a woman of thirty-第16部分

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d　no　part　of　life　is　left　sound　and　whole。　Never　afterwards　can　we　think　the　same　thoughts　as　before。　Anguish　engraves　itself　in　ineffaceable　characters　on　mouth　and　brow；　it　passes　through　us；　destroying　or　relaxing　the　springs　that　vibrate　to　enjoyment；　leaving　behind　in　the　soul　the　seeds　of　a　disgust　for　all　things　in　this　world。

Yet；　again；　to　be　measureless；　to　weigh　like　this　upon　body　and　soul；　the　trouble　should　befall　when　soul　and　body　have　just　come　to　their　full　strength；　and　smite　down　a　heart　that　beats　high　with　life。　Then　it　is　that　great　scars　are　made。　Terrible　is　the　anguish。　None；　it　may　be；　can　issue　from　this　soul…sickness　without　undergoing　some　dramatic　change。　Those　who　survive　it；　those　who　remain　on　earth；　return　to　the　world　to　wear　an　actor's　countenance　and　to　play　an　actor's　part。　They　know　the　side…scenes　where　actors　may　retire　to　calculate　chances；　shed　their　tears；　or　pass　their　jests。　Life　holds　no　inscrutable　dark　places　for　those　who　have　passed　through　this　ordeal；　their　judgments　are　Rhadamanthine。

For　young　women　of　the　Marquise　d'Aiglemont's　age；　this　first；　this　most　poignant　pain　of　all；　is　always　referable　to　the　same　cause。　A　woman；　especially　if　she　is　a　young　woman；　greatly　beautiful；　and　by　nature　great；　never　fails　to　stake　her　whole　life　as　instinct　and　sentiment　and　society　all　unite　to　bid　her。　Suppose　that　that　life　fails　her；　suppose　that　she　still　lives　on；　she　cannot　but　endure　the　most　cruel　pangs；　inasmuch　as　a　first　love　is　the　loveliest　of　all。　How　comes　it　that　this　catastrophe　has　found　no　painter；　no　poet？　And　yet；　can　it　be　painted？　Can　it　be　sung？　No；　for　the　anguish　arising　from　it　eludes　analysis　and　defies　the　colors　of　art。　And　more　than　this；　such　pain　is　never　confessed。　To　console　the　sufferer；　you　must　be　able　to　divine　the　past　which　she　hugs　in　bitterness　to　her　soul　like　a　remorse；　it　is　like　an　avalanche　in　a　valley；　it　laid　all　waste　before　it　found　a　permanent　resting…place。

The　Marquise　was　suffering　from　this　anguish；　which　will　for　long　remain　unknown；　because　the　whole　world　condemns　it；　while　sentiment　cherishes　it；　and　the　conscience　of　a　true　woman　justifies　her　in　it。　It　is　with　such　pain　as　with　children　steadily　disowned　of　life；　and　therefore　bound　more　closely　to　the　mother's　heart　than　other　children　more　bounteously　endowed。　Never；　perhaps；　was　the　awful　catastrophe　in　which　the　whole　world　without　dies　for　us；　so　deadly；　so　complete；　so　cruelly　aggravated　by　circumstance　as　it　had　been　for　the　Marquise。　The　man　whom　she　had　loved　was　young　and　generous；　in　obedience　to　the　laws　of　the　world；　she　had　refused　herself　to　his　love；　and　he　had　died　to　save　a　woman's　honor；　as　the　world　calls　it。　To　whom　could　she　speak　of　her　misery？　Her　tears　would　be　an　offence　against　her　husband；　the　origin　of　the　tragedy。　By　all　laws　written　and　unwritten　she　was　bound　over　to　silence。　A　woman　would　have　enjoyed　the　story；　a　man　would　have　schemed　for　his　own　benefit。　No；　such　grief　as　hers　can　only　weep　freely　in　solitude　and　in　loneliness；　she　must　consume　her　pain　or　be　consumed　by　it；　die　or　kill　something　within　herher　conscience；　it　may　be。

Day　after　day　she　sat　gazing　at　the　flat　horizon。　It　lay　out　before　her　like　her　own　life　to　come。　There　was　nothing　to　discover；　nothing　to　hope。　The　whole　of　it　could　be　seen　at　a　glance。　It　was　the　visible　presentment　in　the　outward　world　of　the　chill　sense　of　desolation　which　was　gnawing　restlessly　at　her　heart。　The　misty　mornings；　the　pale；　bright　sky；　the　low　clouds　scudding　under　the　gray　dome　of　heaven；　fitted　with　the　moods　of　her　soul…sickness。　Her　heart　did　not　contract；　was　neither　more　nor　less　seared；　rather　it　seemed　as　if　her　youth；　in　its　full　blossom；　was　slowly　turned　to　stone　by　an　anguish　intolerable　because　it　was　barren。　She　suffered　through　herself　and　for　herself。　How　could　it　end　save　in　self…absorption？　Ugly　torturing　thoughts　probed　her　conscience。　Candid　self…examination　pronounced　that　she　was　double；　there　were　two　selves　within　her；　a　woman　who　felt　and　a　woman　who　thought；　a　self　that　suffered　and　a　self　that　could　fain　suffer　no　longer。　Her　mind　traveled　back　to　the　joys　of　childish　days；　they　had　gone　by；　and　she　had　never　known　how　happy　they　were。　Scenes　crowded　up　in　her　memory　as　in　a　bright　mirror　glass；　to　demonstrate　the　deception　of　a　marriage　which；　all　that　it　should　be　in　the　eyes　of　the　world；　was　in　reality　wretched。　What　had　the　delicate　pride　of　young　womanhood　done　for　herthe　bliss　foregone；　the　sacrifices　made　to　the　world？　Everything　in　her　expressed　love；　awaited　love；　her　movements　still　were　full　of　perfect　grace；　her　smile；　her　charm；　were　hers　as　before；　why？　she　asked　herself。　The　sense　of　her　own　youth　and　physical　loveliness　no　more　affected　her　than　some　meaningless　reiterated　sound。　Her　very　beauty　had　grown　intolerable　to　her　as　a　useless　thing。　She　shrank　aghast　from　the　thought　that　through　the　rest　of　life　she　must　remain　an　incomplete　creature；　had　not　the　inner　self　lost　its　power　of　receiving　impressions　with　that　zest；　that　exquisite　sense　of　freshness　which　is　the　spring　of　so　much　of　life's　gladness？　The　impressions　of　the　future　would　for　the　most　part　be　effaced　as　soon　as　received；　and　many　of　the　thoughts　which　once　would　have　moved　her　now　would　move　her　no　more。

After　the　childhood　of　the　creature　dawns　the　childhood　of　the　heart；　but　this　second　infancy　was　over；　her　lover　had　taken　it　down　with　him　into　the　grave。　The　longings　of　youth　remained；　she　was　young　yet；　but　the　completeness　of　youth　was　gone；　and　with　that　lost　completeness　the　whole　value　and　savor　of　life　had　diminished　somewhat。　Should　she　not　always　bear　within　her　the　seeds　of　sadness　and　mistrust；　ready　to　grow　up　and　rob　emotion　of　its　springtide　of　fervor？　Conscious　she　must　always　be　that　nothing　could　give　her　now　the　happiness　so　longed　for；　that　seemed　so　fair　in　her　dreams。　The　fire　from　heaven　that　sheds　abroad　its　light　in　the　heart；　in　the　dawn　of　love；　had　been　quenched　in　tears；　the　first　real　tears　which　she　had　shed；　henceforth　she　must　always　suffer；　because　it　was　no　longer　in　her　power　to　be　what　once　she　might　have　been。　This　is　a　belief　which　turns　us　in　aversion　and　bitterness　of　spirit　from　any　proffered　new　delight。

Julie　had　come　to　look　at　life　from　the　point　of　view　of　age　about　to　die。　Young　though　she　felt；　the　heavy　weight　of　joyless　days　had　fallen　upon　her；　and　left　her　broken…spirited　and　old　before　her　time。　With　a　despairing　cry；　she　asked　the　world　what　it　could　give　her　in　exchange　for　the　love　now　lost；　by　which　she　had　lived。　She　asked　herself　whether　in　that　vanished　love；　so　chaste　and　pure；　her　will　had　not　been　more　criminal　than　her　deeds；　and　chose　to　believe　herself　guilty；　partly　to　affront　the　world；　partly　for　her　own　consolation；　in　that　she　had　missed　the　close　union　of　body　and　soul；　which　diminishes　the　pain　of　the　one　who　is　left　behind　by　the　knowledge　that　once　it　has　known　and　given　joy　to　the　full；　and　retains　within　itself　the　impress　of　that　which　is　no　more。

Something　of　the　mortification　of　the　actress　cheated　of　her　part　mingled　with　the　pain　which　thrilled　through　every　fibre　of　her　heart　and　brain。　Her　nature　had　been　thwarted；　her　vanity　wounded；　her　woman's　generosity　cheated　of　self…sacrifice。　Then；　when　she　had　raised　all　these　questions；　set　vibrating　all　the　springs　in　those　different　phases　of　being　which　we　distinguish　as　social；　moral；　and　physical；　her　energies　were　so　far　exhausted　and　relaxed　that　she　was　powerless　to　grasp　a　single　thought　amid　the　chase　of　conflicting　ideas。

Sometimes　as　the　mists　fell；　she　would　throw　her　window　open；　and　would　stay　there；　motionless；　breathing　in　unheedingly　the　damp　earthly　scent　in　the　air；　her　mind　to　all　appearance　an　unintelligent　blank；　for　the　ceaseless　burden　of　sorrow　humming　in　her　brain　left　her　deaf　to　earth's　harmonies　and　insensible　to　the　delights　of　thought。

One　day；　towards　noon；　when　the　sun　shone　out　for　a　little；　her　maid　came　in　without　a　summons。

〃This　is　the　fourth　time　that　M。　le　Cure　has　come　to　see　Mme。　la　Marquise；　to…day　he　is　so　determined　about　it；　that　we　did　not　know　what　to　tell　him。〃

〃He　has　come　to　ask　for　some　money　for　the　poor；　no　doubt；　take　him　twenty…five　louis　from　me。〃

The　woman　went　only　to　return。

〃M。　le　Cure　will　not　take　the　money；　my　lady；　he　wants　to　speak　to　you。〃

〃Then　let　him　come！〃　said　Mme。　d'Aiglemont；　with　an　involuntary　shrug　which　augured　ill　for　the　priest's　reception。　Evidently　the　lady　meant　to　put　a　stop　to　persecution　by　a　short　and　sharp　method。

Mme。　d'Aiglemont　had　lost　her　mother　in　her　early　childhood；　and　as　a　natural　consequence　in　her　bringing…up；　she　had　felt　the　influence　of　the　relaxed　notions　which　loosened　the　hold　of　religion　upon　France　during　the　Revolution。　Piety　is　a　womanly　virtue　which　women　alone　can　really　instil；　and　the　Marquise；　a　child　of　the　eighteenth　century；　had　adopted　her　father's　creed　of　philosophism；　and　practised　no　religious　observances。　A　priest；　to　her　way　of　thinking；　was　a　civil　servant　of　very　doubtful　utility。　In　her　present　position；　the　teaching　of　religion　could　only　poison　her　wounds；　she　had；　moreover；　but　scanty　faith　in　the　lights　of　country　cures；　and　made　up　her　mind　to　put　this　one　gently　but　firmly　in　his　place；　and　to　rid　herself　of　him；　after　the　manner　of　the　rich；　by　bestowing　a　benefit。

At　first　sight　of　the　cure　the　Marquise　felt　no　inclination　to　change　her　mind。　She　saw　before　her　a　stout；　rotund　little　man；　with　a　ruddy；　wrinkled；　elderly　face；　which　awkwardly　and　unsuccessfully　tried　to　smile。　His　bald；　quadrant…shaped　forehead；　furrowed　by　intersecting　lines；　was　too　heavy　for　the　rest　of　his　face；　which　seemed　to　be　dwarfed　by　it。　A　fringe　of　scanty　white　hair　encircled　the　back　of　his　head；　and　almost　reached　his　ears。　Yet　the　priest　looked　as　if　by　nature　he　had　a　genial　disposition；　his　thick　lips；　his　slightly　curved　nose；　his　chin；　which　vanished　in　a　double　fold　of　wrinkles；　all　marked　him　out　as　a　man　who　took　cheerful　views　of　life。

At　first　the　Marquise　saw　nothing　but　these　salient　characteristics；　but　at　the　first　word　she　was　struck　by　the　sweetness　of　the　speaker's　voice。　Looki