Читать книгу Stories for Ninon + New Stories for Ninon (Unabridged) - Emile Zola - Страница 5

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I

Do you remember our long run in the woods, Ninon? Autumn had begun to sprinkle the trees with yellow purple leaves, which were still gilded by the rays of the setting sun. The grass beneath our feet was thinner than at the commencement of May, and the russety moss hardly afforded shelter for a few rare insects. Lost in the forest, which abounded in melancholy sounds, it seemed as though we heard the bitter lamentations of a woman who believes she has discovered the first wrinkle on her forehead. The foliage, which this pale, mild evening could not deceive, felt the winter coming in the breeze which had freshened, and submitted sadly to being rocked by the wind while weeping over its reddened verdure.

We wandered for a long time in the coppices, caring little for the direction of the paths, but choosing the most shady and secluded. Our frank peals of laughter frightened the thrushes and blackbirds that were whistling in the hedges; and sometimes we heard a green lizard, troubled in his ecstasy by the sound of our footsteps, slipping noiselessly beneath the brambles. Our ramble was without object: after a cloudy day, we had seen the sky, towards evening, wearing a brighter aspect; we had dashed out to enjoy this ray of sunshine. We advanced thus, raising a perfume of sage and thyme beneath our feet, at times running after one another, at others walking leisurely hand in hand. Then I plucked you the last flowers, or sought to reach the red berries of the hawthorns, which you coveted like a child. And you, Ninon, in the meanwhile, crowned with blossoms, you ran to the neighbouring spring under pretence of drinking, but rather to admire your headdress, O coquette and idle girl!

All at once distant peals of laughter became mingled with the vague murmurs of the forest; a fife and tabour were heard, and the breeze brought us the subdued sound of dancing. We had stopped, listening attentively, quite expecting to find that this music came from the mysterious ball of the sylphs. We slipped from tree to tree, guided by the sound of the instruments; then, when we had cautiously put aside the branches of the last thicket, this is the sight we saw.

In the centre of a glade, on a strip of turf surrounded by wild juniper and pistacia trees, some ten peasants of both sexes were moving backward and forward in time. The women, who were bareheaded, with throats covered up by neckerchiefs, skipped about freely, giving utterance to those peals of laughter we had heard; the men, to dance with greater ease, had thrown their jackets among their implements of labour, which glittered in the grass.

These honest folk paid little attention to the measure. A thin, raw-boned man, leaning with his back against an oak-tree, was playing the fife, whilst he struck a sharp-sounding tabour with his left hand, after the custom of Provence. He seemed to follow the hurried, noisy measure with delight. Sometimes his glance wandered to the dancers; then he pitifully shrugged his shoulders. Accredited musician of some large village, he had been stopped as he passed that way, and it was not without anger that he saw these inhabitants of the inner country thus breaking all the rules of fine dancing. Aggrieved during the quadrille at the leaping and stamping of the peasants, he blushed with indignation when, at the end of the air, they continued their paces for five long minutes, without appearing to have any idea even of the absence of the fife and tabour.

It would have been charming, no doubt, to have surprised the hobgoblins of the forest at their mysterious frolics. But, at the least breath, they would have vanished; and running to the ballroom, we would hardly have found a few blades of slightly bent grass, to indicate their passing presence. It would have been a mockery: make us hear their laughter, invite us to share their joy, then run away at our approach, without allowing us a single quadrille.

We could not have danced with sylphs, Ninette; with peasants, never was reality more engaging.

We suddenly left the thicket. Our noisy dancers showed no disposition to take to flight. It was only a long time after we had been there that they perceived our presence. They had begun capering again. The player on the fife, who had pretended to withdraw, having seen a few pieces of money shine, had just taken to his instruments again, beating and blowing afresh, whilst sighing at the thought of prostituting melody as he was doing. It seemed to me that I recognised the slow, imperceptible measure of a waltz. I was encircling your waist, watching the moment to whirl you along in my arms, when you eagerly tore yourself away to laugh and skip, just like a bold, sunburnt peasant girl. The man with the tabour, who was becoming consoled at the sight of my preparations as a fine dancer, had only to shroud his face after that, and bewail the decline of art.

I know not how it was, Ninon, that I recalled those follies last night, our long run, our dances full of freedom and laughter. Then, this vague souvenir was followed by a hundred other vague reveries. Will you pardon me if I relate them to you? Travelling along at hazard, stopping and running without any reason, I trouble myself but little about the crowd; my tales are only very faint sketches: but you told me you were fond of them.

The dance, that chastely wanton nymph, charms rather than attracts me. I, a simple spectator, love to see her jingling her little bells throughout the world; voluptuous, twisting herself into all sorts of attitudes, blowing fiery kisses, beneath the skies of Spain and Italy; gliding along amorously in a long veil, like a dream, in blond Germany; and even when walking, reserved and skilful, in the drawingrooms of France. I like to see her everywhere; on the moss in the woods as on costly carpets; at village weddings as at glittering parties.

Gracefully bending backward, with moist eyes and lips half parted, she has passed through ages, clasping and unclasping her arms above her fair head. All doors have opened at the measured sound of her footsteps; those of temples, those of joyous retreats; there perfumed with incense, here with her gown reddened with wine, she has harmoniously struck the ground; and after so many centuries she reaches us, smiling, without her supple limbs ever hastening or delaying the melodious cadence.

Let the goddess then appear. Groups are formed, the dancing-girls camber beneath the clasp of their partners. Here is the immortal. Her extended arms hold a tambourine; she smiles, then gives the signal; the couples move, follow her steps, imitate her attitudes. And I, I love to watch that nimble rotation; I endeavour to catch all the glances, all the words of love, in the corner where I am dreaming; I experience the enthusiasm of rhythm, thanking the immortal, if she has left me ignorant and clumsy, for having given me at least the sentiment of her harmonious art.

To tell the truth, Ninette, I would prefer her, the fair goddess, in her amorous nudity, unclasping and waving her white girdle without following any rule; I would prefer her far from the ballroom, fancying herself hidden from all profane eyes, tracing her most capricious steps upon the turf. There, barely veiled, softly pressing the grass with her rosy feet, she would move about in innocent liberty; she would discover the secret of the melody of movement. There, I would go, hidden in the foliage, to admire her lovely form, slim and supple, and watch the gambols of the shadow on her shoulders, according as her caprice bore it away or brought it back.

But, sometimes, I have taken to detesting her, when she appeared to me in the shape of a young coquette, well starched and foolishly decent; when I have seen her blindly obeying an orchestra, pouting, appearing weary, stifling a yawn whilst acquitting herself of her steps as of a task. I will say all: I have never admired the immortal in a ballroom without a feeling of sorrow. Her taper legs become entangled in those long skirts of our ladies of fashion; she finds herself too much clogged, she who only wants to be free and capricious; and, in trouble, she clumsily conforms to our silly curtsies, always losing her gracefulness and often becoming ridiculous.

I would like to close our doors to her. If I bear with her sometimes beneath the chandeliers, without feeling too sad, it is, thanks to her tablets of love, to her ball-program.

Do you see it in her hand, Ninon, that little book? Look; the clasp and pencil-holder are gold; never was paper more soft or more nicely perfumed; never was there binding more elegant. That is our offering to the goddess. Others have given her the wreath and girdle: we, out of kindness of heart, have made her a present of the ball-program.

She had so many adorers, the poor child, she was so pressed with invitations, that she hardly knew what to do. Each came to admire her, begging for a quadrille, and the coquette always consented. She danced, danced, lost her memory, was overwhelmed with reproaches, and made other mistakes; hence dreadful confusion and frightful jealousy. She withdrew with aching feet and her memory gone. One took pity on her and presented her with the little golden book Since then no more forgetfulness, no more confusion nor injustice. When lovers besiege her she hands them her program; each writes his name there; it is for those who are the most in love to come first. Let them be a hundred, the white pages are numerous. If all have not squeezed her slender waist when the lights of the chandeliers begin to pale, they have only to complain of their own indolence, and not of the child’s indifference.

No doubt the system was simple, Ninon. You must be surprised at my exclamations anent a few leaves of paper. But what charming leaves, exhaling a perfume of coquetry, full of sweet secrets! What a long list of handsome sweethearts, the name of each of whom is an homage, each page an entire evening of triumph and adoration! What a magic book, containing a life of tenderness, in which the profane can only spell out vain names, whilst the young girl reads offhand an account of her beauty and the admiration she excites!

Each comes in turn to make submission, each comes and signs his love-letter. Are they not, indeed, the thousand signatures to a declaration under the rose? Ought one not, if one were of good faith, to write them on the first page, those eternal phrases that are always young? But the little book is discreet; it will not make its mistress blush. It and she alone know what to dream of.

Frankly, I suspect it of being very artful. See how it dissembles, how simple and necessary it makes itself. What is it, if not an aid for memory? Quite a primitive means of doing justice, by giving each one his turn. It speak of love, it agitate young girls! You make a great mistake. Turn over the pages; you will not find the smallest “I love you.” It says truly, nothing is more innocent, more simple, more primitive than I. And, indeed, parents notice it in their daughters’ hands without alarm. Whilst the note signed with a single name is hidden in the bodice, the letter bearing a thousand signatures is boldly exhibited. One meets with it everywhere in broad daylight, in the drawingroom and in the child’s bedchamber. Is it not the least dangerous little book one knows of?

It deceives even its mistress. What danger can there be in an object of such common use, approved, moreover, by one’s parents? She turns the leaves over without fear. It is here that one can accuse the ball-program of absolute hypocrisy. What do you think it whispers in the child’s ear when all is silent? Simple names? Oh! not at all! but real, long, amorous conversations. It has put aside its air of necessity and disinterestedness. It chats and caresses; it is burning, and stutters out tender words. The young girl feels oppressed; trembling, she continues. And all at once the fête reappears, the chandeliers sparkle, the orchestra resounds amorously; suddenly each name is personified, and the ball, of which she was the queen, begins again with its ovations, its fondling and flattering words.

Ah! you rogue of a book, what a procession of young partners! That one there, while gently squeezing her waist, extolled her blue eyes; this one, here, bashful and trembling, could only smile at her; whilst that other talked, talked, without ceasing, paying her all those gallant compliments, which, in spite of their being devoid of sense, say more than long speeches.

And, when the virgin has once forgotten herself with him, the sly rascal knows she will do it again. As a young woman, she turns over the leaves, consults them anxiously to discover what has been the increase in the number of her admirers. She pauses with a sad smile at certain names which are not repeated on the last pages, flighty names which have no doubt gone to enrich other programs.

Most of her subjects remain faithful to her; she passes them in review with indifference. The little book laughs at all that He knows his power; he will receive the caresses of a whole lifetime.

Old age comes, the program is not forgotten. The gilt edges are faded and the leaves hardly hold together. Its mistress, who has become aged as well, seems to like it the more. She still often turns over the pages, and becomes intoxicated with its distant perfume of youth.

Is not that a charming part, Ninon, that of the ball-program? Is it not, like all poetry, incomprehensible to the crowd, and only read fluently by the initiated? Confident of woman’s secrets, it accompanies her through life like an angel of love, smothering her with hopes and remembrances.

II

Georgette had only just left the convent She was still of that happy age when dreams and reality make one; sweet and short-lived epoch, the mind sees what it dreams of and dreams of what it sees. Like all children she had allowed herself to he dazzled by the blazing chandeliers at her first balls; she honestly imagined herself in a superior sphere, among beings who were demigods, in whom the bad side of life had been remitted.

Her cheeks, which were slightly brown, possessed that golden reflex which is peculiar to the bosom of a Sicilian girl; her long black lashes half veiled the flash of her eyes. Forgetting she was no longer under the eye of an assistant schoolmistress, she checked the fierce fire that was burning within her. In a drawingroom she was never anything more than a little timid and almost silly girl, blushing at a word and casting down her eyes.

Come, we will hide behind the great curtains; we shall see the indolent creature stretch her arms and uncover her rosy feet as she awakes. Do not be jealous, Ninon: all my kisses are for you.

Do you remember? Eleven o’clock was striking. The room was still dark. The sun was lost in the thick hangings at the windows, whilst a fairy lamp that was dying out, struggled in vain against the darkness. On the bed, when the flame of the fairy lamp brightened, appeared a white form, a pure forehead, a throat lost in waves of lace; further down, the delicate extremity of a small foot; a snow-like arm with an open hand, hung outside the bed.

Twice the lazy creature turned round on the couch to go off to sleep again, but so light was her slumber that the sudden cracking of a piece of furniture made her half sit up. She thrust back her hair falling in disorder on her forehead, rubbed her eyes swollen with sleep, brought all the corners of her bedclothes over her shoulders, crossing her arms to hide herself the better.

When she was well awake, she stretched out her hand towards a bell-rope hanging beside her; but she rapidly brought it to her again, she sprang to the floor and drew aside the window hangings herself. A bright ray of sunshine filled the room. The child, surprised at the broad daylight, and catching sight of herself in a looking-glass, half nude and with her dress in disorder, felt very much alarmed. She went back and buried herself in bed, all red and trembling at her fine performance. Her chambermaid was a silly curious girl; Georgette preferred her own reverie to that person’s gossip. But, goodness gracious! how light it was, and how indiscreet looking-glasses are!

Now, on the chairs scattered about the room one perceived a ball toilette that had been negligently cast there. Here the young girl, half asleep, had left her gauze skirt, there her sash, a little further on her satin shoes. Her jewels sparkled in an agate bowl close to her; a faded bouquet was dying beside a ball-program.

With her forehead resting on one of her naked arms, she took up a necklace and began toying with the pearls. Then she set it down, opened the program, and began turning it over. The little book had a weary and indifferent air. Georgette ran her eye over it without much attention, thinking apparently of something else.

As she turned the pages, the name of Charles written at the head of each of them, ended by trying her patience.

“Always Charles,” she said to herself. “My cousin has a fine handwriting; those long sloping letters have a very serious aspect. His hand rarely trembles, even when he presses mine. My cousin is a very sedate young man. One of these days he is to be my husband. At each ball he takes my program, without asking me, and writes himself down for the first dance. That is no doubt a husband’s right. That right displeases me.”

The program became more and more cold. Georgette gazing into space, seemed to be working out some momentous problem.

“A husband,” she resumed, “that is what frightens me. Charles always treats me as a little girl; because he won eight or ten prizes at college, he considers himself compelled to be pedantic. After all I don’t know exactly why he should be my husband; I never asked him to marry me; he on his side has never asked my permission. We played together formally; I remember he was very unkind. Now he is very polite; I should like him better if he were unkind. So, I am going to be his wife; I had never seriously thought of that: his wife, I really don’t see the reason why. Charles, always Charles! One would think I belonged to him already. I shall ask him not to write so big on my program: his name occupies too much space.”

The little book, which also seemed tired of cousin Charles, almost closed itself with weariness. I suspect ball-programs of feeling the most candid hatred for husbands. This one turned over its pages and slyly presented other names to Georgette.

“Louis,” murmured the child. “That name recalls a singular dancer. He came, almost without looking at me, and asked me to grant him a quadrille. Then, at the first sounds of the instruments, he dragged me to the other end of the ballroom, I cannot understand why, opposite a tall, fair lady, who was following him with her eyes. At times he smiled at her, and so absolutely forgot my presence, that on two occasions I was obliged to pick up my bouquet myself. When the dance brought him near her, he spoke to her in an undertone; as for me, I listened, but could understand nothing. Perhaps it was his sister. His sister, oh! no: he trembled when he took her hand; then when he held that hand in his, the orchestra summoned him in vain to my side. I stood there like a stupid, with my arm stretched out, which looked very bad; the figures were all in confusion. It was perhaps his wife. How simple I am! His wife, really, yes! but Charles never speaks to me when dancing. It was perhaps—”

Georgette remained with parted lips absorbed in reflection, like a child placed before an unknown toy, not daring to approach and opening her eyes to see better. She listlessly counted the tassels on the counterpane, her right hand extended and wide open on the program. The latter began to show signs of animation; it stirred about and seemed to know perfectly well who the fair lady was. I am unaware whether the libertine confided the secret to the young girl. She drew back the lace which was slipping down, over her shoulders, completed scrupulously counting the tassels on the counterpane, and at last said in an undertone:

“It’s singular, that beautiful lady was neither M. Louis’ wife nor his sister.”

She resumed turning over the pages. A name soon stopped her.

“This Robert is a wicked man,” she continued. “I should never have thought that any one with such an elegant waistcoat could be so base-minded. For a full quarter of an hour he was comparing me to a thousand beautiful things — the stars, flowers, and I know not what else. I felt flattered. I experienced so much pleasure that I did not know what to answer. He spoke well, and for a long time without stopping. Then he led me back to my seat, and there he almost wept at leaving me. Afterwards I went to a window; I was hidden by the curtains which hung down behind me. I was thinking a little, I fancy, of my chatterbox of a partner, when I overheard him laughing and talking. He was speaking to a friend of a silly little thing, who blushed at the slightest word, of a novice just fresh from a convent, who cast down her eyes and made herself ugly by her over modest demeanour. No doubt he was alluding to Thérèse, my dear friend. Thérèse has small eyes and a large mouth. She is a very good girl. Perhaps they were alluding to me. So young men tell falsehoods, then! So, I am ugly. Ugly! Thérèse, however, is more so. They must certainly have been alluding to Thérèse.”

Georgette smiled, and felt a sort of inclination to run and consult her mirror.

“Then,” she added, “they made fun of the ladies at the ball. I continued listening, and at last I failed to understand.

I — fancied they were using ugly words. As I could not get away I courageously stopped my ears.”

The ball-program was convulsed with laughter. It proceeded to quote a swarm of names to prove to Georgette that Thérèse was indeed the silly little thing who made herself appear ugly by a too modest demeanour.

“Paul has blue eyes,” it said. “Paul assuredly does not tell falsehoods, and I have heard him say very sweet things to you.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated Georgette, “M. Paul has blue eyes, and M. Paul does not tell falsehoods. He has fair moustachios, which I like much better than those of Charles.”

“Don’t speak to me of Charles,” continued the program; “his moustachios do not deserve the faintest smile. What do you think of Edouard? He is timid, and only dares speak with his eyes. I don’t know if you understand that language. And Jules? He affirms that you alone know how to waltz. And Lucien, and Georges, and Albert? They all consider you charming, and for long hours beg the charity of a smile.” Georgette recommenced counting the tassels on the counterpane. The program’s chattering began to alarm her. She felt the book was burning her hands; she would have liked to close it, but had not the courage.

“For you were the queen,” continued the demon. “Your lace wouldn’t hide your arms, your forehead of sixteen summers put your tiara in the shade. Ah! my Georgette, you could not see all, otherwise you would have shown pity. The poor fellows feel very sad at the present moment!”

And there was a silence significative of commiseration. The child who was listening, smiling and on the alert, seeing the program remain silent, murmured:

“A bow had fallen from my gown. Surely that made me look ugly. The young men must have made fun as they passed. Those dressmakers are so careless!”

“Did not he dance with you?” interrupted the program. “Who do you mean?” inquired Georgette, blushing so much that her shoulders became quite pink.

And pronouncing, at last, a name she had had before her eyes for a quarter of an hour, and which her heart was spelling out to her, whilst her lips spoke of a torn gown, she said: “M. Edmond seemed sad last night. I saw him looking at me from a distance. As he was afraid to approach, I rose and went over to him. He could not do otherwise than ask me to dance.”

“I am very fond of M. Edmond,” sighed the little book. Georgette pretended not to understand. She continued:

“In dancing I felt his hand trembling on my waist. He stammered out a few words, complaining of the heat. Seeing he cast a look of envy at the roses in my bouquet, I gave him one. There was no harm in that.”

“Oh no! Then, in taking the flower, his lips by a peculiar chance came close to your fingers. He gave them a little kiss.”

“There is no harm in that,” repeated Georgette, who for a few moments had been very restless in bed.

“Oh no! But I must really scold you for having made him wait for that poor kiss so long. Edmond would make a charming little husband.”

The child, more and more troubled, did not notice that her fichu had fallen off and that one of her feet had thrown back the bedclothes.

“A charming little husband,” she repeated again.

“I am very fond of him,” continued the tempter. “If I were in your place I would willingly return him his kiss.”

Georgette was scandalised. The good apostle continued:

“Only a kiss, there, softly on his name. I won’t tell him about it.”

The young girl vowed by all she respected that she would not do it. And I know not how it was that the page came to her lips. She knew nothing about it herself. Amidst her protests, she kissed the name twice.

Then, she perceived her foot, which was smiling in a ray of the sun. All in confusion she pulled up the bedclothes, and completely lost her head on hearing the handle of the door turn.

The ball-program slipped amidst the lace and disappeared in great haste under the pillow.

It was the chambermaid.