The Choice of Life Part 11

But where are all of us before the hour that reveals us to ourselves?

And what manner of being would he be who had never undergone any influence or contact, who had never seen anything, felt anything? All impressions, whether of persons or things, come to us from without, but little by little and so imperceptibly that there is never a day in our lives that may be called the day of awakening. And yet it exists for all of us, shredded into decisive and fugitive minutes throughout our lives.

Imagine for an instant that we could gather them, put them together and place them all in the hands of one being who, with one movement, would scatter them all around us. Would not the change in our character, in our thoughts, in our feelings be very remarkable? Would we not appear actually "possessed" by that person, who, after all, would have been but the instrument of a natural reaction of all our inert forces?

Filled with these thoughts, I said to Roseline:

"Dearest, once your life is kindled into feeling and expression, I can no longer distinguish it, for it is absorbed in mine.... I shall soon be going away; and all that I shall know of you will be your beauty, your unhappiness and the tenderness of your heart."

Her great, innocent eyes, lifted to mine, asked:

"Is not that enough?"

And, almost ashamed of my doubts, I at once added:

"You shall come where I am; whatever happens, be sure that I will not desert you."

With an abrupt gesture, she flung her arms around me; and, as we looked into each other's eyes, the same mist rose before them. Was she at last about to accompany me into the depths of my soul?

My heart burns with the fire of this new and longed-for emotion; and I feel two crystal tears, two tears of sheer delight, slowly follow the curve of my cheeks. Rose's own sensibilities have been blunted for a time by her rough life; she does not yet know how to weep for happiness; and, almost frightened, she convulsively presses her clasped hands against her breast, as though she feared lest it should burst with the throbbing of her joy.

I placed my lips to the long golden lashes, I gathered the dear, timorous tears that seemed still uncertain which path to take; and, behind the veil of my kisses, they gushed forth without fear or shame.

5

The setting sun was no more than a thin crimson streak on the dividing line of sky and sea; and the peaceful billows whispered mysteriously in the dusk that rose from every side.

It was time to go. When we were both standing, so frail and insignificant on the great empty beach, a wave of pa.s.sionate grat.i.tude overwhelmed both our hearts; and I at last believed that all nature--the sea, the meadows and the fields--had wrought its work of love and beauty in my Rose.

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 pa.s.sed, 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 rea.s.sure myself. True, Rose could never be at the farm, among those coa.r.s.e 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 att.i.tude?

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 gra.s.s. 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 gra.s.s: 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 pa.s.sed 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 coa.r.s.e 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 bra.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e 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 coa.r.s.e 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.