the lily of the valley-第54节

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defiance　of　the　ideas　and　the　advice　given　me　by　Henriette。

Thenceforth　I　lived　in　the　sort　of　rage　we　find　in　consumptive

patients　who；　knowing　their　end　is　near；　cannot　endure　that　their

lungs　should　be　examined。　There　was　no　corner　in　my　heart　where　I

could　fly　to　escape　suffering；　an　avenging　spirit　filled　me

incessantly　with　thoughts　on　which　I　dared　not　dwell。　My　letters　to

Henriette　depicted　this　moral　malady　and　did　her　infinite　harm。　〃At

the　cost　of　so　many　treasures　lost；　I　wished　you　to　be　at　least

happy；〃　she　wrote　in　the　only　answer　I　received。　But　I　was　not　happy。

Dear　Natalie；　happiness　is　absolute；　it　allows　of　no　comparisons。　My

first　ardor　over；　I　necessarily　compared　the　two　women；a　contrast　I

had　never　yet　studied。　In　fact；　all　great　passions　press　so　strongly

on　the　character　that　at　first　they　check　its　asperities　and　cover　the

track　of　habits　which　constitute　our　defects　and　our　better　qualities。

But　later；　when　two　lovers　are　accustomed　to　each　other；　the　features

of　their　moral　physiognomies　reappear；　they　mutually　judge　each　other；

and　it　often　happens　during　this　reaction　of　the　character　after

passion；　that　natural　antipathies　leading　to　disunion　（which

superficial　people　seize　upon　to　accuse　the　human　heart　of

instability）　come　to　the　surface。　This　period　now　began　with　me。　Less

blinded　by　seductions；　and　dissecting；　as　it　were；　my　pleasure；　I

undertook；　without　perhaps　intending　to　do　so；　a　critical　examination

of　Lady　Dudley　which　resulted　to　her　injury。



In　the　first　place；　I　found　her　wanting　in　the　qualities　of　mind　which

distinguish　Frenchwomen　and　make　them　so　delightful　to　love；　as　all

those　who　have　had　the　opportunity　of　loving　in　both　countries

declare。　When　a　Frenchwoman　loves　she　is　metamorphosed；　her　noted

coquetry　is　used　to　deck　her　love；　she　abandons　her　dangerous　vanity

and　lays　no　claim　to　any　merit　but　that　of　loving　well。　She　espouses

the　interests；　the　hatreds；　the　friendships；　of　the　man　she　loves；　she

acquires　in　a　day　the　experience　of　a　man　of　business；　she　studies　the

code；　she　comprehends　the　mechanism　of　credit；　and　could　manage　a

banker's　office；　naturally　heedless　and　prodigal；　she　will　make　no

mistakes　and　waste　not　a　single　louis。　She　becomes；　in　turn；　mother；

adviser；　doctor；　giving　to　all　her　transformations　a　grace　of

happiness　which　reveals；　in　its　every　detail；　her　infinite　love。　She

combines　the　special　qualities　of　the　women　of　other　countries　and

gives　unity　to　the　mixture　by　her　wit；　that　truly　French　product；

which　enlivens；　sanctions；　justifies；　and　varies　all；　thus　relieving

the　monotony　of　a　sentiment　which　rests　on　a　single　tense　of　a　single

verb。　The　Frenchwoman　loves　always；　without　abatement　and　without

fatigue；　in　public　or　in　solitude。　In　public　she　uses　a　tone　which　has

meaning　for　one　only；　she　speaks　by　silence；　she　looks　at　you　with

lowered　eyelids。　If　the　occasion　prevents　both　speech　and　look　she

will　use　the　sand　and　write　a　word　with　the　point　of　her　little　foot；

her　love　will　find　expression　even　in　sleep；　in　short；　she　bends　the

world　to　her　love。　The　Englishwoman；　on　the　contrary；　makes　her　love

bend　to　the　world。　Educated　to　maintain　the　icy　manners；　the　Britannic

and　egotistic　deportment　which　I　described　to　you；　she　opens　and　shuts

her　heart　with　the　ease　of　a　British　mechanism。　She　possesses　an

impenetrable　mask；　which　she　puts　on　or　takes　off　phlegmatically。

Passionate　as　an　Italian　when　no　eye　sees　her；　she　becomes　coldly

dignified　before　the　world。　A　lover　may　well　doubt　his　empire　when　he

sees　the　immobility　of　face；　the　aloofness　of　countenance；　and　hears

the　calm　voice；　with　which　an　Englishwoman　leaves　her　boudoir。

Hypocrisy　then　becomes　indifference；　she　has　forgotten　all。



Certainly　the　woman　who　can　lay　aside　her　love　like　a　garment　may　be

thought　to　be　capable　of　changing　it。　What　tempests　arise　in　the　heart

of　a　man；　stirred　by　wounded　self…love；　when　he　sees　a　woman　taking

and　dropping　and　again　picking　up　her　love　like　a　piece　of　embroidery。

These　women　are　too　completely　mistresses　of　themselves　ever　to　belong

wholly　to　you；　they　are　too　much　under　the　influence　of　society　ever

to　let　you　reign　supreme。　Where　a　Frenchwoman　comforts　by　a　look；　or

betrays　her　impatience　with　visitors　by　witty　jests；　an　Englishwoman's

silence　is　absolute；　it　irritates　the　soul　and　frets　the　mind。　These

women　are　so　constantly；　and；　under　all　circumstances；　on　their

dignity；　that　to　most　of　them　fashion　reigns　omnipotent　even　over

their　pleasures。　An　Englishwoman　forces　everything　into　form；　though

in　her　case　the　love　of　form　does　not　produce　the　sentiment　of　art。　No

matter　what　may　be　said　against　it；　Protestantism　and　Catholicism

explain　the　differences　which　make　the　love　of　Frenchwomen　so　far

superior　to　the　calculating；　reasoning　love　of　Englishwomen。

Protestantism　doubts；　searches；　and　kills　belief；　it　is　the　death　of

art　and　love。　Where　worldliness　is　all　in　all；　worldly　people　must

needs　obey；　but　passionate　hearts　flee　from　it；　to　them　its　laws　are

insupportable。



You　can　now　understand　what　a　shock　my　self…love　received　when　I　found

that　Lady　Dudley　could　not　live　without　the　world；　and　that　the

English　system　of　two　lives　was　familiar　to　her。　It　was　no　sacrifice

she　felt　called　upon　to　make；　on　the　contrary　she　fell　naturally　into

two　forms　of　life　that　were　inimical　to　each　other。　When　she　loved　she

loved　madly；no　woman　of　any　country　could　be　compared　to　her；　but

when　the　curtain　fell　upon　that　fairy　scene　she　banished　even　the

memory　of　it。　In　public　she　never　answered　to　a　look　or　a　smile；　she

was　neither　mistress　nor　slave；　she　was　like　an　ambassadress；　obliged

to　round　her　phrases　and　her　elbows；　she　irritated　me　by　her

composure；　and　outraged　my　heart　with　her　decorum。　Thus　she　degraded

love　to　a　mere　need；　instead　of　raising　it　to　an　ideal　through

enthusiasm。　She　expressed　neither　fear；　nor　regrets；　nor　desire；　but

at　a　given　hour　her　tenderness　reappeared　like　a　fire　suddenly

lighted。



In　which　of　these　two　women　ought　I　to　believe？　I　felt；　as　it　were　by

a　thousand　pin…pricks；　the　infinite　differences　between　Henriette　and

Arabella。　When　Madame　de　Mortsauf　left　me　for　a　while　she　seemed　to

leave　to　the　air　the　duty　of　reminding　me　of　her；　the　folds　of　her

gown　as　she　went　away　spoke　to　the　eye；　as　their　undulating　sound　to

the　ear　when　she　returned；　infinite　tenderness　was　in　the　way　she

lowered　her　eyelids　and　looked　on　the　ground；　her　voice；　that　musical

voice；　was　a　continual　caress；　her　words　expressed　a　constant　thought；

she　was　always　like　unto　herself；　she　did　not　halve　her　soul　to　suit

two　atmospheres；　one　ardent；　the　other　icy。　In　short；　Madame　de

Mortsauf　reserved　her　mind　and　the　flower　of　her　thought　to　express

her　feelings；　she　was　coquettish　in　ideas　with　her　children　and　with

me。　But　Arabella's　mind　was　never　used　to　make　life　pleasant；　it　was

never　used　at　all　for　my　benefit；　it　existed　only　for　the　world　and　by

the　world；　and　it　was　spent　in　sarcasm。　She　loved　to　rend；　to　bite；　as

it　were；not　for　amusement　but　to　satisfy　a　craving。　Madame　de

Mortsauf　would　have　hidden　her　happiness　from　every　eye；　Lady　Dudley

chose　to　exhibit　hers　to　all　Paris；　and　yet　with　her　impenetrable

English　mask　she　kept　within　conventions　even　while　parading　in　the

Bois　with　me。　This　mixture　of　ostentation　and　dignity；　love　and

coldness；　wounded　me　constantly；　for　my　soul　was　both　virgin　and

passionate；　and　as　I　could　not　pass　from　one　temperature　to　the　other；

my　temper　suffered。　When　I　complained　（never　without　precaution）；　she

turned　her　tongue　with　its　triple　sting　against　me；　mingling　boasts　of

her　love　with　those　cutting　English　sarcasms。　As　soon　as　she　found

herself　in　opposition　to　me；　she　made　it　an　amusement　to　hurt　my

feelings　and　humiliate　my　mind；　she　kneaded　me　like　dough。　To　any

remark　of　mine　as　to　keeping　a　medium　in　all　things；　she　replied　by

caricaturing　my　ideas　and　exaggerating　them。　When　I　reproached　her　for

her　manner　to　me；　she　asked　if　I　wished　her　to　kiss　me　at　the　opera

before　all　Paris；　and　she　said　it　so　seriously　that　I；　knowing　her

desire　to　make　people　talk；　trembled　lest　she　should　execute　her

threat。　In　spite　of　her　real　passion　she　was　never　meditative；　self…

contained；　or　reverent；　like　Henriette；　on　the　contrary　she　was

insatiable　as　a　sandy　soil。　Madame　de　Mortsauf　was　always　composed；

able　to　feel　my　soul　in　an　accent　or　a　glance。　Lady　Dudley　was　never

affected　by　a　look；　or　a　pressure　of　the　hand；　nor　yet　by　a　tender

word。　No　proof　of　love　surprised　her。　She　felt　so　strong　a　necessity

for　excitement；　noise；　celebrity；　that　nothing　attained　to　her　ideal

in　this　respect；　hence　her　violent　love；　her　exaggerated　fancy；

everything　concerned　herself　and　not　me。



The　letter　you　have　read　from　Madame　de　Mortsauf　（a　light　which　still

shone　brightly　on　my　life）；　a　proof　of　how　the　most　virtuous　of　wo