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The Lily of the Valley-Part32_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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sacrifice everything."

The world was suddenly reversed before her, her ideas became confused.



The grandeur of that thought struck her; a suspicion entered her mind

that sacrifice, immolation justified happiness; the echo of her own



inward cry for love came back to her; she stood dumb in presence of

her wasted life. Yes, for a moment horrible doubts possessed her; then



she rose, grand and saintly, her head erect.

"Love her well, Felix," she said, with tears in her eyes; "she shall



be my happy sister. I will forgive her the harm she has done me if she

gives you what you could not have here. You are right; I have never



told you that I loved you, and I never have loved you as the world

loves. But if she is a mother how can she love you so?"



"Dear saint," I answered, "I must be less moved than I am now, before

I can explain to you how it is that you soar victoriously above her.



She is a woman of earth, the daughter of decaying races; you are the

child of heaven, an angel worthy of worship; you have my heart, she my



flesh only. She knows this and it fills her with despair; she would

change parts with you even though the cruellest martyrdom were the



price of the change. But all is irremediable. To you the soul, to you

the thoughts, the love that is pure, to you youth and old age; to her



the desires and joys of passing passion; to you remembrance forever,

to her oblivion--"



"Tell me, tell me that again, oh, my friend!" she turned to a bench

and sat down, bursting into tears. "If that be so, Felix, virtue,



purity of life, a mother's love, are not mistakes. Oh, pour that balm

upon my wounds! Repeat the words which bear me back to heaven, where



once I longed to rise with you. Bless me by a look, by a sacred word,

--I forgive you for the sufferings you have caused me the last two



months."

"Henriette, there are mysteries in the life of men of which you know



nothing. I met you at an age when the feelings of the heart stifle the

desires implanted in our nature; but many scenes, the memory of which



will kindle my soul to the hour of death, must have told you that this

age was drawing to a close, and it was your constanttriumph still to



prolong its mute delights. A love without possession is maintained by

the exasperation of desire; but there comes a moment when all is



suffering within us--for in this we have no resemblance to you. We

possess a power we cannot abdicate, or we cease to be men. Deprived of



the nourishment it needs, the heart feeds upon itself, feeling an

exhaustion which is not death, but which precedes it. Nature cannot



long be silenced; some trifling accident awakens it to a violence that

seems like madness. No, I have not loved, but I have thirsted in the



desert."

"The desert!" she said bitterly, pointing to the valley. "Ah!" she



exclaimed, "how he reasons! what subtle distinctions! Faithful hearts

are not so learned."



"Henriette," I said, "do not quarrel with me for a chance expression.

No, my soul has not vacillated, but I have not been master of my



senses. That woman is not ignorant that you are the only one I ever

loved. She plays a secondary part in my life; she knows it and is



resigned. I have the right to leave her as men leave courtesans."

"And then?"



"She tells me that she will kill herself," I answered, thinking that

this resolve would startle Henriette. But when she heard it a



disdainful smile, more expressive than the thoughts it conveyed,

flickered on her lips. "My dear conscience," I continued, "if you



would take into account my resistance and the seductions that led to

my fall you would understand the fatal--"



"Yes, fatal!" she cried. "I believed in you too much. I believed you

capable of the virtue a priest practises. All is over," she continued,



after a pause. "I owe you much, my friend; you have extinguished in me

the fires of earthly life. The worst of the way is over; age is coming



on. I am ailing now, soon I may be ill; I can never be the brilliant

fairy who showers you with favors. Be faithful to Lady Dudley.



Madeleine, whom I was training to be yours, ah! who will have her now?

Poor Madeleine, poor Madeleine!" she repeated, like the mournful



burden of a song. "I would you had heard her say to me when you came:

'Mother, you are not kind to Felix!' Dear creature!"



She looked at me in the warm rays of the setting sun as they glided




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