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5. Corpus Stylistics
Speech, Writing and Thought
Presentation in a Corpus of
English Writing
Elena Semino and Mick Short
6. Discourse Markers
Across Languages
A Contrastive Study of Second-Level
Discourse Markers in Native and
Non-Native Text with Implications for
General and Pedagogic Lexicography
Dirk Siepmann
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereaf-
ter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
1 Introduction 1
Notes 179
Bibliography 187
Index 197
Tables
CL classifier
COS change-of-state le ( )
DE structural particles de ( , , )
LL log-likelihood test
xii Abbreviations
LLSCC Lancaster Los Angeles Spoken Chinese Corpus
PRT particle
This book presents the major outputs of research which we have under-
taken over past years on our projects “Contrasting Tense and Aspect in
English and Chinese” and “Contrasting English and Chinese”. Both proj-
ects were funded, under grants RES-000–220135 and RES-000–23–0553
respectively, by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC), United
Kingdom, to which we are greatly indebted.
We are grateful to Erica Wetter, editor at Routledge, for her unfailing sup-
port while we worked on this book, without which the book would not have
been possible. We also thank Dr Jiajin Xu and Matthew Davies for reading
and commenting on our manuscript, which has improved the book greatly.
On a personal level, Richard Xiao would like to thank his co-author
and research collaborator, Tony McEnery, for his interest and enthusiasm
in researching a language distinctly different from his native language,
English, and for the many years of happy collaboration on their projects.
Richard’s thanks also go to his family, Lyn Zhang and Yina Xiao, for their
support and understanding when he could only spend very little time with
them while he was working on this book.
Tony McEnery would like to thank all of his colleagues, and in particu-
lar Richard Xiao, for the support they have provided to him while he has
served in several administrative roles. Without such support it would sim-
ply not have been possible to continue to undertake research such as this.
December 2009
1 Introduction
English and Chinese are two widely spoken world languages that differ
genetically. This genetic difference has resulted in many subsidiary differ-
ences that are, among other things, related to grammar. Compared with
typologically related languages, cross-linguistic contrast of English and
Chinese is more challenging yet promising. The promise relates to the dif-
ference—by studying such language pairs in contrast, we can gain a bet-
ter appreciation of the scale of variability in the human language system.
The challenge arises from that promise—theories and observations based
on closely related language pairs can give rise to conclusions which seem
certain but which, when studied in the context of a language pair such as
English and Chinese, become not merely problematized afresh, but signifi-
cantly more challenging to resolve. This book is about this promise and
this challenge.
In the chapters that follow, we will explore a series of features in con-
trast between English and Chinese. In each case the result is a challenge to
our understanding of language followed by a reworking and expansion of
that understanding. The features that we focus upon, which provide the
main theme of this book, relate to the cross-linguistic contrast of aspect-
related grammatical categories, i.e. grammatical categories that contribute
to aspectual meaning—both ‘situation aspect’ (i.e. inherent temporal prop-
erties of a situation) at the semantic level and ‘viewpoint aspect’ (i.e. the
temporal perspective from which a situation is presented) at the grammati-
cal level—in English and Chinese.
The marriage of aspect research and cross-linguistic contrast is, we
would argue, an entirely natural one. On the one hand, research on aspect
usually has a contrastive focus, as demonstrated by the works by Comrie
(1976), Dahl (1985, 1999), Bybee et al. (1994), Smith (1997), and Miller
(1999). On the other hand, a contrastive study should also have an aspec-
tual focus as aspect is an important grammatical category. In Brown and
Miller (1999), for example, aspect takes up the lion’s share of the work
presented. While some languages may not have tense (e.g. Chinese), aspect
appears to have been found in all human languages investigated so far (cf.
Dahl 1985).
2 Corpus-Based Contrastive Studies of English and Chinese
Nevertheless, while aspect is a common grammatical category (cf. Miller
1999: 42), languages may express aspectual meanings in different ways (cf.
Lehmann 1999: 48). For example, English uses morphologically combined
tense/aspect markers whereas Chinese uses aspect markers (a type of gram-
matical words) to express aspectual meaning (see Chapter 2). Yet subtle
distinctions occur: while English and Chinese both have certain gram-
matical aspects (e.g. the progressive), they differ in their use of that shared
aspect. Differences such as these are useful in accounting for the phenom-
ena observed in attested language use, as will be shown in this book.
In spite of its focus on aspect, this book is not restricted to the gram-
matical category of aspect. Rather, it seeks to provide a systematic and
contrastive account of aspect-related grammatical categories in English and
Chinese on the basis of written and spoken corpus data of the two lan-
guages. So while our focus is upon aspect, the discussion of it will lead us
to consider a wider range of grammatical features.
Having established that we will base our contrastive studies upon compa-
rable corpus resources, it is now appropriate to introduce the corpora used
in this book, which are composed of written and spoken data sampled from
English and Chinese.
The Freiburg-LOB corpus (i.e. FLOB) is an update of LOB (Lancaster-
Oslo-Bergen corpus of British English, see Johansson, Leech, and Good-
luck 1978) which sampled texts published in 1991–1992 (Hundt, Sand,
and Siemund 1998). A second corpus, the Lancaster Corpus of Mandarin
Chinese (i.e. LCMC), was designed as a Chinese match for FLOB, repre-
senting written Chinese published in China in the early 1990s (McEnery,
Xiao, and Mo 2003). Both corpora consist of five hundred 2,000-word
samples taken proportionally from the same 15 genres in English and Chi-
nese, each totalling one million words. 3 The two balanced comparable
corpora have not only made it possible to compare English and Chinese in
general, they have also allowed us to reveal more fi ne-grained genre dis-
tinctions between the two languages. The genres covered in FLOB/LCMC
and their proportions are given in Table 1.1. Another corpus of the same
design, the Freiburg-Brown corpus (i.e. Frown, see Hundt et al. 1999),
which represents written American English in the early 1990s, is also used
in some parts of our research.
Introduction 9
Table 1.1 Genres Covered in FLOB, Frown and LCMC
Category Genre Samples Proportion (%)
A News reportage 44 8.8
B News editorials 27 5.4
C News reviews 17 3.4
D Religious writing 17 3.4
E Skills/trades/hobbies 38 7.6
F Popular lore 44 8.8
G Biographies and essays 77 15.4
H Reports/official documents 30 6
J Academic prose 80 16
K General fiction 29 5.8
L Mystery/detective fiction 24 4.8
M Science fiction 6 1.2
N Adventure fiction 29 5.8
P Romantic fiction 29 5.8
R Humour 9 1.8
Total 500 100
Progressive (BE+V-ing)
Simplex viewpoints Perfect (HAVE+V-en)
Simple (finite verb)
Viewpoint Aspect
Frequency
per 10k
Average Category Words (10k) Frequency words %
Note: A = news reportage; B = news editorials; C = news reviews; D = religious writing; E = skills/
trades/hobbies; F = popular lore; G = biographies and essays; H = reports/official documents;
J = academic prose; K = general fiction; L = mystery/detective fiction; M = science fiction;
N = adventure fiction; P = romantic fiction; R = humour.
Aspect Marking in English and Chinese 17
corpus
FLOB
7500
Frown
LCMC
Frequency
5000
2500
0
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
& &
%
$ $
%
5.0
%
& & $
& $ $
%
&
$ $
% % % $ &
$
2.5
& % %
&
0.0
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
Figure 2.3 Distribution of aspect markers (%).
$ $
&
$ % &
% $
% %
corpus
10 $ FLOB
% Frown
% $ & %
& LCMC
8 & & &
$
& &
Percent
6 %
$ %
$
4 & $ %
$
%
$ %
$ % %
$ $ &
$
2 & &
% %
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
140
120
Frequency per 10K words
100
80
Corpus
60
FLOB
40 Frown
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
15 &
corpus
$ FLOB
&
% Frown
& LCMC
& %
%
& %
10
$ $ $ &
Percent
$ %
$ % & $
%
& $ & %
% $
5 $
% $ $
$ %
& %
%
$ $ % $
& & %
& %
&
&
0 &
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
100
80
Frequency per 10K words
60
40
Corpus
20
FLOB
0 Frown
A B C D E F G H J K L M N P R
Text type
2.3 CONCLUSIONS
(2) a. I stood and read the menu for a while, discovering it served mainly
hamburgers. (FLOB: P)
b. < . . . > he hadn’t worked in six months. (FLOB: K)
In (4), He read a book and She combed her hair are accomplishments which
can take an in-adverbial felicitously. But when a for-adverbial is inserted,
the inherent fi nal endpoint of a core-level accomplishment is removed and
the situation is coerced into a temporally bounded activity at the clause
level. That accounts for why a situation can be compatible with both in-
and for-adverbials at the clause level.
In-adverbials are not monolithic either. They can refer to the time span
not later than the end of a specified period of time (referred to as ‘period’
hereafter, e.g. 5a), the time span after the period has passed, i.e. relative
future (referred to as ‘future’ hereafter, e.g. 5b), or the scope of the specified
period (referred to as ‘scope’ hereafter, e.g. 5c). Table 3.2 shows the distri-
bution of in-adverbials across the three meaning categories in FLOB and
BNCdemo. It can be seen that in written English their distribution is bal-
anced whereas in spoken English the future category is predominant while
the scope usage is rare. The distribution pattern in Frown (39%, 30%, and
28 Corpus-Based Contrastive Studies of English and Chinese
31% for the three categories respectively) is very similar to that in FLOB.
Like for-adverbials, in-adverbials are also typically found after the verb in
a clause (over 80% in FLOB and 95% in BNCdemo). The three meaning
categories are equally possible for an in-adverbial in either pre-verbal or
post-verbal position in written English. The difference in the distribution of
meaning categories of in-adverbials across positions in writing is not statis-
tically significant (with a Fisher’s Exact Test score of 0.682 for 2 degrees of
freedom and a significance level of 0.651). In contrast, the future meaning
is predominant in both positions (94% and 79% respectively) in spoken
English, though post-verbal in-adverbials are also frequently (18% of the
time) found to express a period meaning (see Figure 3.2). The difference
in the distribution of meaning categories of in-adverbials across positions
in speech is marginally significant statistically (with a Fisher’s Exact Test
score of 6.114 for 2 degrees of freedom and a significance level of 0.042).
(5) a. Lizzie was on her feet and had it wrenched open in an instant.
(FLOB: P)
b. I’ll tell you why in a minute—but let’s order fi rst. (FLOB: N)
c. It was the area’s second clash in three days. (FLOB: A)
(7) a. Outside of the untraditional cities, I can not really recall seeing
one unclean individual in three months. (FLOB: E)
b. I saw Achim Freyer’s Iphigénie in Amsterdam the other day, and
that had more good visual ideas in the fi rst 10 minutes than I’ve
seen in this house for a year. (FLOB: A)
30
Frequency
20
Meaning category
10
future
period
0 scope
LOB FLOB Brow n Frow n
Corpus
When it expresses a scope meaning, not only can an atelic situation co-
occur with an in-adverbial (e.g. work in 6a), but a telic verb can co-occur
with a for-adverbial as well (e.g. see in 7b). In this context, the two types of
temporal expressions are interchangeable.4 It is important to note, however,
that while in-adverbials co-occurring with a negative form are more likely
to express a scope meaning (about two thirds of total instances), they can
express a period meaning and function as a telicity test, as shown in (9).
(9) a. With a smile the reviewer replied that he seldom came across a
book whose heart he could not tear out in an hour. (FLOB: G)
b. Rome was not built in a day: nor can strongholds of tradition rein-
forced with stubborn religious conviction, often biased and preju-
diced, be broken down in a moment. (LOB: D)
(11) a. And then the next little breath he’s off to America and you don’t
see him for four weeks. (BNC: KCT)
b. You don’t have to play for a fortnight, do you? (BNC: KD0)
c. You know, I can’t stay for a week in silence. (BNC: KBH)
d. I don’t want to go over there and sit for a year just waiting for the
phone to ring. (FLOB: A)
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
under Thérèse's: Her heart is as sadly rent as her gown. The picture was
entitled: Honeymoon in a Cemetery. Thérèse forced herself to smile; she
praised the drawing, which, despite its buffoonery, revealed the hand of the
master, and she made no reflection on the unfortunate choice of a subject. She
made a mistake: she would have done better to demand at the outset that
Laurent should not let his hilarity run about at random in long boots. She
allowed him to tread on her toes because she was still afraid that he might be ill
and might be seized with delirium in the midst of his dismal jesting.
Two or three other incidents of this nature having put her on her guard, she
began to wonder whether the unexciting, regular life which she sought to give
her friend was the regimen best adapted to that exceptional nature. She had
said to him:
"Perhaps you will be bored sometimes; but ennui is a welcome rest from
vertigo, and when your mental health has fully returned, you will be amused by
trifles and will know what real cheerfulness is."
But matters turned out differently. Laurent did not admit his ennui, but it was
impossible for him to endure it, and he vented it in strange and bitter caprices.
He lived a life of constant ups and downs. Abrupt transitions from reverie to wild
excitement, and from absolute indifference to noisy extravagance, became with
him a normal condition, and he could not live without them. The happiness that
he had found so delicious for a few days, began to irritate him like the sight of
the sea during a flat calm.
"You are lucky," he said to Thérèse, "to wake every morning with your heart
in the same place. You see, I lose mine while I am asleep. It is like the night-cap
my nurse used to put on my head when I was a baby; sometimes she found it at
my feet and sometimes on the floor."
Thérèse said to herself that it was impossible that serenity could come to
that troubled soul all at once, and that it must become accustomed to it by
degrees. To that end, he must not be prevented from returning sometimes to
active life; but how could she arrange it so that activity would not be a blemish,
a deadly blow dealt at their ideal? Thérèse could not be jealous of the
mistresses Laurent had had previously; but she could not understand how she
could kiss his brow on the morrow of a debauch. She must, therefore, since the
work, which he had resumed with great ardor, excited him instead of calming
him, seek with him a vent for that surplus energy. The natural vent would have
been the enthusiasm of love; but that was an additional source of excitement,
after which Laurent would fain have scaled the third heaven; lacking the
strength for that, he turned his eyes in the direction of hell, and his brain,
sometimes his very face, received a diabolical reflection therefrom.
Thérèse studied his tastes and his caprices, and was surprised to find them
easy to satisfy. Laurent was greedy of diversion and of surprises; it was not
necessary to take him among scenes of enchantment that could never exist in
real life; it was enough to take him no matter where, and provide some
amusement for him which he did not expect. If, instead of giving him a dinner at
home, Thérèse informed him, putting on her hat the while, that they were to dine
together at a restaurant, and if she suddenly asked him to take her to an entirely
different sort of play from the one to which she had previously asked him to take
her, he was overjoyed by that unexpected diversion and took the keenest
pleasure in it; whereas, if they simply carried out a plan marked out beforehand,
he was certain to feel an insurmountable distaste for it and a disposition to
sneer at everything. So Thérèse treated him as a convalescent child, to whom
one refuses nothing, and she chose to pay no heed to the resultant
inconveniences to which she was subjected.
The first and most serious was the danger of compromising her reputation.
She was commonly said to be, and known to be, virtuous. Everybody was not
convinced that she had never had any other lover than Laurent; indeed, some
person having reported that she had been seen in Italy years before with the
Comte de ——, who had a wife in America, she was supposed to have been
kept by the man whom she had actually married, and we have seen that
Thérèse preferred to endure that blot upon her fame rather than engage in a
scandalous contest with the miserable wretch whom she had loved; but every
one was agreed in considering her a prudent and sensible woman.
"She keeps up appearances," people said; "there is never any rivalry or
scandal about her; all her friends respect her and speak well of her. She is a
clever woman, and seeks nothing more than to pass unnoticed; which fact adds
to her merit."
When she was seen away from home, on Laurent's arm, people began to be
surprised, and the blame was all the more severe because she had kept clear of
it so long. Laurent's talent was highly esteemed by artists generally, but he had
very few real friends among them. They took it ill of him that he played the
gentleman with fashionable young men of another class, and, on the other
hand, his friends in that other class could not understand his conversion and did
not believe in it. So that Thérèse's fond and devoted love was regarded as a
frenzied caprice. Would a chaste woman have chosen for her lover, in
preference to all the serious men of her acquaintance, the only one who had led
a dissolute life with all the vilest harlots in Paris? And, in the eyes of those who
did not choose to condemn Thérèse, Laurent's violent passion seemed to be
simply a successful piece of lechery, of which he was shrewd enough to shake
himself clear when he was weary of it.
Thus on all sides Mademoiselle Jacques lost caste on account of the choice
which she had made and which she seemed desirous to advertise.
Such, unquestionably, was not Thérèse's purpose; but with Laurent,
although he had resolved to encompass her with respect, it was hardly possible
to conceal her mode of life. He could not renounce the outside world, and she
must either let him return thither alone to his destruction or go with him to
preserve him from destruction. He was accustomed to see the crowd and to be
seen by it. When he had lived in retirement a single day, he fancied that he had
fallen into a cellar, and shouted lustily for gas and sunlight.
In addition to this loss of consideration, Thérèse was called upon to make
another sacrifice: she was no longer sure of her footing pecuniarily. Hitherto she
had earned enough money by her work to live comfortably, but only by
observing strict regularity in her habits, by looking carefully after her expenses,
and by working faithfully and regularly. Laurent's passion for the unexpected
soon straitened her. She concealed her position from him, being unwilling to
refuse to sacrifice to him that priceless time which constitutes the larger part of
the artist's capital.
But all this was simply the frame of a much gloomier picture, over which
Thérèse threw a veil so thick that no one suspected her unhappiness, and her
friends, scandalized or distressed by her situation, held aloof from her, saying:
"She is intoxicated. Let us wait until she opens her eyes; that will come very
soon."
It had already come. Thérèse acquired more and more thoroughly every day
the sad certainty that Laurent no longer loved her, or loved her so little that there
was no further hope of happiness, either for him or for her, in their union. It was
in Italy that they both became absolutely certain of the fact, and we are now to
describe their journey thither.
VI
Laurent had long wanted to see Italy; it had been his dream from childhood,
and the unhoped-for sale of certain of his paintings made it possible at last for
him to realize that dream. He offered to take Thérèse, proudly displaying his
little fortune, and swearing by all he held dear that, if she would not go with him,
he would abandon the trip. Thérèse knew well that he would not abandon it
without regret and without bitterly reproaching her. So she exerted her utmost
ingenuity to obtain some money herself. She succeeded by pledging her future
work; and they set out late in the autumn.
Laurent had formed some very erroneous ideas concerning Italy, and
expected to find spring in December as soon as he caught sight of the
Mediterranean. He had to acknowledge his error, and to suffer from a very
sharp attack of frosty weather on the trip from Marseille to Genoa. Genoa
pleased him immensely, and as there were many pictures to see there, as it was
the principal object of the journey so far as he was concerned, he readily agreed
to stay there one or two months, and hired furnished apartments.
After a week, Laurent had seen everything, and Thérèse was just beginning
to settle down to painting; for it should be said here that she was obliged to
work. In order to obtain a few thousand-franc notes, she had made an
agreement with a dealer in pictures to bring him copies of several unpublished
portraits, which he proposed to have engraved. It was not an unpleasant task;
the dealer, being a man of taste, had specified a number of portraits by Van
Dyck, one at Genoa, one at Florence, etc. The copying of that master required a
special gift, by virtue of which Thérèse had developed her own talent and
earned a livelihood before she undertook to paint portraits on her own account;
but she must needs begin by obtaining permission from the owners of those
masterpieces; and, although she exerted herself to the utmost, a whole week
passed before she was able to begin to copy the portrait at Genoa.
Laurent felt in nowise disposed to copy anything under heaven. His
individuality was too pronounced and too fiery for that sort of work. He was
benefited in other ways by the sight of great works. That was his right. And yet,
many a great master, having so excellent an opportunity, would have been likely
to take advantage of it. Laurent was not yet twenty-five years of age, and might
still learn. That was Thérèse's opinion, who also saw an opportunity for him to
increase his pecuniary resources. If he would have condescended to copy a
Titian,—who was his favorite among the masters,—there was no doubt that the
same dealer who had commissioned Thérèse would have bought it or found a
purchaser for it. Laurent considered that an absurd idea. So long as he had
money in his pocket, he could not conceive how one could descend from the
lofty realms of art so far as to think of gain. He left Thérèse absorbed in
contemplation of her model, joking her a little in anticipation on the Van Dyck
she was going to paint, and trying to dishearten her with the terrible task she
had the courage to undertake. Then he roamed about the city, sorely perplexed
as to how he should employ the six weeks which Thérèse had asked for the
completion of her work.
Certainly, she had no time to spare with the short, dark, December days, and
facilities for working not to be compared with those of her own studio in Paris: a
wretched light, an enormous room heated very slightly or not at all, and swarms
of chattering tourists who, on the pretext of looking at her work, planted
themselves in front of her, or annoyed her with their absurd or impertinent
reflections. Ill with a severe cold, depressed, and, above all, alarmed by the
traces of ennui which she spied in Laurent's eyes, she returned to their
apartments at night to find him out of temper, or to wait for him until hunger
drove him home. Two days did not pass without his reproaching her for having
accepted a degrading task, and urging her to abandon it. Had not he money
enough for both, and why should his mistress refuse to share it with him?
Thérèse held firm; she knew that money would not last in Laurent's hands,
and that he very likely would not have enough to return home when he was tired
of Italy. She begged him to let her work, and to work himself according to his
own ideas, but as every artist can and should work when he has his future to
build.
He agreed that she was right, and resolved to set to work. He unpacked his
boxes, found a studio, and made several sketches; but, whether because of the
change of air and of habits, or because of the too recent sight of so many chefs-
d'œuvres which had moved him deeply and which he required time to digest, he
was conscious of a temporary impotence, and fell into one of those fits of the
blues which he could not throw off alone. It would have required some
excitement coming from without, superb music descending from the ceiling, an
Arabian steed coming through the key-hole, an unfamiliar literary masterpiece at
his hand, or, still better, a naval engagement in the harbor of Genoa, an
earthquake, or any other exciting event, pleasurable or terrible, which would
take him out of himself, and under the spell of which he would feel lifted up and
revivified.
Suddenly, amid his vague and confused aspirations, an evil idea sought him
out in spite of himself.
"When I think," he reflected, "that formerly" (that was the way he referred to
the time when he did not love Thérèse) "the slightest pleasure was enough to
restore me to life! I have to-day many things of which I used to dream—money,
that is to say, six months of leisure and liberty, Italy under my feet, the sea at my
door, a mistress as loving as a mother, and at the same time a serious and
intelligent friend; and all these are not enough to rekindle my energy! Whose
fault is it? Not mine, surely. I was not spoiled, and formerly it did not require so
much to divert me. When I think that the lightest wine used to go to my head as
quickly as the most generous vintage; that any saucy minx, with a provoking
glance and a problematical costume, was enough to raise my spirits and to
persuade me that such a conquest made me like one of the heroes of the
Regency! Did I need an ideal creature like Thérèse? How in the devil did I ever
persuade myself that both moral and physical beauty were necessary to me in
love? I used to be able to content myself with the least; therefore the most was
certain to crush me, since better is the enemy of good. And then, too, is there
such a thing as true beauty to the passions? The true is that which pleases.
That with which one is sated is as if it had never been. And then there is the
pleasure of changing, and therein, perhaps, lies the whole secret of life. To
change is to renew one's self; to be able to change is to be free. Is the artist
born to be a slave, and is it not slavery to remain faithful, or simply to pledge
one's faith?"
Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded by these old sophistries, always
new to minds that are adrift. He soon felt that he must express them to some
one, and that some one was Thérèse. So much the worse for her, since Laurent
saw no one else.
The evening conversation always began in about the same way:
"What a frightfully stupid place this is!"
One evening, he added:
"It must be a ghastly bore to be in a picture. I shouldn't like to be that model
you are copying. That poor lovely countess in the black and gold dress, who has
been hanging there two hundred years, must have damned herself in heaven—
if her soft eyes didn't damn her here—to see her image buried in this dismal
country."
"And yet," Thérèse replied, "she still has the privilege of beauty, the triumph
which survives death and which the hand of a master perpetuates. Although she
has crumbled to dust in her grave, she still has lovers; every day I see young
men, utterly insensible to the merits of the painting, stand in ecstatic
contemplation before that beauty which seems to breathe and smile with
triumphant tranquillity."
"She resembles you, Thérèse, do you know it? She has a little of the sphinx,
and I am not surprised at your admiration of her mysterious smile. They say that
artists always create after their own nature; it was perfectly natural that you
should select Van Dyck's portraits for your apprenticeship. He made women tall
and slender and elegant and proud, like your figure."
"You have reached the stage of compliment! Stop there, for I know that
mockery will come next."
"No, I am in no mood for jesting. You know well enough that I no longer jest.
With you one must take everything seriously, and I follow the prescription. I
simply have one depressing remark to make. It is that your dead and gone
countess must be tired of being beautiful always in the same way.—An idea,
Thérèse! a fantastic vision suggested by what you said just now. Listen."
A FANTASTIC VISION.
"A young man, who presumably had some
idea of sculpture, conceived a passion for a
marble statue on a tomb. He went mad over
it, and one day the poor devil raised the
stone to see what was left of that lovely
creature in the sarcophagus."
"A young man, who presumably had some idea of sculpture, conceived a
passion for a marble statue on a tomb. He went mad over it, and one day the
poor devil raised the stone to see what was left of that lovely creature in the
sarcophagus. He found there—what he was certain to find there, the idiot!—a
mummy! Thereupon, his reason returned, and he kissed the mummy, saying: 'I
love you better so; at least, you are something that has lived, while I was
enamored of a stone that has never been aware of its own existence.'"
"I don't understand," said Thérèse.
"Nor do I; but it may be that in love the statue is what one builds in his head,
and the mummy what he takes into his heart."
Another day, he sketched Thérèse, in a pensive, melancholy attitude, in an
album which she then looked through, finding there a dozen sketches of women
whose insolent attitudes and shameless expressions made her blush. They
were phantoms of the past which had passed through Laurent's memory, and
had clung to those white pages, perhaps, in spite of him. Thérèse, without a
word, tore out the leaf upon which she was given a place in that vile company,
threw it into the fire, closed the album, and placed it on the table; then she sat
down by the fire, put her foot on the andiron, and attempted to talk of something
else.
Laurent did not reply, but said to her:
"You are too proud, my dear! If you had burned all the leaves that offended
you and left only your own image in the album, I should have understood, and I
should have said: 'You do well;' but to withdraw and leave the others there,
signifies that you will never dispute possession of me with any one."
"I disputed possession of you with debauchery," Thérèse replied; "I shall
never do so much with any of those creatures."
"Well, that is pride, I say again; it is not love. Now, I disputed possession of
you with Virtue, and I would do the same with any one of her monks."
"Why should you? Aren't you tired of loving the statue? is not the mummy in
your heart?"
"Ah! you have a marvellous memory! Great God! what does a word amount
to? Every one interprets it as he pleases. An innocent man may be hanged for a
word. I see that I must be careful what I say with you; perhaps the most prudent
way would be never to talk together."
"Mon Dieu! have we reached that point?" said Thérèse, bursting into tears.
They had reached that point. To no purpose did Laurent melt with her tears
and beg her pardon for having caused them to flow: the trouble broke out afresh
the next day.
"What do you suppose will become of me in this detestable city?" he said to
her. "You want me to work; I have tried it and I can't do it. I was not born like
you, with a little steel spring in my brain, so that I have only to press the button
to set the will at work. I am a creator! Great or small, weak or powerful, a creator
is a machine which obeys nobody and which God sets in motion, when it seems
good to Him, with His breath or with the passing breeze. I am incapable of doing
anything whatsoever when I am bored, or when I do not like my surroundings."
"How is it possible for an intellectual man to be bored," said Thérèse, "unless
he is in a dungeon, deprived of light and air? Are there no beautiful things to see
in this city which enchanted you so the first day, no interesting excursions to
take in the neighborhood, no good book to consult, no intelligent people to talk
with?"
"I have been buried in beautiful things up to my eyes; I don't like to drive
alone; the best books irritate me when they tell me what I am not in the mood to
believe. As for making acquaintances—I have letters of recommendation which
you know very well that I can't use!"
"No, I don't know it; why not?"
"Because my friends in society naturally gave me letters to society people
here; but society people don't live shut up within four walls, without ever thinking
of amusing themselves; and as you are not in society, Thérèse, you can't go
with me, so I should have to go alone!"
"Why not in the day-time, as I have to work all day in that old palace?"
"In the day-time, people make calls, and form plans for the evening. The
evening is the time for amusement in all countries; don't you know that?"
"Very well, go out sometimes in the evening, since it must be so: go to balls
and conversazioni. Don't gamble, that is all I ask."
"And that is just what I cannot promise. In society, one must devote one's
self to play or to the ladies."
"So that all men in society either ruin themselves at play, or are involved in
love-affairs?"
"Those who don't do one or the other are terribly bored in society, or bore
other people terribly. I am not a salon conversationalist myself. I am not yet so
hollow that I can procure a hearing without saying anything. Tell me, Thérèse,
do you want me to take a plunge into society at our risk?"
"Not yet," said Thérèse; "be patient a little longer. Alas! I was not prepared to
lose you so soon!"
The sorrowful accent and heart-broken glance irritated Laurent more than
usual.
"You know," he said, "that you always bring me around to your wishes with
the slightest complaint, and you abuse your power, my poor Thérèse. Don't you
think you will be sorry for it some day, when you find me ill and exasperated?"
"I am sorry for it already, since I weary you," she replied. "So do what you
choose!"
"Then you abandon me to my fate? Are you already weary of the struggle?
Look you, my dear, it is you who no longer love me!"
"From the tone in which you say that, it seems to me that you wish that it
should be so!"
He answered no, but, a moment later, his every word said yes. Thérèse was
too serious, too proud, too modest. She was unwilling to descend with him from
the heights of the empyrean. A hasty word seemed to her an insult, a trivial
reminiscence incurred her censure. She was sober in everything, and had no
comprehension of capricious appetites, of extravagant fancies. She was the
better of the two, unquestionably, and if compliments were what she must have,
he was ready with them; but was it a matter of compliments between them?
Was not the important thing to devise some means of living together? Formerly,
she was more cheerfully inclined, she had been coquettish with him, and she
was no longer willing to be; now, she was like a sick bird on its perch, with
feathers rumpled, head between its shoulders, and lifeless eye. Her pale, dismal
face was enough to frighten one sometimes. In that huge, dark room, made
depressing by the remains of former splendor, she produced the effect of a
ghost upon him. At times, he was really afraid of her. Could she not fill that
gloomy void with strange songs and joyous peals of laughter?
"Come; what shall we do to shake off this deathly chill that freezes one's
shoulders? Sit down at the piano and play me a waltz. I will waltz all by myself.
Do you know how to waltz? I'll wager that you don't. You don't know anything
that isn't lugubrious!"
"Come," said Thérèse, rising, "let us leave this place at once, let come what
may! You will go mad here. It may be worse elsewhere; but I will go through with
my task to the end."
At that, Laurent lost his temper. So it was a task that she had imposed on
herself? So she was simply performing a duty in cold blood? Perhaps she had
taken a vow to the Virgin to consecrate her lover to her! All that she lacked now
was to turn nun!
He took his hat with that air of supreme disdain and of a definitive rupture of
relations which was natural to him. He went out without saying where he was
going. It was ten o'clock at night. Thérèse passed the night in horrible distress
of mind. He returned at daylight, and locked himself into his room, closing the
doors noisily. She dared not show herself for fear of irritating him, and went
softly to her own room. It was the first time that they had gone to sleep without a
word of affection or pardon.
The next day, instead of returning to her work, she packed her boxes and
made all her preparations for departure. He woke at three in the afternoon, and
asked her laughingly what she was thinking about. He had recovered his
senses, and made up his mind what to do. He had walked alone by the
seashore during the night; he had reflected, and had become calm once more.
"That great, roaring, monotonous sea irritated me," he said, gaily. "First of all,
I wrote some poetry. I compared myself to it. I was tempted to throw myself into
its greenish bosom! Then it seemed to me tiresome and absurd on the part of
the waves to be forever complaining because there are cliffs along the shore. If
they are not strong enough to destroy them, let them hold their peace! Let them
do like me, who do not propose to complain any more. See how charming I am
this morning; I have determined to work, I shall remain here. I have shaved with
great care. Kiss me, Thérèse, and let us not refer again to that idiotic last
evening. Unpack these trunks and take them away quickly! don't let me see
them again! They seem like a reproach, and I no longer deserve it."
There was a long interval between this off-hand way of making peace with
himself and the time when an anxious glance from Thérèse was enough to
make him bend both knees, and yet it was no more than three months.
Their thoughts were diverted by a surprise. Monsieur Palmer, who had
arrived in Genoa that morning, came to ask them to dine with him. Laurent was
enchanted by this diversion. Although he was always cold in his manners
toward other men, he leaped on the American's neck, saying that he was sent
by Heaven. Palmer was more surprised than flattered by this cordial welcome. A
single glance at Thérèse had sufficed to show him that it was not the effusion of
happiness. However, Laurent said nothing of his ennui, and Thérèse was
surprised to hear him praise the city and the country. He even declared that the
women were charming. How did he know them?
At eight o'clock, he called for his overcoat and went out. Palmer would have
taken his leave at the same time.
"Why don't you stay a little longer with Thérèse?" said Laurent. "It will please
her. We are altogether alone here. I am going out for an hour. Wait till I return
before you have your tea."
At eleven, Laurent had not returned. Thérèse was very much depressed.
She made vain efforts to conceal her despair. She was no longer anxious
simply, she felt that she was lost. Palmer saw it all, and pretended to see
nothing; he talked constantly to her to try to distract her thoughts; but, as
Laurent did not come, and it was not proper to wait for him after midnight, he
took his leave after pressing Thérèse's hand. Involuntarily he told her by that
pressure that he was not deceived by her courage, and that he realized the
extent of her disaster.
Laurent arrived at that moment, and saw Thérèse's emotion. He was no
sooner alone with her, than he began to jest with her in a tone which affected
not to descend to jealousy.
"Come," said she, "do not impose unnecessary pain upon me. Do you think
that Palmer is paying court to me? Let us go, I have already suggested it."
"No, my dear, I am not so absurd as that. Now that you have somebody for
company, and allow me to go out a little on my own account, everything is all
right, and I feel just in the mood to work."
"God grant it!" said Thérèse. "I will do whatever you wish; but, if you rejoice
because I have somebody to talk with, have the good taste not to refer to it as
you did just now; for I cannot stand it."
"What the devil are you angry about now? what did I say that hurt you so,
pray tell me? You are becoming far too sensitive and suspicious, my dear friend!
What harm would be done if the excellent Palmer should fall in love with you?"
"It would be very wrong in you to leave me alone with him, if you think what
you say."
"Ah! it would be wrong—to expose you to danger? You see that there is
danger, according to your own story, and that I was not mistaken!"
"Very good! then let us pass our evenings together and receive no one. I am
perfectly content. Is it a bargain?"
"You are very good, my dear Thérèse. Forgive me. I will stay with you, and
we will see whomever you choose; that will be the best and pleasantest
arrangement."
In truth, Laurent seemed to have come to his senses. He began a serious
study in his studio, and invited Thérèse to come to see it. Several days passed
without a storm. Palmer had not reappeared. But Laurent soon wearied of that
regular life and went in search of him, reproaching him for his desertion of his
friends. No sooner did he come to pass the evening with them than Laurent
invented a pretext for going out, and remained away until midnight.
One week passed in this way, then another. Laurent gave Thérèse one
evening out of three or four, and such an evening! she would have preferred
solitude.
Where did he go? She never knew. He did not appear in society: the damp,
cold weather precluded the idea that he went on the water for pleasure.
However, he often said that he had been on a boat, and his clothes smelt of tar.
He was learning to row, taking lessons of a fisherman in the harbor. He
pretended that the fatigue calmed the excitement of his nerves, and put him in
good condition for the next day's labor. Thérèse no longer dared to go to his
studio. He seemed annoyed when she expressed a wish to see his work. He did
not want her reflections when he was working out his own idea, nor did he wish
to have her come there and say nothing, which would make him feel as if she
were inclined to find fault. She was not to see his work until he deemed it worthy
to be seen. Formerly, he never began anything without explaining his idea to
her; now, he treated her like the public.
Two or three times he passed the whole night abroad. Thérèse did not
become accustomed to the anxiety these prolonged absences caused her. She
would have exasperated him by giving any sign that she noticed them; but, as
may be imagined, she watched him and tried to learn the truth. It was
impossible for her to follow him herself at night in a city full of sailors and
adventurers of all nations. Not for anything in the world would she have stooped
to have him followed by any one. She stole noiselessly into his room and looked
at him as he lay asleep. He seemed utterly exhausted. Perhaps he had, in
reality, undertaken a desperate struggle against himself, to deaden by physical
exercise the excessive activity of his thought.
One night she noticed that his clothes were muddy and torn, as if he had
actually been in a fight, or as if he had had a fall. Alarmed beyond measure, she
approached him, and discovered blood on his pillow; he had a slight wound on
the forehead. He was sleeping so soundly that she thought that she could,
without rousing him, partly uncover his breast to see if there was any other
wound; but he woke, and flew into a rage which was the coup de grâce to her.
She tried to fly, but he detained her by force, put on a dressing-gown, locked the
door, and then, striding excitedly up and down the room which was dimly lighted
by a small night-lamp, he poured forth at last all the suffering that was heaped
up in his heart.
"Enough of this," he said; "let us be frank with each other. We no longer love
each other, we have never loved each other! We have deceived each other; you
meant to take a lover; perhaps I was not the first nor the second, but no matter!
you wanted a servant, a slave; you thought that my unhappy disposition, my
debts, my ennui, my weariness of a life of debauchery, my illusions concerning
true love, would put me at your mercy, and that I could never recover
possession of myself. To carry such an enterprise to a successful issue, you
needed to have a happier disposition yourself, and more patience, more
flexibility, and, above all, more spirit! You have no spirit at all, Thérèse, be it said
without offence. You are all of a piece, monotonous, pig-headed, and
excessively vain of your pretended moderation, which is simply the philosophy
of short-sighted people with limited faculties. As for myself, I am a madman,
fickle, ungrateful, whatever you choose; but I am sincere, I am no selfish
schemer; I give myself, heart and soul, without reservation: that is why I resume
possession of myself in the same way. My moral liberty is a sacred thing, and I
allow no one to seize it. I simply entrusted it, not gave it to you; it was for you to
make a good use of it and to succeed in making me happy. Oh! do not try to say
that you did not want me! I know all about these tricks of modesty and these
evolutions of the female conscience. On the day that you yielded to me, I
realized that you thought you had conquered me, and that all that feigned
resistance, those tears of distress, and that constant pardoning of my temerity
were simply the old commonplace way of throwing a line, and luring the poor
fish, dazzled by the artificial fly, to nibble at the hook. I deceived you, Thérèse,
by pretending to be deceived by that fly; it was my privilege. You wished
adoration: I lavished it upon you without effort and without hypocrisy; you are
beautiful, and I desired you! But a woman is only a woman, and the lowest of
them all affords us as much pleasure as the greatest queen. You were simple
enough not to know it, and now you must depend upon yourself. You must
understand that monotony does not suit me, you must leave me to my instincts,
which are not always sublime, but which I cannot destroy without destroying
myself with them. Where is the harm, and why should we tear our hair? We
have been partners, and we separate, that is the whole of it. There is no need of
our hating and abusing each other just for that. Avenge yourself by granting the
prayers of the excellent Palmer, who is languishing for love of you; I shall rejoice
in his joy, and we three will continue to be the best friends in the world. You will
recover your charms of other days, which you have lost, and the brilliancy of
your lovely eyes, which are growing haggard and dull by dint of spying upon my
acts. I shall become once more the jolly fellow that I used to be, and we will
forget this nightmare that we are passing through together. Is it a bargain? You
don't answer. Do you prefer hatred? Beware! I have never hated, but I can learn
how; I learn quickly, you know! See, I clinched to-night with a drunken sailor
twice as tall and strong as I; I thrashed him soundly, and received only a
scratch. Beware lest I prove to be as strong mentally as physically on occasion,
and lest, in a contest of hatred and vengeance, I crush the devil in person
without leaving one of my hairs in his claws!"
Laurent, pale-faced and bitter, by turns ironical and frantic, with his hair in
disorder, his shirt torn, and his forehead smeared with blood, was so ghastly to
look at and to hear, that Thérèse felt all her love change into disgust. She was in
such despair at that moment that it did not occur to her to be afraid. Silent and
motionless in the chair in which she had seated herself, she allowed this torrent
of blasphemous words to roll forth unchecked, and, saying to herself that that
madman was quite capable of killing her, she awaited with frigid disdain and
absolute indifference the climax of his frenzy.
He held his peace when he no longer had the strength to speak. Thereupon,
she rose and left the room, without answering him by a single syllable, without
casting a single glance at him.
VII
Laurent was not so contemptible as his words implied; he did not really
believe a syllable of all the atrocious things he said to Thérèse during that
horrible night. He believed them at the moment, or, rather, he spoke without
heeding what he said. He remembered nothing of it after sleeping upon it, and if
he had been reminded of it, would have denied every word.
But one fact was undeniably true, that he was weary, for the moment, of
dignified love, and craved, with his whole heart, the degrading excitements of
the past. It was his punishment for following the evil path he had chosen early in
life,—a very harsh punishment, no doubt, of which we can readily imagine that
he complained bitterly, since he had not sinned with premeditation, but had
plunged laughingly into an abyss from which he supposed that he could easily
escape when he chose. But love is regulated by a code which seems to rest,
like all social codes, upon that terrible formula: No one is supposed to be
ignorant of the law! So much the worse for those who are ignorant of it! Let the
child go within reach of the claws of the panther, thinking to pat it: the panther
will make no allowance for such ignorance; it will devour the child because it is
not in its nature to spare him. And so with poison, with the lightning and with
vice, blind agents of the fatal law which man must study, or take the
consequences.
On the morrow of that explosion, naught remained in Laurent's memory save
a vague idea that he had had a decisive explanation with Thérèse, and that she
had seemed resigned.
"Perhaps everything is for the best," he thought, finding her as calm as when
he had parted from her.
And yet he was terrified by her pallor.
"That is nothing," she said, tranquilly; "this cold tires me a good deal, but it is
nothing more than a cold. It will have to run its course."
"Well, Thérèse," he said, "what is the present state of our relations? Have
you reflected? It is for you to decide. Are we to part in anger, or remain on the
footing of friendship as formerly?"
"I am not angry," she replied; "let us remain friends. Remain here, if you
please. I propose to finish my work and return to France in about a fortnight."
"But should I not go and live in some other house for the next fortnight?
aren't you afraid that people will talk?"
"Do whatever you think best. We have our own apartments here, entirely
independent of each other; we use nothing but the salon in common; I have no
use for it, and I give it up to you."
"No: on the other hand, I beg you to keep it. You will not hear me go out and
come in; I will never put my foot inside it if you forbid me."
"I forbid you nothing," replied Thérèse, "unless it be to think for a single
instant that your mistress can forgive you. As for your friend, she is superior to a
certain order of disappointment. She hopes that she can still be useful to you,
and you will always find her when you need any proof of friendship."
She offered him her hand, and went away to her work. Laurent did not
understand her. Such perfect self-control was something which he could not
comprehend, unfamiliar as he was with passive courage and silent resolution.
He believed that she expected to resume her influence over him, and that she
proposed to bring him back to love through friendship. He promised to yield to
no attack of weakness, and, in order to be more certain of himself, he resolved
to call some one to witness the fact of the rupture. He went to Palmer, confided
to him the wretched story of his love, and added:
"If you love Thérèse, as I think you do, my dear friend, make Thérèse love
you. I cannot be jealous of you, far from it. As I have made her unhappy
enough, and as I am convinced that you will be exceedingly kind to her, you will
relieve me of a subject of remorse which I am most anxious not to retain."
Laurent was surprised that Palmer made no reply.
"Do I offend you by speaking as I do?" he said. "Such is not my purpose. I
entertain friendship and esteem for you, yes, and respect, if you choose. If you
blame my conduct in this matter, tell me so; that will be preferable to this air of
indifference or disdain."
"I am indifferent neither to Thérèse's sorrows nor to yours," replied Palmer.
"But I spare you advice or reproaches which come too late. I believed that you
were made for each other; I am persuaded, now, that the greatest, yes, the only
happiness that you can confer upon each other is to part. As to my personal
feelings for Thérèse, I do not admit your right to question me, and as for those
sentiments which, in your judgment, I might succeed in arousing in her, you no
longer have the right, after what you have said, to express such a supposition in
my presence, much less in hers."
"That is true," rejoined Laurent, nonchalantly, "and I understand very well
what it means. I see that I shall be in the way here now, and I think that I shall
do as well to leave Genoa, in order not to embarrass any one."
He did, in fact, carry out his threat, after a very cold farewell to Thérèse, and
went straight to Florence, with the intention of plunging into society or work,
according to his caprice. It was exceedingly pleasant to him to say to himself:
"I will do whatever comes into my head, and there will be no one to suffer
and be anxious about me. It is the worst of tortures, when a man is no more
evilly disposed than I am, to have a victim constantly before one's eyes. Come, I
am free at last, and the evil that I may do will fall on myself alone!"
Doubtless, Thérèse was wrong not to let him see the depth of the wound he
had inflicted on her. She was too brave and too proud. Since she had
undertaken the cure of a desperately diseased nature, she should not have
recoiled from heroic remedies and painful operations. She should have made
that frenzied heart bleed freely, have overwhelmed him with reproaches, and
repaid insult with insult and stab with stab. If he had seen the suffering he had
caused, perhaps Laurent would have done justice to himself. Perhaps shame
and repentance would have saved his soul from the crime of murdering love in
cold blood.
But, after three months of fruitless efforts, Thérèse was disheartened. Did
she owe such absolute devotion to a man whom she had never desired to
enslave, who had forced himself upon her despite her grief and her melancholy
forebodings, who had clung to her steps like an abandoned child, and had cried
to her: "Take me under your wing, protect me, or I shall die here by the
roadside!"
And now that child cursed her for yielding to his outcries and his tears. He
accused her of having taken advantage of his weakness to deprive him of the
joys of liberty. He turned his back upon her, drawing a long breath, and
exclaiming: "At last, at last!"
"Since he is incurable," she thought, "what is the use of making him suffer?
Have I not proved that I could do nothing? Has he not told me, and, alas! almost
proved it to me, that I was stifling his genius by seeking to cure his fever? When
I thought that I had succeeded in disgusting him with dissipation, did I not
discover that he was more greedy of it than ever? When I said to him: 'Go back
into the world,' he dreaded my jealousy, and plunged into mysterious and
degrading debauchery; he returned home drunk, with torn clothes, and blood on
his face!"
On the day of Laurent's departure, Palmer asked Thérèse:
"Well, my friend, what do you propose to do? Shall I go after him?"
"No, certainly not!" she replied.
"Perhaps I could bring him back."
"I should be in despair if you did."
"Then you no longer love him?"
"No, not in the least."
There was a pause, after which Palmer continued in a thoughtful tone:
"Thérèse, I have some very important news for you. I hesitate, because I
fear to cause you additional emotion, and you are hardly in condition——"
"I beg your pardon, my friend. I am horribly depressed, but I am absolutely
calm, and prepared for anything."
"Very well, Thérèse; in that case, I will tell you that you are free: the Comte
de —— is no more."
"I know it," replied Thérèse. "I have known it a week."
"And you haven't told Laurent?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because some sort of reaction would have taken place in him instantly. You
know how anything unexpected upsets and excites him. One of two things
would have happened: either he would have imagined that my purpose in
informing him of the change in my position was to induce him to marry me, and
the horror of being bound to me would have intensified his aversion, or he would
have turned suddenly, of his own motion, to the idea of marriage, in one of
those paroxysms of devotion which sometimes seize him and which last—just a
quarter of an hour, to be succeeded by profound despair or frantic wrath. The
unfortunate creature is guilty enough toward me; it was not necessary to offer
fresh bait to his caprice, and an additional motive for him to perjure himself."
"Then you no longer esteem him?"
"I do not say that, my dear Palmer. I pity him, and do not accuse him.
Perhaps some other woman will make him happy and good. I have been unable
to do either. It is probably as much my fault as his. However that may be, it is
proved to my satisfaction that we never should have loved each other, and that
we should not make any further effort to do so."
"And now, Thérèse, will you not think of taking advantage of the liberty you
have recovered?"
"What advantage can I take of it?"
"You can marry again, and become acquainted with the joys of a happy
home."
"My dear Dick, I have loved twice in my life, and you see where I am now. It
is not in my destiny to be happy. It is too late to seek what has thus far eluded
me. I am thirty years old."
"It is just because you are thirty years old that you cannot do without love.
You have undergone the enthusiasm of passion, and that is just the age at
which women cannot escape it. It is because you have suffered, because you
have been inadequately loved, that the inextinguishable thirst for happiness is
bound to awake in you, and, it may be, to lead you from disappointment to
disappointment, into deeper abysses than that from which you are now
emerging."
"I trust not."
"Yes, of course, you trust not; but you are mistaken, Thérèse; everything is to
be feared from your time of life, your overstrained sensitiveness and the
deceitful tranquillity due to a moment of weariness and prostration. Love will
seek you out, do not doubt it, and you will be pursued and beset the moment
that you have recovered your liberty. Formerly, your isolation held in abeyance
the hopes of those who surrounded you; but now that Laurent has lowered you
in their esteem, all those who claimed to be your friends will seek to be your
lovers. You will inspire violent passions, and some there will be sufficiently
clever to persuade you. In a word——"
"In a word, Palmer, you consider me lost because I am unhappy! That is very
cruel of you, and you make me feel very keenly how debased I am!"
Thérèse put her hands over her face, and wept bitterly.
Palmer let her weep on; seeing that tears would be beneficial to her, he had
purposely provoked that outburst. When he saw that she was calmer, he knelt
before her.
"Thérèse," he said, "I have caused you bitter pain, but you must give me
credit for kindly intentions. I love you, Thérèse, I have always loved you, not
with a blind passion, but with all the faith and all the devotion of which I am
capable. I can see more plainly than ever that in your case a noble life has been
ruined and shattered by the fault of others. You are, in truth, debased in the
eyes of the world, but not in mine. On the contrary, your love for Laurent has
proved to me that you are a woman, and I love you better so than armed at all
points against every human frailty, as I once believed you to be. Listen to me,
Thérèse. I am a philosopher; that is to say, I consult common-sense and
tolerant ideas rather than the prejudices of society and the romantic subtleties of
sentiment. Though you were to plunge into the most deplorable disorders, I
should not cease to love you and esteem you, because you are one of those
women who cannot be led astray except by the heart. But why should you fall
into such a plight? It is perfectly clear to my mind, that if you should meet to-day
a devoted, tranquil, and faithful heart, exempt from those mental maladies which
sometimes make great artists and often bad husbands—a father, a brother, a
friend, in a word, a husband, you would be forever secure against danger and
misfortune in the future. Well, Thérèse, I venture to say that I am such a man.
There is nothing brilliant about me to dazzle you, but I have a stout heart to love
you. My confidence in you is absolute. As soon as you are happy, you will be
grateful, and once grateful, you will be loyal and rehabilitated forever. Say yes,
Thérèse; consent to marry me and consent at once, without alarm, without
scruples, without false delicacy, without distrust of yourself. I give you my life,
and ask nothing of you except to believe in me. I feel that I am strong enough
not to suffer from the tears which another's ingratitude may still cause you to
shed. I shall never reproach you with the past, and I undertake to make the
future so pleasant and so secure that no storm will ever tear you from my
bosom."
Palmer talked for a long while in this strain, with a heartfelt earnestness for
which Thérèse was unprepared. She tried to repel his confidence; but this
resistance was, in Palmer's eyes, a last remnant of mental disease which she
must stamp out herself. She felt that Palmer spoke the truth, but she felt also
that he proposed to assume a terrible task.
"No," she said, "I am not afraid of myself. I do not love Laurent, and I can
never love him again; but what about society, your mother, your country, your
social standing, the honor of your name? I am debased, as you have said; I am
conscious of it. Ah! Palmer, do not urge me so! I am too dismayed by the
thought of what you will have to defy for my sake!"
On the next day, and every day thereafter, Palmer pressed his suit
vigorously. He gave Thérèse no time to breathe. He was alone with her from
morning till night, and redoubled the force of his will to persuade her. Palmer
was a man of heart and of impulse; we shall see later whether Thérèse was
justified in hesitating. What disturbed her was the precipitation with which
Palmer acted, and sought to force her to act by pledging herself to him by a
promise.