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The Lily of the Valley-Part15_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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its flood of anthers that are nearly yellow; the snowy pyramids of the

meadow-sweet, the green tresses of the wild oats, the slender plumes



of the agrostis, which we call wind-ear; roseate hopes, decking love's

earliest dream and standing forth against the gray surroundings. But



higher still, remark the Bengal roses, sparsely scattered among the

laces of the daucus, the plumes of the linaria, the marabouts of the



meadow-queen; see the umbels of the myrrh, the spun glass of the

clematis in seed, the dainty petals of the cross-wort, white as milk,



the corymbs of the yarrow, the spreading stems of the fumitory with

their black and rosy blossoms, the tendrils of the grape, the twisted



shoots of the honeysuckle; in short, all the innocent creatures have

that is most tangled, wayward, wild,--flames and triple darts, leaves



lanceolated or jagged, stalks convoluted like passionate desires

writhing in the soul. From the bosom of this torrent of love rises the



scarlet poppy, its tassels about to open, spreading its flaming flakes

above the starry jessamine, dominating the rain of pollen--that soft



mist fluttering in the air and reflecting the light in its myriad

particles. What woman intoxicated with the odor of the vernal grasses



would fail to understand this wealth of offered thoughts, these ardent

desires of a love demanding the happiness refused in a hundred



struggles which passion still renews, continuous, unwearying, eternal!

Put this speech of the flowers in the light of a window to show its



crisp details, its delicate contrasts, its arabesques of color, and

allow the sovereign lady to see a tear upon some petal more expanded



than the rest. What do we give to God? perfumes, light, and song, the

purest expression of our nature. Well, these offerings to God, are



they not likewise offered to love in this poem of luminous flowers

murmuring their sadness to the heart, cherishing its hidden



transports, its unuttered hopes, its illusions which gleam and fall to

fragments like the gossamer of a summer's night?



Such neutral pleasures help to soothe a nature irritated by long

contemplation of the person beloved. They were to me, I dare not say



to her, like those fissures in a dam through which the water finds a

vent and avoids disaster. Abstinence brings deadlyexhaustion, which a



few crumbs falling from heaven like manna in the desert, suffices to

relieve. Sometimes I found my Henriette standing before these bouquets



with pendant arms, lost in agitated reverie, thoughts swelling her

bosom, illumining her brow as they surged in waves and sank again,



leaving lassitude and languor behind them. Never again have I made a

bouquet for any one. When she and I had created this language and



formed it to our uses, a satisfaction filled our souls like that of a

slave who escapes his masters.



During the rest of this month as I came from the meadows through the

gardens I often saw her face at the window, and when I reached the



salon she was ready at her embroidery frame. If I did not arrive at

the hour expected (though never appointed), I saw a white form



wandering on the terrace, and when I joined her she would say, "I came

to meet you; I must show a few attentions to my youngest child."



The miserable games of backgammon had come to end. The count's late

purchases took all his time in going hither and thither about the



property, surveying, examining, and marking the boundaries of his new

possessions. He had orders to give, rural works to overlook which



needed a master's eye,--all of them planned and decided on by his wife

and himself. We often went to meet him, the countess and I, with the



children, who amused themselves on the way by running after insects,

stag-beetles, darning-needles, they too making their bouquets, or to



speak more truly, their bundles of flowers. To walk beside the woman

we love, to take her on our arm, to guide her steps,--these are



illimitable joys that suffice a lifetime. Confidence is then complete.

We went alone, we returned with the "general," a title given to the



count when he was good-humored. These two ways of taking the same path

gave light and shade to our pleasure, a secret known only to hearts






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