a woman of thirty-第22部分

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　lady。

So　the　Marquise　was　left　to　herself。　She　might　live　on；　perfectly　silent；　amid　the　silence　which　she　herself　had　created；　there　was　nothing　to　draw　her　forth　from　the　tapestried　chamber　where　her　grandmother　died；　whither　she　herself　had　come　that　she　might　die；　gently；　without　witnesses；　without　importunate　solicitude；　without　suffering　from　the　insincere　demonstrations　of　egoism　masquerading　as　affection；　which　double　the　agony　of　death　in　great　cities。

She　was　twenty…six　years　old。　At　that　age；　with　plenty　of　romantic　illusions　still　left；　the　mind　loves　to　dwell　on　the　thought　of　death　when　death　seems　to　come　as　a　friend。　But　with　youth；　death　is　coy；　coming　up　close　only　to　go　away；　showing　himself　and　hiding　again；　till　youth　has　time　to　fall　out　of　love　with　him　during　this　dalliance。　There　is　that　uncertainty　too　that　hangs　over　death's　to…morrow。　Youth　plunges　back　into　the　world　of　living　men；　there　to　find　the　pain　more　pitiless　than　death；　that　does　not　wait　to　strike。

This　woman　who　refused　to　live　was　to　know　the　bitterness　of　these　reprieves　in　the　depths　of　her　loneliness；　in　moral　agony；　which　death　would　not　come　to　end；　she　was　to　serve　a　terrible　apprenticeship　to　the　egoism　which　must　take　the　bloom　from　her　heart　and　break　her　in　to　the　life　of　the　world。

This　harsh　and　sorry　teaching　is　the　usual　outcome　of　our　early　sorrows。　For　the　first；　and　perhaps　for　the　last　time　in　her　life；　the　Marquise　d'Aiglemont　was　in　very　truth　suffering。　And；　indeed；　would　it　not　be　an　error　to　suppose　that　the　same　sentiment　can　be　reproduced　in　us？　Once　develop　the　power　to　feel；　is　it　not　always　there　in　the　depths　of　our　nature？　The　accidents　of　life　may　lull　or　awaken　it；　but　there　it　is；　of　necessity　modifying　the　self；　its　abiding　place。　Hence；　every　sensation　should　have　its　great　day　once　and　for　all；　its　first　day　of　storm；　be　it　long　or　short。　Hence；　likewise；　pain；　the　most　abiding　of　our　sensations；　could　be　keenly　felt　only　at　its　first　irruption；　its　intensity　diminishing　with　every　subsequent　paroxysm；　either　because　we　grow　accustomed　to　these　crises；　or　perhaps　because　a　natural　instinct　of　self…preservation　asserts　itself；　and　opposes　to　the　destroying　force　of　anguish　an　equal　but　passive　force　of　inertia。

Yet　of　all　kinds　of　suffering；　to　which　does　the　name　of　anguish　belong？　For　the　loss　of　parents；　Nature　has　in　a　manner　prepared　us；　physical　suffering；　again；　is　an　evil　which　passes　over　us　and　is　gone；　it　lays　no　hold　upon　the　soul；　if　it　persists；　it　ceases　to　be　an　evil；　it　is　death。　The　young　mother　loses　her　firstborn；　but　wedded　love　ere　long　gives　her　a　successor。　This　grief；　too；　is　transient。　After　all；　these；　and　many　other　troubles　like　unto　them；　are　in　some　sort　wounds　and　bruises；　they　do　not　sap　the　springs　of　vitality；　and　only　a　succession　of　such　blows　can　crush　in　us　the　instinct　that　seeks　happiness。　Great　pain；　therefore；　pain　that　arises　to　anguish；　should　be　suffering　so　deadly；　that　past；　present；　and　future　are　alike　included　in　its　grip；　and　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