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Adieu-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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they could see, in the midst of a large park, a building constructed



in the style of the monasteries of old. "How those rascals the monks

knew how to choose their sites!"



This last exclamation was an expression of surprise and pleasure at

the poeticalhermitage which met his eyes. The house stood on the



slope of the mountain, at the summit of which is the village of

Nerville. The great centennial oaks of the forest which encircled the



dwelling made the place an absolutesolitude. The main building,

formerly occupied by the monks, faced south. The park seemed to have



about forty acres. Near the house lay a succession of green meadows,

charmingly crossed by several clear rivulets, with here and there a



piece of water naturally placed without the least apparent artifice.

Trees of elegant shape and variedfoliage were distributed about.



Grottos, cleverly managed, and massive terraces with dilapidated steps

and rusty railings, gave a peculiarcharacter to this lone retreat.



Art had harmonized her constructions with the picturesque effects of

nature. Human passions seemed to die at the feet of those great trees,



which guarded this asylum from the tumult of the world as they shaded

it from the fires of the sun.



"How desolate!" thought Monsieur d'Albon, observing the sombre

expression which the ancient building gave to the landscape, gloomy as



though a curse were on it. It seemed a fatal spot deserted by man. Ivy

had stretched its tortuous muscles, covered by its rich green mantle,



everywhere. Brown or green, red or yellow mosses and lichen spread

their romantic tints on trees and seats and roofs and stones. The



crumbling window-casings were hollowed by rain, defaced by time; the

balconies were broken, the terraces demolished. Some of the outside



shutters hung from a single hinge. The rotten doors seemed quite

unable to resist an assailant. Covered with shining tufts of



mistletoe, the branches of the neglected fruit-trees gave no sign of

fruit. Grass grew in the paths. Such ruin and desolation cast a weird



poesy on the scene, filling the souls of the spectators with dreamy

thoughts. A poet would have stood there long, plunged in a melancholy



reverie, admiring this disorder so full of harmony, this destruction

which was not without its grace. Suddenly, the brown tiles shone, the



mosses glittered, fantastic shadows danced upon the meadows and

beneath the trees; fading colors revived; strikingcontrasts



developed, the foliage of the trees and shrubs defined itself more

clearly in the light. Then--the light went out. The landscape seemed



to have spoken, and now was silent, returning to its gloom, or rather

to the soft sad tones of an autumnal twilight.



"It is the palace of the Sleeping Beauty," said the marquis, beginning

to view the house with the eyes of a land owner. "I wonder to whom it



belongs! He must be a stupid fellow not to live in such an exquisite

spot."



At that instant a woman sprang from beneath a chestnut-tree standing

to the right of the gate, and, without making any noise, passed before



the marquis as rapidly as the shadow of a cloud. This vision made him

mute with surprise.



"Why, Albon, what's the matter?" asked the colonel.

"I am rubbing my eyes to know if I am asleep or awake," replied the



marquis, with his face close to the iron rails as he tried to get

another sight of the phantom.



"She must be beneath that fig-tree," he said, pointing to the foliage

of a tree which rose above the wall to the left of the gate.



"She! who?"

"How can I tell?" replied Monsieur d'Albon. "A strange woman rose up



there, just before me," he said in a low voice; "she seemed to come

from the world of shades rather than from the land of the living. She



is so slender, so light, so filmy, she must be diaphanous. Her face

was as white as milk; her eyes, her clothes, her hair jet black. She



looked at me as she flitted by, and though I may say I'm no coward,

that cold immovable look froze the blood in my veins."



"Is she pretty?" asked Philippe.

"I don't know. I could see nothing but the eyes in that face."



"Well, let the dinner at Cassan go to the devil!" cried the colonel.

"Suppose we stay here. I have a sudden childish desire to enter that






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