
of her early youth in Dauphiné. It is a subject to which she seldom
refers. Her recollection of our meeting is more exact than mine. She
recalls forgotten circumstances. I was shy, unsociable and proud in
those days.
"'A little absurd, is it not?'
"She replies gravely:
"'I recognized your superiority.'
"'What superiority?'
"She is seeking a definition, which is always embarrassing.
"'The passion to see clearly, but Philippe Lagier had it too; above all
the power of never knowing a state of indifference, the wonderful
instinct of all the innumerable resources of life.'
"'Thank you,' I said, smiling. 'You are too kind.'
"But she retained her serious expression."
"January 26th: It is all over! Our walks in Paris, our free talks at the
fireside, at least for a time. She leaves to-night for London to visit
Miss Pearson for three weeks!
"Something more than absence saddens our farewells. Shall we find intact
on her return this rather diverse friendship in which we have known such
rare joy? I tell her of my doubts.
"'I am half English,' she replies. 'The country is so attractive to me
because of the habit of self-government one acquires there and the
evidence of honesty in the ideal of friendship. Do you not owe to it
this friendship of which you are speaking? A Frenchwoman would never
have asked you for it.'
"'Is this friendship singular, Anne? I know nothing of your life over
there. Only, I am uneasy. Uneasy and jealous.'
"'Have you no confidence in me? You have the essential.'
"'And the rest?'
"'The rest is not worth while.'
"There is something in these words which leaves a deep melancholy.
Before leaving her I looked at the ceiling.
"'Still no mistletoe?'
"She laughed with all her youthfulness.
"'Still no mistletoe!'
"'I shall bring some for your return.'
"'Not till next Christmas, mind!'"
"March 26th: When I saw her again two months later, I verified the
presentiment I had on her departure. Something inexplicable has changed
our relations. Anne is more reserved, and again at moments almost wild.
Will time give back to us the harmonious peace of former days?
"Her letters, though long and frequent, full of details of her daily
doings, make me realize this. Another feeling absorbs her, or with her
love of independence, she does not care to commit herself."
"April 2nd: Little by little the same passionate taste for conversation
draws us together. She is exalted, and I find her again as she was, and
all of a sudden her expression becomes tense, as if she regretted giving
way to her feelings. There is a tragedy going on in her of which I know
nothing."
"April 5th: I know now. And after the shock of my discovery, I continue
in that happy state of languor in which one prolongs and deepens an
emotion, desiring to retain it in the present, rather than abandon it to
the past.
"I received a letter from Miss Pearson to-day begging me to use my
influence with Anne, in favor of a marriage with that Lord Howard, who
has asked her so often. There is no longer any thought of M. Portal. In
England questions concerning fortune, position and family connections
are of the greatest importance. Miss Pearson enumerated to me the
advantages of such a union, which would place our friend in her proper
rank. She appealed with authority to the confidence Mlle. de Sézery had
in me.
"A curious mission which has upset me! However, I went to see Anne at my
usual time, and without comment, gave her the letter. I still see the
flame which flashed from her eyes.
"'Miss Pearson,' she said angrily to me, 'is hateful. She had no right
to--Why did she keep me from going to India?'
"'You wanted to go?'
"'Yes, last month.'
"'Without telling me? Why?'
"'I do as I please.'
"This cruel suppression of our friendship offended me. I rose to leave.
"'So you will be able to decide without me.'
"She hastened to detain me. I have never seen her so overwrought, so
pale. Her long golden eyes were veiled. I am powerless before their
sorrowful expression.
"'No, no,' she said. 'You will choose for me.'
"Conciliated by her agitation, I made a gesture of despair.
"'Oh! I ...'
"'Speak!'
"'How could I live without you?'
"And the fire instantly reappeared in her glance and lit up her face,
which, in its changing expression, revealed her thoughts. I could not
fail to notice it.
"'Never mention this marriage to me again,' she said.
"I had recovered possession of myself and pleaded another cause.
"'It is not a question of myself, Anne. This marriage would give you, if
not the joy of youth, at least peace and that distraction which one
readily finds in a circle suitable to one's tastes and personal value.'
"'You no longer love me?'
"'There was no question of my love,' I said.
"'You would give it up? I am no longer capable of a sacrifice. Life has
demanded top many of me.'
"'From you?'
"'You did not understand? For ten years...."
"She was quite close to me. I had only to hold out my arms for her to
come and rest against my heart, with her head on my shoulder.
"'_Anne_--'
"'Let us say no more. I am so ashamed of myself--'
"I felt her all a-quiver. How long did we remain so? Those wonderful
moments had a greater weight--the weight of years. The April evening was
prolonging its light, its invitation of Spring. Our love made us tremble
together. When she gained control of herself she lifted her bowed head
and smiled like a young, cajoling girl:
"'You did not bring the mistletoe?'
"I touched her burning cheek. I wished to touch her lips, to possess
that which had betrayed her secret. She did not permit me. With a quick
movement she tore herself away from me.
"'No, no,' she murmured, frightened, 'our love must suffice.'
"'It is my first kiss.'
"Surprised, I repeated. 'The first?'
"She blushed delightfully.
"'Yes, at my age. Now I should like to die. It would be the last.'
"'Anne!'
"Thus our happiness was tinged with melancholy. How should we now unite
the past with the future? Do not let us look so far ahead. Let us
content ourselves to-night in exhausting the strength of our emotion.
To-morrow we shall make lasting resolutions."
"April 6th: Eleven o'clock at night. My home is broken up. I should
never have destroyed it. Anne knew it. I cannot write of this scene. I
am crushed. Shall I never see Marie Louise and Philippe again? Shall I
allow them to be torn away from me? Elizabeth has misunderstood,
belittled and lowered our love; so I have rebelled. She has reproached
me for lying to her, and she was incapable of understanding or hearing
the truth about our life. It is her desire. I am free. And this thought
obsesses me: if Anne were not to give herself to me now that my love is
the only thing left to me--"
V
ELIZABETH'S AWAKENING
The remainder of the note-book consisted of blank pages. Albert had
given up his diary on that date, and the sudden silence, after so long a
confession, spoke volumes. Elizabeth turned over the leaves till the
last, seeking an excess of sadness with which to avoid reflection. At
last, she lost all external pretext of escaping from her own thoughts.
She looked at the clock: it was three in the morning. Her body on fire,
she dragged herself mechanically to the window and opened it. Fainting,
she sought relief, she wanted to call for help. The peace of night
prevented her crying aloud. In place of the moonlight she had left, she
found herself face to face with darkness, and went back to put out the
lamp. Then she rested on her elbows.
She could distinguish only the vague slope of the meadows and the dark
mass of the mountain on the other side of the valley. But, over the
black arch stretched like a velvet cloth, countless stars stood out in
relief. She saw such nights every time she returned from an evening
party. Nevertheless, this one was different--new. She inhaled its sweet
breath eagerly. The air breathed out by the rose trees in the garden,
and the pine trees in the park laden with a healthy scent, caressed her
like the hand of a friend. She felt a cold delicate touch on her
overheated cheek, and leaned forward to get the full benefit of its
relief. And in her gratitude she noticed the different lights, the
continued throbbing of the stars whose multitude had never interested
her. One particularly, which was nearing the summit of Les Quatre
Seigneurs rapidly changed color, being alternately green and rose like
an opal. So the night, which, in her indifference, had thus far seemed
only lifeless chaos, stirred itself, took pity on her, comforted her as
a living being, as the only living being capable of lightening her
despair.
But this same night, whose pure calmness she invoked, was wrapping in
its coolness of closing summer, the love of Albert and Anne. By a sudden
change she detested it, and called for daylight, less indulgent to
lovers, and therefore less distressing to her. After accepting her
desertion patiently and calmly for five months, she was now rebelling
and wringing her hands, as she reproached the night. Ignorance, the
feeling of offended dignity, contempt, no longer protected her from the
jealous fury which possessed her. They were together at this hour--side
by side, and too late she knew the strength of that passion which had
attracted them, the one to the other, and which she herself, by leaving
him, had allowed to develop. This Anne de Sézery whom she had received
in her home without heeding her ardent nature, whom she had never looked
at except to find fault with her--of whom she never thought till then,
except to attribute to her the basest of motives, she now pictured with
her golden eyes, her face lighted up by emotion and the intellectual
delight which emanated from her. She hated her--while she tried to be
just to her. She was keenly alive to her suffering, as though she had
just been deceived.
A cry which echoed from afar aroused her. It was one of those calls
which the shepherds send from one hill to another: a prolonged and
lingering note--followed by a sharp trill which seemed to mock her. It
was repeated once, then again, growing more distant, less distinct. The
silence added to it, accentuated its dual expression of mockery and
despair. Was it the signal of a lover or the good-by of shepherd?
Elizabeth, overwhelmed, listened for its repetition. The return to her
thoughts tired her so, that she longed to find rest from the expression
of her sorrow in any external manifestation, even in discordant music.
But in the silence, she surrendered again to the loneliness of love. Had
she ever felt that love before, or, so aroused, was she experiencing it
for the first time? It dispelled triumphantly, with brutality and
certainty, all the contempt she had felt in the past few weeks, since
she had known of the secret wickedness going on about her in the name of
love. She even forgave Philippe Lagier his impertinent confession, for
the sake of the warning he had given her at Grenoble, which now came
back to her memory like a realized prediction.
"To love, if one sincerely loves you," he had said--"if one spares you
every difficulty, every effort, is not to one's credit. To love when you
are deserted, betrayed, forgotten, when your heart is trampled
upon,--that is love."
Why had she then rebelled against such just words? Albert had trampled
on her heart all that night--had she ever loved him as she did at that
hour when she was opening her eyes wide to the obscurity of life? The
morning when he had first whispered in her ear the words that every
young girl expects and which do not surprise her, the afternoon when her
fiancé had shyly touched her cheek with his lips at St. Martin
d'Uriage, the evening she became a wife without even understanding how
to make of her suffering an offering of love, none of these experiences
had brought her memories, comparable in depth of feeling to this
distress which was crushing her. Did she have to lose her happiness to
know its value?--And she had even lost it without understanding it. That
her humiliation might be complete, she had to learn it from another love
which was passed over her, like an infectious illness, devouring her
with its fire.
The increasing coolness of those last hours of night did not calm her
fever. The wind grew cooler, as it touched her face--She clung to the
window sash with all her strength to support herself. So many and such
overwhelming thoughts crushed her at the same time. Murmurs, then short
stifled sobs from the children's room, made her start, listen, but she
did not move from her place. Contrary to her habits, she did not go to
the door, but let Marie Louise, whose voice she had distinguished, fight
alone against her nightmare. She shut herself up savagely in her
despair, and the last sentence of Albert's diary, so cruel in its
selfishness, became intelligible to her. The little girl had gone to
sleep again when she felt able to go to her.
"The cup ... of happiness" she thought in recalling the last words the
child had said.
She had held it in her hands--the divine cup--She had received it as a
treasure which was her due, and scarcely noticing it, she had quaffed it
unconcernedly, and had then allowed it to be taken from her.
How had she been unable to suspect what life could hold for her? She no
longer defended herself against Albert's accusations. To defend herself
meant to increase the influence of the rival. She preferred to be the
guilty one. Yes, in her home, one breathed the odor of death, and not
the fascination of life. Instead of a warm light on entering, one met
darkness--cold.
"Why," she beseeched in condemning her past, "why was I not warned? I
was so young, so simple and ignorant. Would I not have molded myself?
Young girls do not know. No one tells them that everyone has to make his
own home and watch his fire. They collect stones by chance, and the
first breath of wind disperses their ashes. It is wicked not to help
them."
But her memory unhesitatingly gave her the answer. She remembered all
the circumstances, particularly frequent in the first days of their
marriage, when Albert had tried to shake off her apathy, to give to her
a little vital energy. In traveling, at the fireside, in the wintertime,
in Paris, on the terrace at Saint Martin, in the summer, he had tried to
vivify the past, nature, art, books, the fleeting moment. How much time
and effort he had used to try to interest her, to awaken her passion, to
increase the value of her days! She thought of this with tenderness and
understood it to be proofs of his love.
"He did love me. He loved me before he loved her--When he spoke to me
enthusiastically, feelingly, about his favorite works or things of the
past, it was love that he was holding out to me. To understand life one
must love it--one must love. I see it now...."
She had built up that wall against which all force is useless: the power
of unresponsiveness. Her resistance had been constant. To her
understanding, to live meant to let live. Had she not filled daily her
petty duties as mistress of the house, and her simple maternal duties as
well? What more could she do? The bitterness her husband sometimes
manifested, which he rapidly overcame, but which showed frequently on
his face when he came home, had seemed unjust. Now she explained it to
herself. The home lacked a living, happy soul to give meaning to the
humblest cares; to the most trifling needs, diffusing that spirit of
harmony, relaxation, peace, which allows the man of mental activity to
follow the course of his thoughts, to gather them and afterwards give
expression to them--not in muddled sentences, but with quiet authority,
capable of soothing and comforting other people, and awakening them to a
realization of the flight of time. So, by an exalted intuition, vague
and pathetic--she began to understand the rôle that fate had assigned
to her in which she had failed.
Her children had appreciated their father more than she had. When they
welcomed him with their laughter, with their shouts of joy, and when
they unceasingly asked him for new toys or stories, they were
instinctively paying him homage. They attributed to him the power of
doubling their happiness in life. And he himself met with only indolence
or indifference, as if, in spite of his strength, he never had need of
rest and relaxation. Year by year he felt himself more alone and
unsatisfied. And other women, noticing that loneliness, waited upon him,
and recognizing his superiority, tempted him. She had never guessed at
this menace which hung over her. She had not anticipated Anne de
Sézery. Without doubt she was the cause and origin of her own
unhappiness.
She hastily withdrew from the window, seeing before her like an
apparition, the most cruel passage of the diary, which entered so deeply
into the heart of man,--that referring to the mystery, to the fatality
of love,--that passage which dared to express the thought that even in
happiness, one can never be quite sure of one's desires. She held out
her arms to push it from her. No, no, it would have been a warning to
her to be on her guard. Defenseless, she had been surprised in her
sleep. But her defeat was irreparable. The other one had understood too
well what she had neglected. Reaching this last stage of the mad course
that her thoughts followed without direction, she gave way to her
despair. Why had she not been so cruelly wounded when she discovered her
husband's treachery? Sorrow was like love, an abyss whose depths can
never be explored. The thought which took hold of her with all its
force, which was like a death watch at the side of a departed relative,
instantly transformed her knowledge, but not her courage. She saw
clearly into the depths of her own soul, but she fathomed her weakness
and gave way to it. Of what value to discover one's mistake so late when
all was lost?
Night was stealing away like a wolf. Over the mountain tops the first
lights of dawn were appearing, all golden on a sky of green, a sky of a
color, so delicate, so pure. The stars were fading away, melting into
the fresh air as snow in the heat. Suddenly Elizabeth felt the touch of
the sun upon her face which was bathed in tears. Overcome by her sorrow,
she shuddered and put her hands over her eyes, as if to protect them
from this unwelcome contact. The light shone through her fingers. All
about her the garden, woods, meadows, all nature, was awakening. The
trees, which had been so indistinct, were outlined against the golden
light which was rising and filling space. In the bushes the birds were
welcoming the return of day with joyous song. It was life which was
again coming into its own with a full sense of possession. She too was
filled with a mad longing to live.
To live? She did not know how, she would try. She would struggle against
her stupidity, her apathy, her ignorance. For herself? It was too late.
For her children who should not be like her. But was it not difficult
then to think of anyone's else happiness than her own? Timidly she went
to her mirror, and beautified by the dawn as were the flowers, she saw
herself, although pale and with reddened eyes, withal still so young,
that hope entered into her heart like a sunbeam.
"I am young. She is not so young."
She tried to smile at herself but could not. The dawning day bathed her
in all its beauty. Nevertheless, she trembled with cold.
"The day--Life--They do not revive me."
Turning from her mirror, she concentrated her mind, her poor tired mind,
on a single idea--which became the axis of her actions, as a star that
of the world.
"Now, yes, now, I know that I love him. And I hope for nothing from him
but sorrow...."
And she understood vaguely that this exaltation of suffering signified a
new life dawning for her.