No comment accompanied this disturbing quotation, so strange to mark an anniversary. What did it really mean? Of what sorrow, what deep suffering was it the expression? And why was it marked with that blue cross? Elizabeth felt a thrill through her whole body, like a hare who in the safety of her form, hears the hounds approaching. She hesitated to commence a journey which she knew would be dangerous. Since her opinion concerning the treachery of her husband was alterable, what was the use of this painful return to the past? She turned over a leaf; another blue cross marked a new passage in inverted commas:
"O pictures and visions of my youth, O love glances, divine moments, how quickly you have vanished! To-day I am thinking of you as of my beloved dead."
She looked at the quotation marks to reassure herself. Albert used these note-books as an aid to his memory when transcribing his thoughts and impressions into his books. What importance then should be attached to pessimistic literature without foundation in fact? For in reality, May, 1903, signified to her only peaceful days, unvarying, colorless days, such as she loved to live. She read on and saw the blue crosses becoming more numerous, here and there replaced by broken lines in the margin, the entire length of the page. Philippe Lagier had no doubt marked the paragraphs which he meant to use in the trial with reference to the conjugal drama for which he was seeking a very far-fetched cause. She understood this and knew that he was impressed with the two quotations which had wounded her. She had then but to follow the marks which traced the way for her.
At the next cross she could no longer retain any illusion. Her own recollections served her. In the month of June, 1903, for the benefit of some social work, Albert had given a lecture in Paris on the subject of marriage, the success of which had been so great that he had been obliged to repeat it in the provinces and abroad. Now the leading ideas of this lecture were to be found in the note-book which Elizabeth was reading.
"On the Education of Woman—Double danger to be avoided: firstly, that which represses her too much and makes of her a weakened sentimental creature, a good housewife, a discreet and safe companion knowing little of her husband's interests, overwhelmed by petty domestic duties, unequipped to mold men and women; secondly, that which tends to create the masculine type of woman and to destroy the unity of the family by depriving it of its master. In the first case the woman thinks of marriage as a matter-of-fact state, a final solution. She does not understand that happiness is to be gained or lost every day and needs constant care and lasting attention. She imagines simply that her husband's property is to be made over to her once and for all by an authentic deed. After that there is nothing to do but to allow oneself to drift along in an aimless life. Why can one not have the time that these women waste in trifles! Certainly the house is looked after and one dines punctually. But intellectually and morally the man is alone. A young girl who is not eager to develop her intelligence has no right to accept the hand of a real man in marriage.
"In the second case the woman accepts marriage as a means of developing her personality. She at once becomes a rival, who has all the advantages. The man who would realize his life in its fullness (and a man's life as opposed to that of a woman, can never have love alone as its exclusive object)—needs to find in his home, rest, security and trust after his work. It is the wife's duty to understand, to accept and to adorn the life of her husband. Her natural wisdom should uphold and not retard him. Socia rei humanae et divinae. Marriage is arranged according to material consideration; once entered into, it is accepted as a fixed custom. And one fine day we are surprised to find that we are strangers to each other. An unhappy marriage is often made more so by family differences, particularly when the wife is attached to her own people and remains indifferent to her husband's. The carelessness and thoughtlessness of wives break up more households than their independence of character and their desire for love. To know how to live in a state of watchfulness is half the art of living...."
There were only these general ideas about education, still somewhat incoherent, and a woman always hesitates to apply theories to the facts which underlie them, to draw a direct application from them. But a few lines further on clearly evidenced the intention of the lecturer.
"There is one who will listen to this quietly and passively and will accept with a gracious smile at its end the congratulations of her women friends without having understood a word of it."
Elizabeth, thus referred to, raised her head. She remembered this conversation, expressed somewhat disdainfully, but which had not been offensive. She had really understood only the pleasure of being on parade and well received. Being too indolent to think and form her own opinion, she agreed quite willingly with all the lecturers whom she heard. But not being informed, why should she be on her guard? And what did these allusions, these omissions signify? Still, she did not understand. What were her faults? What reproaches could he make her? She could not be appealed to by quotations, and generalities. Why not speak more frankly?
She took up the note-book again more nervously, on the alert for the slightest vindication as a warned sentry watches for the approaching enemy who has been sighted.
The continuation of the diary was dated from Saint Martin d'Uriage. When the summer came they left Paris. Albert, engaged in the writing of "The History of the Peasant," no longer needing to make a memorandum of other subjects, applied himself to analyzing his own mind. Whether he was growing accustomed to putting his sorrow into words, or whether that suffering, increasing, rendered him less self-possessed, at any rate, little by little, not without hesitation, however, he was losing that reserve which had kept him from revealing his inmost thoughts, and as a result of which he had thus far concealed them within his literary annotations or anonymous complaints:
"August, 1903—'Nowadays the world is free to great souls. To those who are alone or to a couple, many places are open where one can breathe the fragrance of the silent water.'
"Alone or a couple? Where did Nietzsche imbibe such confidence in love? If one wished to experience the living presence of his thought, he must find solitude. For our thought is jealous, restless and austere. We are alone in our deepest emotions. Art, nature, metaphysics and the past which is ours to explore, demand that we be alone to understand them. In marriage it is necessary to keep this solitude intact. One does not give his intellectual strength to the joint patrimony. The cleverness of the wife lies perhaps in respecting this, by keeping her distance. If she does not do so she lowers, weakens, and finally kills it.
"Therefore, why this dream of an absolute intimacy, and why this melancholy, so poignant at certain times of not having realized it, when instead, we should rejoice in it?"
"August 10th: Walked with my little Marie Louise in the chestnut woods, on the side of the Charmousse. From her little faun-like feet to the top of her head she is thrilling with life. When she could scarcely speak she had been told to shake hands with people who showed an interest in her and said 'good day.' So when the wind shook the branches, believing that this movement was intended for her, she politely returned it by holding out her arms.
"Just now she was running in front of me. Her curls, already quite long, were keeping time with her movements. She stopped to pick a flower, some grass, even some soil, and raised them all to her face. One might have said that at the age of five she wanted to possess the whole world. When she came back to me she said:
"'Papa, I love the world.'
"'The world?'
"'Yes, I love everybody.'
"'So do I, little girl. I have loved everything through that love of the touch of things which gives to all our sensations their real value. How it interests me to follow your development. My youth is dead and I am thirty-seven. But what does that matter to you? Enjoy yourself.'"
"August 15th: Saint's Day. I went to church with Elizabeth and Marie Louise. To occupy myself during the service, I opened a prayer-book which had been left in my pew. It was so old and dirty that I could have used tongs. My eyes fell on this sentence of the divine service. 'Watch and pray, for the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak'—
"There was a great deal in this upon which to meditate. That is wise counsel for life. Instead of watching, we allow habit to put to sleep, to anæsthetize our feelings, to minimize and degrade them. To reflect is to keep growing in our inner life, which too often atrophies in the little daily occupations. We deaden ourselves by pleasure, instead of keeping ourselves in a constant state of keen sensibility.
"I look about me. All these good women are reading their service or telling their beads. The letter suffices for them. To reflect, to watch, is also to pray.
"And these other words which I have never been able to read without trembling: EGO SUM RESURRECTIO ET VITA...."
"August 18th: How many women incapable of putting anything in its place are more worried in changing a servant than in real trouble. If only they knew how to be quiet about it! But the house is given up to their complaints. I would rather make my own bed and sweep my room as a monk does, than endure in luxury, that depression of personality which results in time from useless talk and petty domestic worries. We never entertain people with details of our clothes. So we should be unconscious of the routine of a household, except to note its clean, pleasant appearance, as we do a well-washed face. There should be some mystery to this inner management. At that, it is better to speak of it than to neglect it altogether."
"August 19th: I love the unexpected, but Elizabeth detests it. Philippe Lagier came to Uriage to see us this morning. Naturally I asked him to stay to luncheon. For a long time I had not talked with so much pleasure. When we are together we give our imagination free rein like horses in an open field. He is clever, subtle, terse—has a vein of irony which excels in discovering the inner meaning of words, of theories and of humanity in general. Only he had not told me he was coming and we had no cook. It seems we did not have a good luncheon. I had not noticed it and neither had Philippe. And when he had gone I had to listen to complaints, as though I were guilty of some sin in inviting my friend. Thus, by too much care we lose our naturalness."
"August 30th: How difficult it is to keep one's liberty. For ten days I have been unable to write a line of my 'Peasant.' The advent of the Molay-Norrois at Uriage has upset our quiet life, so essential to the rest required for a long work. I could not ask Elizabeth not to invite her own people. The life we generally lead here is quiet enough for one of her age. Now we are constantly invited to parties and fêtes. Her brothers, both on leave, are untiring, and give us no peace. I, who am considered self-willed, am so weak that I scatter my forces and lose myself without vexation. In order to concentrate on my work, I need the life of the fields, of the little walks in the mountains or in the woods—and some music and conversation. In the evening it is the odious casino, and in the daytime our hermitage has become the objective point of all the idle people in the valley. A lawyer, a doctor, an attorney may plead professional duties. In my case they make me put off my work until the next day. My home is open to intruders, even to the unintelligent.
"My mother takes care of our children at Saint Martin when we go out. Last evening I was alone with her, having succeeded in escaping a banquet of snobs. We talked until the return of Elizabeth, who was escorted by her brother Oliver; we had one of those good old reminiscent talks when one goes from recollections to questions about the unknown, and of things which have not been discussed since my marriage. Elizabeth was surprised to see us so animated at that late hour. After six years she does not yet know my mother. She will never know her. Were I to have the misfortune of losing her, I should weep alone for her. Elizabeth's judgment does not go beyond outward appearances, and how could she imagine a superior woman under such a simple exterior. Her own parents inflict upon me their acquaintances and their tastes. I should continually show them my amazement and gratitude for having been accepted by them. But why, on the other hand, am I still sensitive to their favors and their compliments? They may exploit my reputation, if they so desire, and cease showing me off as if I were under their patronage.
"Heavens, how lonely one is in this married life, and what irony to pretend to be an influence upon one's time, when after six years one has exerted none on his own home!"
"September 22nd: After several rainy days my parents-in-law returned to Grenoble, and with them went all their set. I hoped to take up my work in peace again. But Elizabeth is already bored. I cannot accuse her either of coquetry or of silly admiration for fashion, or extreme desire for pleasure. Only she must constantly be amused by trifles, and this restlessness is unbearable to me. I try in vain to interest her in reading, in music, in the variation of light that is accentuated by the approach of Autumn—even in my work. She listens graciously, and is thinking of something else. She is not lacking in intelligence, but she does not care to use it. She needs boundaries that can be touched. And when I wish to destroy them, she immediately builds others."
"October 12th: My mother wished to leave, despite my request that she remain. Without my making mention of it, she has guessed that I am unhappy. I am responsible for this unusual departure. In the evening I was talking more responsively with her than with Elizabeth. After the day's work this semi-activity of mind in conversation rests and refreshes me. Age has not diminished her passionate interest in vital questions. And she considers all subjects from a superior point of view, which is reflected in our discussions. She remained aside, occupying herself with some embroidery. She did not wish to disturb our intimacy. Poor Mamma, she did not yet understand that she was leaving me in my loneliness."
"October 25th: I was walking until evening on the mountain tops of Chamrousse. Passing through the chestnut wood I walked through a bed of dead leaves. I love the sharp crackling under my feet. And before returning, I allowed myself to be enveloped in the shadows rising from the valley. This isolation of darkness added to my own isolation.
"Autumn has changed the country in a few days. On the two opposite sides there is a color scheme which shades from pale green to dark purple, a magnificent bouquet which has all the melancholy of the flowers placed in the cemetery on All Saints Day. I was in the forest when the sun set, and for a long time I watched the flaming twilight between the tree trunks. For the stripped woods reveal a broader horizon, just as we see further, the older we grow.
"From that place I have seen many other autumnal fêtes, but have never been affected by so much dying beauty. On the contrary, I felt a cruel pleasure in crushing those heaps of fallen leaves destined so soon to decay. I was younger and Youth concealed death from me, perhaps love as well.
"I felt those forebodings of finality like a wound. I felt myself unsatisfied and filled with desire. It seemed to me that on my return my restlessness was visible on my face. But those who are near us never perceive the inner dramas which we are living. How should she guess? Last evening I was telling the ancient adventures of Pygmalion to Marie Louise, who always asks for stories, and who obliges me to steal from legends and mythology; as I proceeded, I met myself in my story. I, too, have asked love to awaken my Galatea, but Galatea has remained as immovable as a goddess of stone. Have I not resigned myself to it, and is she not the ornament of my home? Have I not resolved to look elsewhere for those emotions so necessary to strong natures, and which nature, art, thought—and the entire course of the human stream have offered us? Passion means to live violently, and this power belongs only to love.
"And love, in ordinary life, cannot last. Or rather, one must cultivate it like a garden, instead of leaving it for each day, going, to carry away a fragment of it. To admit its decline, its slow diminution, the alteration of its quality, is worse perhaps than to lose it at once. The physical tie lasts the longest, with the laxity, the humiliations it imposes. But the intelligence, as well, remains subdued for a long time. Tired out, it can no longer defend itself. Shall I refuse to admit to myself this sham, these miseries and failings which, in spite of my work, plans, ambitions, hopes, and even this book itself, make me express my inmost thoughts, when I know I shall be neither followed nor understood? Parody of an intimacy which no longer exists, and whose outward appearances are preserved! Should I not at least use my reserve energy to protect my conscience?...
"When I got back, surprised at my late return, she inquired laughingly:
"'Can you see in the darkness like a cat?'
"Her laugh was pretty and fresh, the laugh of a young girl. She was really uneasy and I knew it. My material comfort is preoccupying her thoughts much more than it should. Why does she not take keener interest in our harmony, which she does not suspect is at the breaking point?
"In the evening, as conversation lagged, which happens frequently since my mother's departure, she asked me:
"'When are we going back to Paris?'
"'When you like,' I replied.
"I usually try to prolong our stay far into the season, the peace of which is so favorable to my work. But in Paris, in this whirl which gives the impression of activity, in the external movement that distracts us and takes us out of ourselves, the hidden breach in our lives will be less evident and the coming of Autumn passes unnoticed...."
"October 27th: Yes, this isolation cannot last. No link of thought unites us. My affection refuses to accept it. Our insignificant conversations are becoming unbearable to me. I try in vain to lift them from the commonplace. Elizabeth always lets them drop back again. She listens to me inattentively, does not interest herself, scarcely replies, or takes up another subject, a reposeful, personal subject. Even her voice, much too sharp, does not lend itself to the words of a deeper life.
"I try to read to her, she interrupts me with trifles. Either one of the children called, or it is a noise from outside, which must be investigated. And if I get angry she is amazed, and I am altogether in the wrong.
"When I come across in history or even in the newspapers—(our animated epoch is not without it)—one of those manifestations of generosity or courage which exalt me, I turn to share my emotion with her. She is like marble to all things which do not touch her closely.
"She lets time pass as if we were always to live together, youth as if it were worthless; our love, as if we did not need to care for it. And her expressionless beauty irritates me as a reminder of my slavery. Sometimes, stirred by a dangerous longing for destruction, I watch for, I solicit one of those silly, ridiculous reflections by which so many women betray themselves and give us reason to despise them. But she is not even intelligent, which would release me. She allows her mind to remain fallow, as a beautiful abandoned domain. Her father, too worldly, her mother, too taken up with her father (and how uselessly!) did not teach her earlier to make use of her life. I came into it when the habit was already formed. This apathy freezes her heart and brain, as the cold does running water. Defeated, I have no more strength to break that ice. What fatal blow would be required to smash it?"
"October 28th: We are leaving to-morrow. A last walk with my two babies. Elizabeth has pleaded trunks to be packed, so as to avoid coming with us. She has always some pretext for refusing when I ask her to go out with me. Physical activity is not pleasant to her. She likes to take the air only in a carriage or motor, or seated in a garden as long as summer lasts. Fatigue is unknown to her, that splendid fatigue which gives us an opportunity to measure our powers of resistance, to gain self-confidence. She has deprived us of that camaraderie and physical gayety which comes from fatigue endured together.
"I was telling the little ones their favorite story—an old Scottish legend, 'The Cup of Happiness.' Our own has a crack through which the liquid has all flowed, but it cannot be seen at first glance. Am I then obsessed that I am always returning to this useless subject? That sorrowful beauty of Autumn on which I have gazed this evening from the bank for the last time, breaks my heart. If I am not happy, I have never been more eager to be...."
The note-book finished with that last evening spent at St. Martin d'Uriage. Elizabeth, before taking up the continuation, wished to breathe, to stop, to rest. Her breath came short, and her mind was in a whirl. Thus accused, she wished to clear herself, and sought in this chaos of new thoughts to find mistakes and duplicity. But it was like a weight too heavy to lift, and to dispense with such effort, she preferred to hasten her reading, waiting to reply later to these reproaches in their entirety.
She heard the front door open and the guarded voices of her parents. She immediately put out the light, so that her mother should not be tempted to come into her room, knowing she was still awake. In the condition of fever and mental confusion in which she found herself, she could not bear anyone's presence. And in the darkness she brought into play all her overwrought attention to listen for the silence, which, little by little, came upon the house. Then she lighted her lamp, whose chimney had almost time to grow cold again. It was eleven o'clock. If she had to sit up all night she would read to the conclusion of these unexpected confidences.
In the second book Albert came back to Paris, seeming to have left his sorrow in the country. The little blue crosses were lacking, and at first one saw only history notes, short sketches of some celebrated men, of some session in the Chamber, some account of a short journey, or some idea for an article. And then again the marks reappeared. Elizabeth, relying on their definite indication, joined the scattered passages.
"December: Heard Orpheus. Gluck both exalts and calms me. The emotion he arouses strengthens, rather than weakens. I need to hear that music or Beethoven's. When we were first married I asked Elizabeth to play sonatas for me in the evening—but she has only fingers. Little by little, by tacit agreement, we gave up this use of our evenings. In the same way we have given up our visits to the museums, our trips: she became so fatigued by them and her complaints enervated me. We now go each our own way. She prefers her quiet family relations to the bold conversations of my friends. If her beauty makes the passersby turn to look at her; if she is very much admired in society, especially when she enters a room—for she does not spend herself in either coquetry or effort of conversation, it is quite sufficient to make her enjoy in peace the lights, the gowns and her own success. I have confidence in her indifference and her loyalty.
"At my side in the balcony was a blonde woman, no longer young, already quite faded. In repose, her soft commonplace features wore an expression which evidenced only lassitude and boredom. By chances after the first act I turned towards her. I saw her transfigured. The mobility of expression, the fire of her eyes revealed her deep emotion. She enjoyed the present moment with all her tense body and high-strung spirit. How pleasure can change a face, and how its quality reveals itself! I pointed her out to Elizabeth:
"'What do you think of her?'
"'Old and insignificant.'"
"December: To get out of one's life everything that can be derived from a maximum of effort constitutes a sort of happiness, the only sort which depends entirely on ourselves."
"February, 1904: The first volume of 'The History of a Peasant' and the 'Life of Pascal' have been brought out by my two publishers at short intervals. They are severe and passionate books, not pleasing to women. So I do not understand why I receive so many letters concerning them. The majority take no interest in them. Some few show a taste for deep reading. In the tumult of Paris, it is praiseworthy.
"I do not think that Elizabeth has yet cut her copies. As I have read to her in the evenings at Saint Martin some of the chapters with which I was particularly pleased, and as she saw the proofs, she has every reason in the world to avoid this burden. At heart, she does not like the life that chance, not her desire, has fashioned for her. At Grenoble in a drab, dull sphere, she would have been happier. Life here is beyond her. Paris calls for continued effort, and the Parisians are forceful because of the keen competition which works to the disadvantage of the weak, who are soon discarded or crushed.
"The books which I suggest that she read, she either rushes through or does not finish. I saw her stop once at the last page but one, of an Italian novel which I had devoured passionately. She was not eager to know the conclusion. On the other hand, she adores the theater, for which I care so little; there, seated in an armchair, you have your own emotions served to you."
"February: Party at Mme. de B——. Why do they pursue me? Is it because I make no advances to them? My fame attracts them. A very naïve curiosity; as if the best of a writer is not to be found in his works! They suspect my moral loneliness. One of them said to me: 'In Pascal there is commendation of solitude. One might say that you know the rapture of it and that you despise women.' Desire clothes the expression of disdain."
"March: A slight intrigue with Mme. R——. I like the contrast of her black hair and her glistening neck and all the vital power which emanates from her. But she is rather vulgar, as often happens in the case of these beauteous beings of joy.
"I have tried in vain to make Elizabeth jealous. In her opinion the world is divided into two categories—good people and the others—and we belong to the first, which is very restful. She recognizes no compromise, no distinction, no desire, no passion. But my thoughts are free."
"March 30th: Spring has come on its own day this year, a rare thing. In the streets and over the squares floats a delicate light, a slight fog. The trees are beginning to show their buds and tiny leaves. As one walks, somewhat out of practice since the winter, one feels a pleasant lassitude, as if carrying a burden of gladness.
"I look at the women as they pass, more graceful in their lighter suits. One of them, it is inevitable, is coming into my life as into an open garden. I am watching for her without settling my choice on anyone. A harmless dream which amuses me."
"April: Which? I am at times like a huntsman on the alert. And then I give up so futile a pursuit.
"My first love is the symbol of my sentimental life. I was fifteen and the young girl whom I loved was seventeen or eighteen. I looked at her from afar, yet I dared not speak to her. To see her gave me happiness that was almost too much to bear. What more could I desire? She guessed my secret, and it was she who offered her heart to me. But I refused her, assuring her that she was wrong in believing she loved me. I could not admit that my love ceased to be a painful exaltation.
"When Elizabeth passed through the streets of Grenoble, I stopped, not 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.
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."