a woman of thirty-第42部分

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e　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　mute　appeal　against　the　bitterness　of　their　lot；　would　have　seen　at　once　from　her　eyes　that　she　was　broken　in　to　the　cruel　discipline　of　ceaseless　prayer；　would　have　discerned　the　almost　imperceptible　symptoms　of　the　secret　bruises　which　destroy　all　the　flowers　of　the　soul；　even　the　sentiment　of　motherhood。

Painters　have　colors　for　these　portraits；　but　words；　and　the　mental　images　called　up　by　words；　fail　to　reproduce　such　impressions　faithfully；　there　are　mysterious　signs　and　tokens　in　the　tones　of　the　coloring　and　in　the　look　of　human　faces；　which　the　mind　only　seizes　through　the　sense　of　sight；　and　the　poet　is　fain　to　record　the　tale　of　the　events　which　wrought　the　havoc　to　make　their　terrible　ravages　understood。

The　face　spoke　of　cold　and　steady　storm；　an　inward　conflict　between　a　mother's　long…suffering　and　the　limitations　of　our　nature；　for　our　human　affections　are　bounded　by　our　humanity；　and　the　infinite　has　no　place　in　finite　creatures。　Sorrow　endured　in　silence　had　at　last　produced　an　indefinable　morbid　something　in　this　woman。　Doubtless　mental　anguish　had　reacted　on　the　physical　frame；　and　some　disease；　perhaps　an　aneurism；　was　undermining　Julie's　life。　Deep…seated　grief　lies　to　all　appearance　very　quietly　in　the　depths　where　it　is　conceived；　yet；　so　still　and　apparently　dormant　as　it　is；　it　ceaselessly　corrodes　the　soul；　like　the　terrible　acid　which　eats　away　crystal。

Two　tears　made　their　way　down　the　Marquise's　cheeks；　she　rose　to　her　feet　as　if　some　thought　more　poignant　than　any　that　preceded　it　had　cut　her　to　the　quick。　She　had　doubtless　come　to　a　conclusion　as　to　Moina's　future；　and　now；　foreseeing　clearly　all　the　troubles　in　store　for　her　child；　the　sorrows　of　her　own　unhappy　life　had　begun　to　weigh　once　more　upon　her。　The　key　of　her　position　must　be　sought　in　her　daughter's　situation。

The　Comte　de　Saint…Hereen　had　been　away　for　nearly　six　months　on　a　political　mission。　The　Countess；　whether　from　sheer　giddiness；　or　in　obedience　to　the　countless　instincts　of　woman's　coquetry；　or　to　essay　its　powerwith　all　the　vanity　of　a　frivolous　fine　lady；　all　the　capricious　waywardness　of　a　childwas　amusing　herself；　during　her　husband's　absence；　by　playing　with　the　passion　of　a　clever　but　heartless　man；　distracted　（so　he　said）　with　love；　the　love　that　combines　readily　with　every　petty　social　ambition　of　a　self…conceited　coxcomb。　Mme。　d'Aiglemont；　whose　long　experience　had　given　her　a　knowledge　of　life；　and　taught　her　to　judge　of　men　and　to　dread　the　world；　watched　the　course　of　this　flirtation；　and　saw　that　it　could　only　end　in　one　way；　if　her　daughter　should　fall　into　the　hands　of　an　utterly　unscrupulous　intriguer。　How　could　it　be　other　than　a　terrible　thought　for　her　that　her　daughter　listened　willingly　to　this　/roue/？　Her　darling　stood　on　the　brink　of　a　precipice；　she　felt　horribly　sure　of　it；　yet　dared　not　hold　her　back。　She　was　afraid　of　the　Countess。　She　knew　too　that　Moina　would　not　listen　to　her　wise　warnings；　she　knew　that　she　had　no　influence　over　that　natureiron　for　her；　silken…　soft　for　all　others。　Her　mother's　tenderness　might　have　led　her　to　sympathize　with　the　troubles　of　a　passion　called　forth　by　the　nobler　qualities　of　a　lover；　but　this　was　no　passionit　was　coquetry；　and　the　Marquise　despised　Alfred　de　Vandenesse；　knowing　that　he　had　entered　upon　this　flirtation　with　Moina　as　if　it　were　a　game　of　chess。

But　if　Alfred　de　Vandenesse　made　her　shudder　with　disgust；　she　was　obligedunhappy　mother！to　conceal　the　strongest　reason　for　her　loathing　in　the　deepest　recesses　of　her　heart。　She　was　on　terms　of　intimate　friendship　with　the　Marquis　de　Vandenesse；　the　young　man's　father；　and　this　friendship；　a　respectable　one　in　the　eyes　of　the　world；　excused　the　son's　constant　presence　in　the　house；　he　professing　an　old　attachment；　dating　from　childhood；　for　Mme。　de　Saint…Hereen。　More　than　this；　in　vain　did　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　nerve　herself　to　come　between　Moina　and　Alfred　de　Vandenesse　with　a　terrible　word；　knowing　beforehand　that　she　should　not　succeed；　knowing　that　the　strong　reason　which　ought　to　separate　them　would　carry　no　weight；　that　she　should　humiliate　herself　vainly　in　her　daughter's　eyes。　Alfred　was　too　corrupt；　Moina　too　clever　to　believe　the　revelation；　the　young　Countess　would　turn　it　off　and　treat　it　as　a　piece　of　maternal　strategy。　Mme。　d'Aiglemont　had　built　her　prison　walls　with　her　own　hands；　she　had　immured　herself　only　to　see　Moina's　happiness　ruined　thence　before　she　died；　she　was　to　look　on　helplessly　at　the　ruin　of　the　young　life　which　had　been　her　pride　and　joy　and　comfort；　a　life　a　thousand　times　dearer　to　her　than　her　own。　What　words　can　describe　anguish　so　hideous　beyond　belief；　such　unfathomed　depths　of　pain？

She　waited　for　Moina　to　rise；　with　the　impatience　and　sickening　dread　of　a　doomed　man；　who　longs　to　have　done　with　life；　and　turns　cold　at　the　thought　of　the　headsman。　She　had　braced　herself　for　a　last　effort；　but　perhaps　the　prospect　of　the　certain　failure　of　the　attempt　was　less　dreadful　to　her　than　the　fear　of　receiving　yet　again　one　of　those　thrusts　that　went　to　her　very　heartbefore　that　fear　her　courage　ebbed　away。　Her　mother's　love　had　come　to　this。　To　love　her　child；　to　be　afraid　of　her；　to　shrink　from　the　thought　of　the　stab；　yet　to　go　forward。　So　great　is　a　mother's　affection　in　a　loving　nature；　that　before　it　can　fade　away　into　indifference　the　mother　herself　must　die　or　find　support　in　some　great　power　without　her；　in　religion　or　another　love。　Since　the　Marquise　rose　that　morning；　her　fatal　memory　had　called　up　before　her　some　of　those　things；　so　slight　to　all　appearance；　that　make　landmarks　in　a　life。　Sometimes；　indeed；　a　whole　tragedy　grows　out　of　a　single　gesture；　the　tone　in　which　a　few　words　were　spoken　rends　a　whole　life　in　two；　a　glance　into　indifferent　eyes　is　the　deathblow　of　the　gladdest　love；　and；　unhappily；　such　gestures　and　such　words　were　only　too　familiar　to　Mme。　d'Aiglemontshe　had　met　so　many　glances　that　wound　the　soul。　No；　there　was　nothing　in　those　memories　to　bid　her　hope。　On　the　contrary；　everything　went　to　show　that　Alfred　had　destroyed　her　hold　on　her　daughter's　heart；　that　the　thought　of　her　was　now　associated　with　dutynot　with　gladness。　In　ways　innumerable；　in　things　that　were　mere　trifles　in　themselves；　the　Countess'　detestable　conduct　rose　up　before　her　mother；　and　the　Marquise；　it　may　be；　looked　on　Moina's　undutifulness　as　a　punishment；　and　found　excuses　for　her　daughter　in　the　will　of　Heaven；　that　so　she　still　might　adore　the　hand　that　smote　her。

All　these　things　passed　through　her　memory　that　morning；　and　each　recollection　wounded　her　afresh　so　sorely；　that　with　a　very　little　additional　pain　her　brimming　cup　of　bitterness　must　have　overflowed。　A　cold　look　might　kill　her。

The　little　details　of　domestic　life　are　difficult　to　paint；　but　one　or　two　perhaps　will　suffice　to　give　an　idea　of　the　rest。

The　Marquise　d'Aiglemont；　for　instance；　had　grown　rather　deaf；　but　she　could　never　induce　Moina　to　raise　her　voice　for　her。　Once；　with　the　naivete　of　suffering；　she　had　begged　Moina　to　repeat　some　remark　which　she　had　failed　to　catch；　and　Moina