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the purse-第1章

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The Purse



by Honore de Balzac 



Translated by Clara Bell








To Sofka





  〃Have you observed; mademoiselle; that the painters and

  sculptors of the Middle Ages; when they placed two figures in

  adoration; one on each side of a fair Saint; never failed to

  give them a family likeness? When you here see your name among

  those that are dear to me; and under whose auspices I place my

  works; remember that touching harmony; and you will see in

  this not so much an act of homage as an expression of the

  brotherly affection of your devoted servant;

  〃DE BALZAC。〃









For souls to whom effusiveness is easy there is a delicious hour

that falls when it is not yet night; but is no longer day; the

twilight gleam throws softened lights or tricksy reflections on

every object; and favors a dreamy mood which vaguely weds itself

to the play of light and shade。 The silence which generally

prevails at that time makes it particularly dear to artists; who

grow contemplative; stand a few paces back from the pictures on

which they can no longer work; and pass judgement on them; rapt

by the subject whose most recondite meaning then flashes on the

inner eye of genius。 He who has never stood pensive by a friend's

side in such an hour of poetic dreaming can hardly understand its

inexpressible soothingness。 Favored by the clear…obscure; the

material skill employed by art to produce illusion entirely

disappears。 If the work is a picture; the figures represented

seem to speak and walk; the shade is shadow; the light is day;

the flesh lives; eyes move; blood flows in their veins; and

stuffs have a changing sheen。 Imagination helps the realism of

every detail; and only sees the beauties of the work。 At that

hour illusion reigns despotically; perhaps it wakes at nightfall!

Is not illusion a sort of night to the mind; which we people with

dreams? Illusion then unfolds its wings; it bears the soul aloft

to the world of fancies; a world full of voluptuous imaginings;

where the artist forgets the real world; yesterday and the

morrow; the futureeverything down to its miseries; the good and

the evil alike。



At this magic hour a young painter; a man of talent; who saw in

art nothing but Art itself; was perched on a step…ladder which

helped him to work at a large high painting; now nearly finished。

Criticising himself; honestly admiring himself; floating on the

current of his thoughts; he then lost himself in one of those

meditative moods which ravish and elevate the soul; soothe it;

and comfort it。 His reverie had no doubt lasted a long time。

Night fell。 Whether he meant to come down from his perch; or

whether he made some ill…judged movement; believing himself to be

on the floorthe event did not allow of his remembering exactly

the cause of his accidenthe fell; his head struck a footstool;

he lost consciousness and lay motionless during a space of time

of which he knew not the length。



A sweet voice roused him from the stunned condition into which he

had sunk。 When he opened his eyes the flash of a bright light

made him close them again immediately; but through the mist that

veiled his senses he heard the whispering of two women; and felt

two young; two timid hands on which his head was resting。 He soon

recovered consciousness; and by the light of an old…fashioned

Argand lamp he could make out the most charming girl's face he

had ever seen; one of those heads which are often supposed to be

a freak of the brush; but which to him suddenly realized the

theories of the ideal beauty which every artist creates for

himself and whence his art proceeds。 The features of the unknown

belonged; so to say; to the refined and delicate type of

Prudhon's school; but had also the poetic sentiment which Girodet

gave to the inventions of his phantasy。 The freshness of the

temples; the regular arch of the eyebrows; the purity of outline;

the virginal innocence so plainly stamped on every feature of her

countenance; made the girl a perfect creature。 Her figure was

slight and graceful; and frail in form。 Her dress; though simple

and neat; revealed neither wealth nor penury。



As he recovered his senses; the painter gave expression to his

admiration by a look of surprise; and stammered some confused

thanks。 He found a handkerchief pressed to his forehead; and

above the smell peculiar to a studio; he recognized the strong

odor of ether; applied no doubt to revive him from his fainting

fit。 Finally he saw an old woman; looking like a marquise of the

old school; who held the lamp and was advising the young girl。



〃Monsieur;〃 said the younger woman in reply to one of the

questions put by the painter during the few minutes when he was

still under the influence of the vagueness that the shock had

produced in his ideas; 〃my mother and I heard the noise of your

fall on the floor; and we fancied we heard a groan。 The silence

following on the crash alarmed us; and we hurried up。 Finding the

key in the latch; we happily took the liberty of entering; and we

found you lying motionless on the ground。 My mother went to fetch

what was needed to bathe your head and revive you。 You have cut

your foreheadthere。 Do you feel it?〃



〃Yes; I do now;〃 he replied。



〃Oh; it will be nothing;〃 said the old mother。 〃Happily your head

rested against this lay…figure。〃



〃I feel infinitely better;〃 replied the painter。 〃I need nothing

further but a hackney cab to take me home。 The porter's wife will

go for one。〃



He tried to repeat his thanks to the two strangers; but at each

sentence the elder lady interrupted him; saying; 〃Tomorrow;

monsieur; pray be careful to put on leeches; or to be bled; and

drink a few cups of something healing。 A fall may be dangerous。〃



The young girl stole a look at the painter and at the pictures in

the studio。 Her expression and her glances revealed perfect

propriety; her curiosity seemed rather absence of mind; and her

eyes seemed to speak the interest which women feel; with the most

engaging spontaneity; in everything which causes us suffering。

The two strangers seemed to forget the painter's works in the

painter's mishap。 When he had reassured them as to his condition

they left; looking at him with an anxiety that was equally free

from insistence and from familiarity; without asking any

indiscreet questions; or trying to incite him to any wish to

visit them。 Their proceedings all bore the hall…mark of natural

refinement and good taste。 Their noble and simple manners at

first made no great impression on the painter; but subsequently;

as he recalled all the details of the incident; he was greatly

struck by them。



When they reached the floor beneath that occupied by the

painter's studio; the old lady gently observed; 〃Adelaide; you

left the door open。〃



〃That was to come to my assistance;〃 said the painter; with a

grateful smile。



〃You came down just now; mother;〃 replied the young girl; with a

blush。



〃Would you like us to accompany you all the way downstairs?〃

asked the mother。 〃The stairs are dark。〃



〃No; thank you; indeed; madame; I am much better。〃



〃Hold tightly by the rail。〃



The two women remained on the landing to light the young man;

listening to the sound of his steps。







In order to set forth clearly all the exciting and unexpected

interest this scene might have for the young painter; it must be

told that he had only a few days since established his studio in

the attics of this house; situated in the darkest and; therefore;

the most muddy part of the Rue de Suresnes; almost opposite the

Church of the Madeleine; and quite close to his rooms in the Rue

des Champs…Elysees。 The fame his talent had won him having made

him one of the artists most dear to his country; he was beginning

to feel free from want; and to use his own expression; was

enjoying his last privations。 Instead of going to his work in one

of the studios near the city gates; where the moderate rents had

hitherto been in proportion to his humble earnings; he had

gratified a wish that was new every morning; by sparing himself a

long walk; and the loss of much time; now more valuable than

ever。



No man in the world would have inspired feelings of greater

interest than Hippolyte Schinner if he would ever have consented

to make acquaintance; but he did not lightly entrust to others

the secrets of his life。 He was the idol of a necessitous mother;

who had brought him up at the cost of the severest privations。

Mademoiselle Schinner; the daughter of an Alsatian farmer; had

never been married。 Her tender soul had been cruelly crushed;

long ago; by a rich man; who did not pride himself on any great

delicacy in his love affairs。 The day when; as a young girl; in

all the radiance of her beauty and all the triumph of her life;

she suffered; at the cost of her heart and her sweet illusions;

the di
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