a woman of thirty-第53部分

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　in　the　house；　〃not　a　week　ago；　I　saw　the　poor　mother；　solitary　and　sad；　by　her　own　fireside。'What　is　the　matter？'　I　asked。　The　Marquise　looked　up　smiling；　but　I　am　quite　sure　that　she　had　been　crying。'I　was　thinking　that　it　is　a　strange　thing　that　I　should　be　left　alone　when　I　have　had　five　children；'　she　said；　'but　that　is　our　destiny！　And　besides；　I　am　happy　when　I　know　that　Moina　is　enjoying　herself。'She　could　say　that　to　me；　for　I　knew　her　husband　when　he　was　alive。　A　poor　stick　he　was；　and　uncommonly　lucky　to　have　such　a　wife；　it　was　certainly　owing　to　her　that　he　was　made　a　peer　of　France；　and　had　a　place　at　Court　under　Charles　X。〃

Yet　such　mistaken　ideas　get　about　in　social　gossip；　and　such　mischief　is　done　by　it；　that　the　historian　of　manners　is　bound　to　exercise　his　discretion；　and　weigh　the　assertions　so　recklessly　made。　After　all；　who　is　to　say　that　either　mother　or　daughter　was　right　or　wrong？　There　is　but　One　who　can　read　and　judge　their　hearts！　And　how　often　does　He　wreak　His　vengeance　in　the　family　circle；　using　throughout　all　time　children　as　His　instruments　against　their　mothers；　and　fathers　against　their　sons；　raising　up　peoples　against　kings；　and　princes　against　peoples；　sowing　strife　and　division　everywhere？　And　in　the　world　of　ideas；　are　not　opinions　and　feelings　expelled　by　new　feelings　and　opinions；　much　as　withered　leaves　are　thrust　forth　by　the　young　leaf…　buds　in　the　spring？all　in　obedience　to　the　immutable　Scheme；　all　to　some　end　which　God　alone　knows。　Yet；　surely；　all　things　proceed　to　Him；　or　rather；　to　Him　all　things　return。

Such　thoughts　of　religion；　the　natural　thoughts　of　age；　floated　up　now　and　again　on　the　current　of　Mme。　d'Aiglemont's　thoughts；　they　were　always　dimly　present　in　her　mind；　but　sometimes　they　shone　out　clearly；　sometimes　they　were　carried　under；　like　flowers　tossed　on　the　vexed　surface　of　a　stormy　sea。

She　sat　on　a　garden…seat；　tired　with　walking；　exhausted　with　much　thinkingwith　the　long　thoughts　in　which　a　whole　lifetime　rises　up　before　the　mind；　and　is　spread　out　like　a　scroll　before　the　eyes　of　those　who　feel　that　Death　is　near。

If　a　poet　had　chanced　to　pass　along　the　boulevard；　he　would　have　found　an　interesting　picture　in　the　face　of　this　woman；　grown　old　before　her　time。　As　she　sat　under　the　dotted　shadow　of　the　acacia；　the　shadow　the　acacia　casts　at　noon；　a　thousand　thoughts　were　written　for　all　the　world　to　see　on　her　features；　pale　and　cold　even　in　the　hot；　bright　sunlight。　There　was　something　sadder　than　the　sense　of　waning　life　in　that　expressive　face；　some　trouble　that　went　deeper　than　the　weariness　of　experience。　It　was　a　face　of　a　type　that　fixes　you　in　a　moment　among　a　host　of　characterless　faces　that　fail　to　draw　a　second　glance；　a　face　to　set　you　thinking。　Among　a　thousand　pictures　in　a　gallery；　you　are　strongly　impressed　by　the　sublime　anguish　on　the　face　of　some　Madonna　of　Murillo's；　by　some　/Beatrice　Cenci/　in　which　Guido's　art　portrays　the　most　touching　innocence　against　a　background　of　horror　and　crime；　by　the　awe　and　majesty　that　should　encircle　a　king；　caught　once　and　for　ever　by　Velasquez　in　the　sombre　face　of　a　Philip　II。；　and　so　is　it　with　some　living　human　faces；　they　are　tyrannous　pictures　which　speak　to　you；　submit　you　to　searching　scrutiny；　and　give　response　to　your　inmost　thoughts；　nay；　there　are　faces　that　set　forth　a　whole　drama；　and　Mme。　d'Aiglemont's　stony　face　was　one　of　these　awful　tragedies；　one　of　such　faces　as　Dante　Alighieri　saw　by　thousands　in　his　vision。

For　the　little　season　that　a　woman's　beauty　is　in　flower　it　serves　her　admirably　well　in　the　dissimulation　to　which　her　natural　weakness　and　our　social　laws　condemn　her。　A　young　face　and　rich　color；　and　eyes　that　glow　with　light；　a　gracious　maze　of　such　subtle；　manifold　lines　and　curves；　flawless　and　perfectly　traced；　is　a　screen　that　hides　everything　that　stirs　the　woman　within。　A　flush　tells　nothing；　it　only　heightens　the　coloring　so　brilliant　already；　all　the　fires　that　burn　within　can　add　little　light　to　the　flame　of　life　in　eyes　which　only　seem　the　brighter　for　the　flash　of　a　passing　pain。　Nothing　is　so　discreet　as　a　young　face；　for　nothing　is　less　mobile；　it　has　the　serenity；　the　surface　smoothness；　and　the　freshness　of　a　lake。　There　is　not　character　in　women's　faces　before　the　age　of　thirty。　The　painter　discovers　nothing　there　but　pink　and　white；　and　the　smile　and　expression　that　repeat　the　same　thought　in　the　same　waya　thought　of　youth　and　love　that　goes　no　further　than　youth　and　love。　But　the　face　of　an　old　woman　has　expressed　all　that　lay　in　her　nature；　passion　has　carved　lines　on　her　features；　love　and　wifehood　and　motherhood；　and　extremes　of　joy　and　anguish；　having　wrung　them；　and　left　their　traces　in　a　thousand　wrinkles；　all　of　which　speak　a　language　of　their　own；　then　it　is　that　a　woman's　face　becomes　sublime　in　its　horror；　beautiful　in　its　melancholy；　grand　in　its　calm。　If　it　is　permissible　to　carry　the　strange　metaphor　still　further；　it　might　be　said　that　in　the　dried…up　lake　you　can　see　the　traces　of　all　the　torrents　that　once　poured　into　it　and　made　it　what　it　is。　An　old　face　is　nothing　to　the　frivolous　world；　the　frivolous　world　is　shocked　by　the　sight　of　the　destruction　of　such　comeliness　as　it　can　understand；　a　commonplace　artist　sees　nothing　there。　An　old　face　is　the　province　of　the　poets　among　poets　of　those　who　can　recognize　that　something　which　is　called　Beauty；　apart　from　all　the　conventions　underlying　so　many　superstitions　in　art　and　taste。



Though　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　wore　a　fashionable　bonnet；　it　was　easy　to　see　that　her　once　black　hair　had　been　bleached　by　cruel　sorrows；　yet　her　good　taste　and　the　gracious　acquired　instincts　of　a　woman　of　fashion　could　be　seen　in　the　way　she　wore　it；　divided　into　two　/bandeaux/；　following　the　outlines　of　a　forehead　that　still　retained　some　traces　of　former　dazzling　beauty；　worn　and　lined　though　it　was。　The　contours　of　her　face；　the　regularity　of　her　features；　gave　some　idea；　faint　in　truth；　of　that　beauty　of　which　surely　she　had　once　been　proud；　but　those　traces　spoke　still　more　plainly　of　the　anguish　which　had　laid　it　waste；　of　sharp　pain　that　had　withered　the　temples；　and　made　those　hollows　in　her　cheeks；　and　empurpled　the　eyelids；　and　robbed　them　of　their　lashes；　and　the　eyes　of　their　charm。　She　was　in　every　way　so　noiseless；　she　moved　with　a　slow；　self…contained　gravity　that　showed　itself　in　her　whole　bearing；　and　struck　a　certain　awe　into　others。　Her　diffident　manner　had　changed　to　positive　shyness；　due　apparently　to　a　habit　now　of　some　years'　growth；　of　effacing　herself　in　her　daughter's　presence。　She　spoke　very　seldom；　and　in　the　low　tones　used　by　those　who　perforce　must　live　within　themselves　a　life　of　reflection　and　concentration。　This　demeanor　led　others　to　regard　her　with　an　indefinable　feeling　which　was　neither　awe　nor　compassion；　but　a　mysterious　blending　of　the　many　ideas　awakened　in　us　by　compassion　and　awe。　Finally；　there　was　something　in　her　wrinkles；　in　the　lines　of　her　face；　in　the　look　of　pain　in　those　wan　eyes　of　hers；　that　bore　eloquent　testimony　to　tears　that　never　had　fallen；　tears　that　had　been　absorbed　by　her　heart。　Unhappy　creatures；　accustomed　to　raise　their　eyes　to　heaven；　in　mu