the magic skin-第68章

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with　horror；　he　took　refuge　among　the　highest　summits　of　the

mountains；　and　stayed　there　till　the　evening；　but　yet　he　could　not

drive　away　the　gloomy　presentiments　awakened　within　him　in　such　an

unfortunate　manner　by　a　cruel　solicitude　on　his　account。



The　Auvergne　peasant　herself　suddenly　appeared　before　him　like　a

shadow　in　the　dusk；　a　perverse　freak　of　the　poet　within　him　found　a

vague　resemblance　between　her　black　and　white　striped　petticoat　and

the　bony　frame　of　a　spectre。



〃The　damp　is　falling　now；　sir；〃　said　she。　〃If　you　stop　out　there；　you

will　go　off　just　like　rotten　fruit。　You　must　come　in。　It　isn't　healthy

to　breathe　the　damp；　and　you　have　taken　nothing　since　the　morning；

besides。〃



〃TONNERRE　DE　DIEU！　old　witch；〃　he　cried；　〃let　me　live　after　my　own

fashion；　I　tell　you；　or　I　shall　be　off　altogether。　It　is　quite　bad

enough　to　dig　my　grave　every　morning；　you　might　let　it　alone　in　the

evenings　at　least〃



〃Your　grave；　sir！　I　dig　your　grave！and　where　may　your　grave　be？　I

want　to　see　you　as　old　as　father　there；　and　not　in　your　grave　by　any

manner　of　means。　The　grave！　that　comes　soon　enough　for　us　all；　in　the

grave〃



〃That　is　enough；〃　said　Raphael。



〃Take　my　arm；　sir。〃



〃No。〃



The　feeling　of　pity　in　others　is　very　difficult　for　a　man　to　bear；　and

it　is　hardest　of　all　when　the　pity　is　deserved。　Hatred　is　a　tonicit

quickens　life　and　stimulates　revenge；　but　pity　is　death　to　usit

makes　our　weakness　weaker　still。　It　is　as　if　distress　simpered

ingratiatingly　at　us；　contempt　lurks　in　the　tenderness；　or　tenderness

in　an　affront。　In　the　centenarian　Raphael　saw　triumphant　pity；　a

wondering　pity　in　the　child's　eyes；　an　officious　pity　in　the　woman；

and　in　her　husband　a　pity　that　had　an　interested　motive；　but　no　matter

how　the　sentiment　declared　itself；　death　was　always　its　import。



A　poet　makes　a　poem　of　everything；　it　is　tragical　or　joyful；　as　things

happen　to　strike　his　imagination；　his　lofty　soul　rejects　all　half…

tones；　he　always　prefers　vivid　and　decided　colors。　In　Raphael's　soul

this　compassion　produced　a　terrible　poem　of　mourning　and　melancholy。

When　he　had　wished　to　live　in　close　contact　with　nature；　he　had　of

course　forgotten　how　freely　natural　emotions　are　expressed。　He　would

think　himself　quite　alone　under　a　tree；　whilst　he　struggled　with　an

obstinate　coughing　fit；　a　terrible　combat　from　which　he　never　issued

victorious　without　utter　exhaustion　afterwards；　and　then　he　would　meet

the　clear；　bright　eyes　of　the　little　boy；　who　occupied　the　post　of

sentinel；　like　a　savage　in　a　bent　of　grass；　the　eyes　scrutinized　him

with　a　childish　wonder；　in　which　there　was　as　much　amusement　as

pleasure；　and　an　indescribable　mixture　of　indifference　and　interest。

The　awful　BROTHER；　YOU　MUST　DIE；　of　the　Trappists　seemed　constantly

legible　in　the　eyes　of　the　peasants　with　whom　Raphael　was　living；　he

scarcely　knew　which　he　dreaded　most；　their　unfettered　talk　or　their

silence；　their　presence　became　torture。



One　morning　he　saw　two　men　in　black　prowling　about　in　his

neighborhood；　who　furtively　studied　him　and　took　observations。　They

made　as　though　they　had　come　there　for　a　stroll；　and　asked　him　a　few

indifferent　questions；　to　which　he　returned　short　answers。　He

recognized　them　both。　One　was　the　cure　and　the　other　the　doctor　at　the

springs；　Jonathan　had　no　doubt　sent　them；　or　the　people　in　the　house

had　called　them　in；　or　the　scent　of　an　approaching　death　had　drawn

them　thither。　He　beheld　his　own　funeral；　heard　the　chanting　of　the

priests；　and　counted　the　tall　wax　candles；　and　all　that　lovely　fertile

nature　around　him；　in　whose　lap　he　had　thought　to　find　life　once　more；

he　saw　no　longer；　save　through　a　veil　of　crape。　Everything　that　but

lately　had　spoken　of　length　of　days　to　him；　now　prophesied　a　speedy

end。　He　set　out　the　next　day　for　Paris；　not　before　he　had　been

inundated　with　cordial　wishes；　which　the　people　of　the　house　uttered

in　melancholy　and　wistful　tones　for　his　benefit。



He　traveled　through　the　night；　and　awoke　as　they　passed　through　one　of

the　pleasant　valleys　of　the　Bourbonnais。　View　after　view　swam　before

his　gaze；　and　passed　rapidly　away　like　the　vague　pictures　of　a　dream。

Cruel　nature　spread　herself　out　before　his　eyes　with　tantalizing

grace。　Sometimes　the　Allier；　a　liquid　shining　ribbon；　meandered

through　the　distant　fertile　landscape；　then　followed　the　steeples　of

hamlets；　hiding　modestly　in　the　depths　of　a　ravine　with　its　yellow

cliffs；　sometimes；　after　the　monotony　of　vineyards；　the　watermills　of

a　little　valley　would　be　suddenly　seen；　and　everywhere　there　were

pleasant　chateaux；　hillside　villages；　roads　with　their　fringes　of

queenly　poplars；　and　the　Loire　itself；　at　last；　with　its　wide　sheets

of　water　sparkling　like　diamonds　amid　its　golden　sands。　Attractions

everywhere；　without　end！　This　nature；　all　astir　with　a　life　and

gladness　like　that　of　childhood；　scarcely　able　to　contain　the　impulses

and　sap　of　June；　possessed　a　fatal　attraction　for　the　darkened　gaze　of

the　invalid。　He　drew　the　blinds　of　his　carriage　windows；　and　betook

himself　again　to　slumber。



Towards　evening；　after　they　had　passed　Cesne；　he　was　awakened　by

lively　music；　and　found　himself　confronted　with　a　village　fair。　The

horses　were　changed　near　the　marketplace。　Whilst　the　postilions　were

engaged　in　making　the　transfer；　he　saw　the　people　dancing　merrily；

pretty　and　attractive　girls　with　flowers　about　them；　excited　youths；

and　finally　the　jolly　wine…flushed　countenances　of　old　peasants。

Children　prattled；　old　women　laughed　and　chatted；　everything　spoke　in

one　voice；　and　there　was　a　holiday　gaiety　about　everything；　down　to

their　clothing　and　the　tables　that　were　set　out。　A　cheerful　expression

pervaded　the　square　and　the　church；　the　roofs　and　windows；　even　the

very　doorways　of　the　village　seemed　likewise　to　be　in　holiday　trim。



Raphael　could　not　repress　an　angry　exclamation；　nor　yet　a　wish　to

silence　the　fiddles；　annihilate　the　stir　and　bustle；　stop　the　clamor；

and　disperse　the　ill…timed　festival；　like　a　dying　man；　he　felt　unable

to　endure　the　slightest　sound；　and　he　entered　his　carriage　much

annoyed。　When　he　looked　out　upon　the　square　from　the　window；　he　saw

that　all　the　happiness　was　scared　away；　the　peasant　women　were　in

flight；　and　the　benches　were　deserted。　Only　a　blind　musician；　on　the

scaffolding　of　the　orchestra；　went　on　playing　a　shrill　tune　on　his

clarionet。　That　piping　of　his；　without　dancers　to　it；　and　the　solitary

old　man　himself；　in　the　shadow　of　the　lime…tree；　with　his　curmudgeon's

face；　scanty　hair；　and　ragged　clothing；　was　like　a　fantastic　picture

of　Raphael's　wish。　The　heavy　rain　was　pouring　in　torrents；　it　was　one

of　those　thunderstorms　that　June　brings　about　so　rapidly；　to　cease　as

suddenly。　The　thing　was　so　natural；　that；　when　Raphael　had　looked　out

and　seen　some　pale　clouds　driven　over　by　a　gust　of　wind；　he　did　not

think　of　looking　at　the　piece　of　skin。　He　lay　back　again　in　the　corner

of　his　carriage；　which　was　very　soon　rolling　upon　its　way。



The　next　day　found　him　back　in　his　home　again；　in　his　own　room；　beside

his　own　fireside。　He　had　had　a　large　fire　lighted；　he　felt　cold。

Jonathan　brought　him　some　letters；　they　were　all　from　Pauline。　He

opened　the　first　one　without　any　eagerness；　and　unfolded　it　as　if　it

had　been　the　gray…paper　form　of　application　for　taxes　made　by　the

revenue　collector。　He　read　the　first　sentence：



〃Gone！　This　really　is　a　flight；　my　Raphael。　How　is　it？　No　one　can　tell

me　where　you　are。　And　who　should　know　if　not　I？〃



He　did　not　wish　to　learn　any　more。　He　calmly　took　up　the　letters　and

threw　them　in　the　fire；　watching　with　dull　and　lifeless　eyes　the

perfumed　paper　as　it　was　twisted；　shriveled；　bent；　and　devoured　by　the

capricious　flames。　Fragments　that　fell　among　the　ashes　allowed　him　to

see　the　beginning　of　a　sentence；　or　a　half…burnt　thought　or　word；　he

took　a　pleasure　in　deciphering　thema　sort　of　mechanical　amusement。