a woman of thirty-第47章
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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 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
