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The Hated Son-Part11_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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his usually joyous manner.

The old physician signed to the old mother to look at his daughter,



nodding his head with satisfaction as if to say, "How sweet she is!"

What father would not have felt Beauvouloir's emotion on seeing the



young girl as she stood there in the Norman dress of that period?

Gabrielle wore the corsetpointed before and square behind, which the



Italian masters give almost invariably to their saints and their

madonnas. This elegant corselet, made of sky-blue velvet, as dainty as



that of a dragon-fly, enclosed the bust like a guimpe and compressed

it, delicately modelling the outline as it seemed to flatten; it



moulded the shoulders, the back, the waist, with the precision of a

drawing made by an able draftsman, ending around the neck in an oblong



curve, adorned at the edges with a slight embroidery in brown silks,

leaving to view as much of the bare throat as was needed to show the



beauty of her womanhood, but not enough to awaken desire. A full brown

skirt, continuing the lines already drawn by the velvet waist, fell to



her feet in narrow flattened pleats. Her figure was so slender that

Gabrielle seemed tall; her arms hung pendent with the inertia that



some deep thought imparts to the attitude. Thus standing, she

presented a living model of those ingenuous works of statuary a taste



for which prevailed at that period,--works which obtained admiration

for the harmony of their lines, straight without stiffness, and for



the firmness of a design which did not excludevitality. No swallow,

brushing the window-panes at dusk, ever conveyed the idea of greater



elegance of outline.

Gabrielle's face was thin, but not flat; on her neck and forehead ran



bluish threads showing the delicacy of a skin so transparent that the

flowing of the blood through her veins seemed visible. This excessive



whiteness was faintly tinted with rose upon the cheeks. Held beneath a

little coif of sky-blue velvet embroidered with pearls, her hair, of



an even tone, flowed like two rivulets of gold from her temples and

played in ringlets on her neck, which it did not hide. The glowing



color of those silky locks brightened the dazzling whiteness of the

neck, and purified still further by its reflections the outlines of



the face already so pure. The eyes, which were long and as if pressed

between their lids, were in harmony with the delicacy of the head and



body; their pearl-gray tints were brilliant without vivacity, candid

without passion. The line of the nose might have seemed cold, like a



steel blade, without two rosy nostrils, the movements of which were

out of keeping with the chastity of that dreamy brow, often perplexed,



sometimes smiling, but always of an august serenity. An alert little

ear attracted the eye, peeping beneath the coif and between two curls,



and showing a ruby ear-drop, the color of which stood vigorously out

on the milky whiteness of the neck. This was neither Norman beauty,



where flesh abounds, nor French beauty, as fugitive as its own

expressions, nor the beauty of the North, cold and melancholy as the



North itself--it was the deep seraphic beauty of the Catholic Church,

supple and rigid, severe but tender.



"Where could one find a prettier duchess?" thought Beauvouloir,

contemplating his daughter with delight. As she stood there slightly



bending, her neck stretched out to watch the flight of a bird past the

windows, he could only compare her to a gazelle pausing to listen for



the ripple of the water where she seeks to drink.

"Come and sit here," said Beauvouloir, tapping his knee and making a






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