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The Magic Skin-Part41_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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universe existed no longer; the whole world had come to be within

himself. For the sick, the world begins at their pillow and ends at



the foot of the bed; and this countryside was Raphael's sick-bed.

Who has not, at some time or other in his life, watched the comings



and goings of an ant, slipped straws into a yellow slug's one

breathing-hole, studied the vagaries of a slender dragon-fly, pondered



admiringly over the countless veins in an oak-leaf, that bring the

colors of a rose window in some Gothic cathedral into contrast with



the reddishbackground? Who has not looked long in delight at the

effects of sun and rain on a roof of brown tiles, at the dewdrops, or



at the variously shaped petals of the flower-cups? Who has not sunk

into these idle, absorbing meditations on things without, that have no



conscious end, yet lead to some definite thought at last. Who, in

short, has not led a lazy life, the life of childhood, the life of the



savage without his labor? This life without a care or a wish Raphael

led for some days' space. He felt a distinctimprovement in his



condition, a wonderful sense of ease, that quieted his apprehensions

and soothed his sufferings.



He would climb the crags, and then find a seat high up on some peak

whence he could see a vast expanse of distant country at a glance, and



he would spend whole days in this way, like a plant in the sun, or a

hare in its form. And at last, growing familiar with the appearances



of the plant-life about him, and of the changes in the sky, he

minutely noted the progress of everything working around him in the



water, on the earth, or in the air. He tried to share the secret

impulses of nature, sought by passiveobedience to become a part of



it, and to lie within the conservative and despotic jurisdiction that

regulates instinctiveexistence. He no longer wished to steer his own



course.

Just as criminals in olden times were safe from the pursuit of



justice, if they took refuge under the shadow of the altar, so Raphael

made an effort to slip into the sanctuary of life. He succeeded in



becoming an integral part of the great and mighty fruit-producing

organization; he had adapted himself to the inclemency of the air, and



had dwelt in every cave among the rocks. He had learned the ways and

habits of growth of every plant, had studied the laws of the



watercourses and their beds, and had come to know the animals; he was

at last so perfectly at one with this teeming earth, that he had in



some sort discerned its mysteries and caught the spirit of it.

The infinitelyvaried forms of every natural kingdom were, to his



thinking, only developments of one and the same substance, different

combinations brought about by the same impulse, endless emanations



from a measureless Being which was acting, thinking, moving, and

growing, and in harmony with which he longed to grow, to move, to



think, and act. He had fancifully blended his life with the life of

the crags; he had deliberately planted himself there. During the



earliest days of his sojourn in these pleasant surroundings, Valentin

tasted all the pleasures of childhood again, thanks to the strange



hallucination of apparent convalescence, which is not unlike the

pauses of delirium that nature mercifully provides for those in pain.



He went about making trifling discoveries, setting to work on endless

things, and finishing none of them; the evening's plans were quite



forgotten in the morning; he had no cares, he was happy; he thought

himself saved.



One morning he had lain in bed till noon, deep in the dreams between

sleep and waking, which give to realities a fantastic appearance, and



make the wildest fancies seem solid facts; while he was still

uncertain that he was not dreaming yet, he suddenly heard his hostess



giving a report of his health to Jonathan, for the first time.

Jonathan came to inquire after him daily, and the Auvergnate, thinking



no doubt that Valentin was still asleep, had not lowered the tones of

a voice developed in mountain air.






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