No More Learning

We had not to look back on summer joys,
Or forward to a summer of bright dye;
But in the largeness of the evening earth
Our spirits grew as we went side by side.
The hour became her husband and my bride.
Love that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth!
The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud
In multitudinous chatterings as the flood
Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood
Expanded to the upper crimson cloud.
Love, that had robbed us of immortal things,
This little moment mercifully gave,
Where I have seen across the twilight wave
The swan sail with her young beneath her wings.


## p. 9941 (#349) ###########################################

9941
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
(1803-1870)
BY GRACE KING
Kne of the magisterial critics of Mérimée's day, passing judg-
ment upon his writings, dismisses personal details about the
author with the remark: "As for the biography of Prosper
Mérimée, it is like the history of a happy people,- it does not exist.
One knows only that he was educated in a college of Paris, that he
has studied law, that he has been received as a lawyer, that he has
never pleaded; and the papers have taken
pains to inform us that he is to-day secre-
tary to M. le Comte d'Argout. Those who
know him familiarly see in him nothing
more than a man of very simple manners,
with a solid education, reading Italian and
modern Greek with ease, and speaking Eng-
lish and Spanish with remarkable purity. ”
This was written in 1832, when Mérimée
in his thirtieth year had attained celebrity
not only in the literary world of Paris, but
in the world of literary Europe, as the
author of the Theatre de Clara Gazul);
"La Guzla'; 'La Chronique de Charles IX. '; PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
(Mateo Falcone); Tamango'; 'La Partie
de Tric-Trac'; 'Le Vase Etrusque); La Double Méprise); “La Vision
de Charles XI. ': most of which Taine pronounced masterpieces of
fiction, destined to immortality as classics.
No tribute could have been better devised to please Mérimée, and
praise his writings, than this one to the impersonality of his art, and
the dispensation of it from any obligation to its author. “We should
write and speak,” he held, so that no one would notice, at least
immediately, that we were writing or speaking differently from any
one else. ” But as that most impersonal of modern critics, Walter
Pater, keenly observes: “Mérimée's superb self-effacement, his imper-
sonality, is itself but an effective personal trait, and transferred to
art, becomes a markedly peculiar quality of literary beauty. ” And
he pronounces in a sentence the judgment of Mérimée's literary pos-
terity upon him: "For in truth this creature who had no
care for
half-lights, and like his creations, had no atmosphere about him,



## p. 9942 (#350) ###########################################

9942
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
-
an
-
gifted as he was with pure mind, with the quality which secures
flawless literary structures, — had on the other hand nothing of what
we call soul in literature. ”
And the brilliant young secretary and successful author, whose
happiness furnishes presumptive evidence against a biography, was no
more relieved from the fact of it than the hypothetical happy people
of their history. With that unfaltering rectification of contempo-
raneous values which time and the gravitation to truth bring about,
Mérimée's position in regard to his works is quite the reverse of
what he contemplated and aimed for. Of the published volumes of
his writings, the many containing his artistic works could be better
spared than the few containing his letters. And of his letters, that
volume will longest carry his name into the future which contains
his most intimate, most confidential, least meditated, in short most
genuinely personal and most artistically perfect revelations,— his
Lettres à une Inconnue) (Letters to an Unknown Woman).
Prosper Mérimée was born in Paris in 1803, of parentage that
made his vocation, it would seem, mandatory. His father was
artist of note, a pupil of David's, and long secretary of the École des
Beaux-Arts. His mother was also, and in a double measure, an artist.
Her talent was for portraits of children, whose quiet sittings she
secured by her other talent of relating stories,- a gift inherited from
her grandmother, Madame de Beaumont, a charming writer of child-
ren's stories, and the author of the famous and entrancing Beauty
and the Beast. ' At twenty, having finished his collegiate studies,
Mérimée, in obedience to the will of his parents, began to fit himself
for the legal profession. Following his own tastes, however, he had
already sought and gained admission into the salons of the men of
letters, and was already under his first and only literary influence,-
that of Henri Beyle, the progenitor of modern French realism. It
was in one of these salons that he, not yet twenty-one, read his first
composition, a drama, Cromwell); an effort inspired by Shakespeare
and composed according to the doctrines of Beyle. It was never
published. Shortly afterwards, in the same place and to the same
audience, he read aloud his second attempt, The Spaniards in Den-
mark); and Heaven and Hell, a little dramatic scene which met
with spontaneous applause, and was praised as extremely witty and
still more undevout. Successive readings followed in successive even-
ings, under the encouragement of applause; and the collection, by a
last stroke of audacious wit, in which author and audience collab-
orated, was published as the “Théâtre de Clara Gazul' (an imaginary
Spanish actress), with the portrait of Mérimée, in low-necked dress
and mantilla, for frontispiece.
The strong individuality of Mérimée's art is as easily discernible
to-day, under the thin disguise of his pseudonym, as his features
1


## p. 9943 (#351) ###########################################

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
9943
under his travesty: his clear, cold, impartial realism, unflinching wit,
and a trait attributed also to his mother— his invincible irreligion.
The success of the mystification was immediate and effective. His
next adventure was of the same kind: the publication of 'La Guzla,'
a collection of prose ballads, pseudo-translations from the Dalmatian
folk-songs, with prefatory notices, appendices, and biographical sketch
of the author, the bard Magdanovitch, accompanied by a dissertation
on vampires and the evil eye. The intrinsic beauty of the ballads,
the barbaric strength of the imagination, in the musical rhythm of
French prose, contributed to render the mystification one of the most
perfect in literary history. Goethe wrote an article upon it, Push-
kin made translations from it, and German scholars rejoiced in print
to find in it some long-lost Illyrian metrical measure. This success
disgusted Mérimée with “local color,” — the shibboleth of the young
French Romantic school,— seeing, as he said, how easy it was to fab-
ricate it.
The Famille Carvajal, a continuation of the Spanish vein,- a
weird, grewsome, and pitiless tale,— and “Le Jacquerie,' a dramatic
historical recital in the Shakespearean vein, followed. His next
venture was in historical fiction : (The Chronicle of Charles IX. ,' an
evident inspiration from Walter Scott. From an English point of
view, it is the masterpiece of French fiction in historical domain; and
one, with a few reservations, not unworthy the hand of “Waverley »
himself.
In 1830 came the visit to Spain, related in his published letters,
and the forming of the friendship with the Countess of Montijo which
led to a correspondence, of which the fragments published are war-
rant that it will prove in the future an invaluable guide to the social,
literary, and political history of Paris during the yet controverted
period of the Empire. Always sensitive to feminine influence, if not
to local color, it is to the Countess of Montijo that Mérimée owes the
Spanish inspiration, as it may well be called, which bore fruit in his
incomparable relation of Carmen. ' And while a guest of his friend,
listening to her charming tales of the Alhambra and the Generalife,
Mérimée formed his historical friendship with the Empress Eugénie,
then a little girl playing around her mother's knee.
Appointed inspector-general of the historical monuments of France,
Mérimée threw his archæological erudition into diligent performance
of official duties. His reports, written with minute and even pedan-
tic conscientiousness, bear out Faguet's assertion that — archæologist,
traveler, art critic, historian, and philologist, man of the world and
senator, and competent and sure
as each
he would and should
have belonged to four academies; it was only his discretion that re-
stricted him to two,— the Académie Française and Académie des
Inscriptions. As a compatriot states, it was the inspector-general that
u


## p. 9944 (#352) ###########################################

9944
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
related to him two of his most perfect stories, the Venus d'Ille?
and 'Colomba,' while it was the philologist who found the episode of
Carmen. '
It was at this point of his life, at the meridian of age and success,
that he received his first letter from the Inconnue, a graceful tribute
from the graceful pen of a woman, who yielded to an impulse to
express her admiration, yet guarded her identity beyond possibility
of discovery. The correspondence ensued that a posthumous publi-
cation under the editorship of H. Taine has revealed to the public.
In it, for one who knows how to read the letters, as Taine says,
Mérimée shows himself gracious, tender, delicate, truly in love, and a
poet. After nine years of expostulation and entreaty he obtained an
interview; and his mysterious friend proved to be a Mademoiselle
Jenny Dacquin, the daughter of a notary of Boulogne. The friend-
ship that ensued waxed into love through the thirty succeeding years,
and waned again into a friendship that ended only with Mérimée's
life; his last letter to the Inconnue, a few lines, was written two
hours before he died.
Mérimée's (Studies in the History of Rome,' his "Social War,' and
Catiline,' were to have been followed and closed by a study of
Cæsar. Circumstances, however, adjourned the task, which was after-
wards ceded to an illustrious competitor, or collaborator,-- Napoleon
III. In 1844 he was elected to the French Academy. On the follow-
ing day he published Arsène Guillot. ) Had the publication preceded
the election, the result might have been different; for repentant
Academicians pronounced immoral the tale which Anglo-Saxon critics
have generally selected as the most simple, most pathetic, and only
human one the author ever wrote.
In 1852, the little girl whose growth and development Mérimée
had watched with tenderest interest became Empress of the French.
He was appointed life senator in the reconstructed government; and
became one of the most familiar members of the new and brilliant
court at the Tuileries, and always a conspicuous one. His pleased,
tender, sad, gay, and always frank and critical commentary of the
court and its circles, forms the interest of his weekly bulletins to
the Countess of Montijo. His conversational charm, his wit, and his
ever ready response to demands upon his artistic and historical lore,
in questions of etiquette, costumes, and precedent; his versatility as
dramatist and actor, and his genius for friendship with women,-
made him not only a favorite, but a spoiled favorite, in the royal cir-
cle. His coldness, reserve, cynicism, frank speech, and independent
political opinions saved him from even a suspicion of being a courtier.
He nevertheless lost none of his diligence in literature.
period of his edition of Henri Beyle and of Brantôme, of numerous
miscellaneous articles in reviews, and of those excursions into Russian
It was the


## p. 9945 (#353) ###########################################

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
9945
literature — critical dissertations upon Gogol, Pushkin, and Tourgué-
nieff — which may be considered the pioneer of that advance into
Russian literature which has resulted in throwing it open to, and
making it one with, the literature of Europe.
To this period also belongs his friendship with Panizzi, the ad-
ministrator of the British Museum; and the voluminous correspond-
ence in which he reveals himself in all the fineness and breadth of
his culture,- as Taine puts it, the possessor of six languages with
their literature and history, man of the world and politician, as well
as philosopher, artist, and historian.
So shrewd an observer of men and politics could not be unpre-
pared for the catastrophe of 1870. He had never been free from
vague apprehensions, and the acute presentiment overshadows the
gayety in his letters. In addition he was growing old, and infirm
health drove him during the winter months into annual exile at
Cannes. It was there that, in a crisis of his malady, the journals, in
anticipation of the end, published his death, and M. Guizot in conse-
quence made official announcement of it at the Academy. Mérimée
lived, however, to return to Paris, and suffer through to the end of
the tragedy. He dragged himself to the Tuileries, had a last inter-
view with his mistress, sat for the last time in his seat in the Senate,
and voted for adjournment to a morrow which never came. Four
days afterwards he departed for Cannes, where a fortnight later he
died. He was buried in the Protestant cemetery.
“A gallant man and a gentleman,” says Faguet, «he has had the reward
he would have wished. He has been discreetly and intimately enjoyed by
delicate tastes. He has not been brutally balloted about in the tumult of scho-
lastic discussions. He has not been attacked by any one, nor praised with
loud cries, nor admired with great reinforcement of adjectives.
His
glory is of the good ore, as are his character, his mind, and his style.
He has entered posterity as one enters a parlor, without discussion and with-
out disturbance; received with the greatest pleasure, without vain effusion, he
installed himself comfortably in a good place, from which he will never be
moved. . . . It was his rare talent to give us those limpid, rapid, full
tales, that one reads in an hour, re-reads in a day, which fill the memory and
occupy the thoughts forever. »
Grace Krug


## p. 9946 (#354) ###########################################

9946
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
FROM CARSÈNE GUILLOT)
T"
he last mass had just come to an end at St. Roch's, and the
beadle was going his rounds, closing the deserted chapels.
He was about drawing the grating of one of these aristo-
cratic sanctuaries, where certain devotees purchase the permission
to pray to God apart and distinguished from the rest of the faith-
ful, when he remarked a woman still remaining in it, absorbed
seemingly in meditation, her head bent over the back of her
chair. It is Madame de Piennes,” he said to himself, stopping
at the entrance of the chapel. Madame de Piennes was well
known by the beadle. At that period a woman of the world,
young, rich, pretty, who rendered the blessed bread, who gave
the altar clothes, who gave much in charity through the media-
tion of her curate, had some merit for being devout when she
did not have some employé of the government for a husband,
when she was not an attachée of Madame la Dauphine, and when
she had nothing to gain but her salvation by frequenting the
church. The beadle wished heartily to go to dinner, for people
of his kind dine at one o'clock; but he dared not trouble the de-
votions of a person so well considered in the parish of St. Roch.
He moved away, therefore, making his slipper-shod feet resound
against the marble floor, not without hope that, the round of the
church made, he would find the chapel empty.
He was already on the other side of the choir, when a young
woman entered the church, and walked along one of the side
aisles, looking with curiosity about her. She was about twenty-
five years old, but one had to observe her with much attention
not to think her older. Although very brilliant, her black eyes
were sunken, and surrounded by a bluish shadow; her dead-white
complexion and her colorless lips indicated suffering; and yet a
certain air of audacity and gayety in her glance contrasted with
her sickly appearance. Her rose-colored capôte, ornamented with
artificial flowers, would have better suited an evening negligé.
Under a long cashmere shawl, of which the practiced eye of a
woman would have divined that she was not the first proprietor,
was hidden a gown of calico, at twenty cents a yard, and a little
worn. Finally, only a man would have admired her foot, clothed
as it was in common stockings and prunella shoes, very much
the worse for wear of the street. You remember, madam, that
asphalt was not invented yet.


## p. 9947 (#355) ###########################################

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9947
This woman, whose social position you have guessed, ap-
proached the chapel, in which Madame de Piennes still lingered;
and after having observed her for a moment with a restless,
embarrassed air, she accosted her when she saw her arise and
on the point of leaving. "Could you inform me, madam," she
asked in a low voice and with a timid smile,-"could you inform
me to whom I should go for a candle ? » Such language was too
strange to the ears of Madame de Piennes for her to understand
it at once. She had the question repeated. “Yes, I should like
to burn a candle to St. Roch, but I do not know whom to give
the money to. ”
Madame de Piennes was too enlightened in her piety for
participation in these popular superstitions, Nevertheless she
respected them; for there is something touching in every form
of adoration, however gross it may be. Supposing that the mat-
ter was a vow, or something of the kind, and too charitable to
draw from the costume of the young woman of the rose-colored
bonnet the conclusions that you perhaps have not feared to
form, she showed her the beadle approaching. The unknown one
thanked her, and ran towards the man, who appeared to under-
stand her at a word. While Madame de Piennes was taking up
her prayer-book and rearranging her veil, she saw the lady of the
candle draw out a little purse from her pocket, take from a
quantity of small-change a five-franc piece, and hand it to the
beadle, giving him at the same time, in a low voice, some long
instructions and recommendations, to which he listened with a
smile.
Both left the church at the same time; but, the lady of the
candic walking very fast, Madame de Piennes soon lost sight of
her, although she followed in the same direction. At the corner
of the street she lived in, she met her again. Under her tem-
porary cashmere the unknown was trying to conceal a loaf of
bread bought in a neighboring shop. On recognizing Madame
de Piennes she bent her head, could not suppress a smile, and
hastened her step. Her smile seemed to say: "Well, what of
“,
it? I am poor.
Laugh at me if you will. I know very well
that one does not go to buy bread in a rose-colored capôte and
cashmere shawl. ” The mixture of false shame, resignation, and
good-humor did not escape Madame de Piennes. She thought,
not without sadness, of the probable position of the young
woman. “,
"Her piety,” she said to herself, is more meritorious


## p. 9948 (#356) ###########################################

9948
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
>
than mine. Assuredly her offering of a five-franc piece is a
much greater sacrifice than what I give to the poor out of my
superfluity, without the imposition of a single privation. ” She
then recalled the widow's mite, more acceptable to God than
the gaudy charities of the rich. “I do not do enough good,”
she thought; "I do not do all that I might. While mentally
addressing these reproaches to herself, she entered her house.
The candle, the loaf of bread, and above all the offering of an
only five-franc piece, engraved upon the memory of Madame de
Piennes the figure of the young woman, whom she regarded
as a model of piety. She met her rather often afterwards, in
the street, near the church, but never at service. Every time
the unknown passed her she bent her head and smiled slightly.
The smile by its humility pleased Madame de Piennes. She
would have liked to find an occasion to serve the poor girl, who
had first interested her, but who now excited her pity; for she
remarked that the rose-colored capôte had faded and the cash-
mere shawl had disappeared. No doubt it had returned to the
second-hand dealer. It was evident that St. Roch was not pay-
ing back a hundredfold the offering made him.
One day Madame de Piennes saw enter St. Roch a bier, fol.
lowed by a man rather poorly dressed and with no crape on
his hat. For more than a month she had not met the young
woman of the candle, and the idea came to her that this was
her funeral. Nothing was more probable, she was so pale and
thin the last time Madame de Piennes saw her. The beadle.
questioned, interrogated in his turn the man following the bier.
He replied that he was the concierge of a house, Rue Louis-
le-Grand, and that one of his tenants dying,-a Madame Guillot,
who had no friends nor relations, only a daughter,- he, the con-
cierge, out of pure kindness of heart, was going to the funeral
of a person who was nothing whatever to him. Immediately
Madame de Piennes imagined that her unknown one had died
in misery, leaving a little girl without help; and she promised
herself to make inquiries, by means of an ecclesiastic whom she
ordinarily employed for her good deeds.
Two days following, a cart athwart the street stopped her
carriage for a few seconds, as she was leaving her door. Look
ing out of the window absent-mindedly, she saw standing against
a wall the young girl whom she believed dead. She recognized
her without difficulty, although paler and thinner than ever,


## p. 9949 (#357) ###########################################

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
9949
The groups
dressed in mourning, but shabbily, without gloves or a hat. Her
expression was strange. Instead of her habitual smile, her fea-
tures were all contracted; her great black eyes were haggard;
she turned them towards Madame de Piennes, but without recog-
nizing her, for she saw nothing. In her whole countenance was
to be read, not grief, but furious determination. The image of
the young girl and her desperate expression pursued Madame de
Piennes for several hours.
On her return she saw a great crowd in the street. All the
porters' wives were at their doors, telling their neighbors some
tale that was being listened to with vivid interest.
were particularly crowded before a house near to the one in
which Madame de Piennes lived. All eyes were turned towards
an open window in the third story, and in each little circle
one or two arms were raised to point it out to the attention of
the public; then all of a sudden the arms would fall towards
the ground, and all eyes would follow the movement. Some
extraordinary event had happened.
"Ah, madame! ” said Mademoiselle Josephine, as she unfast-
ened the shawl of Madame de Piennes, “My blood is all fro-
zen! Never have I seen anything so terrible that is, I did not
see, though I ran to the spot the moment after. But all the
same- »
>>>
“What has happened ? Speak quickly, Mademoiselle. ”
“Well, madame -- three doors from here, a poor young girl
threw herself out of the window, not three minutes ago; if
madame had arrived a moment earlier, she could have heard
the thud. ”
"Ah, heaven! And the unfortunate thing has killed herself! »
"Madame, it gave one the horrors to look at it. Baptiste,
who has been in the wars, said he had never seen anything like
it. From the third story, madame! ”
« Did the blow kill her ? »
Oh, madame! she was still moving, she talked even. I want
them to finish me! ' she was saying. But her bones were in a
jelly. Madame may imagine what a terrible fall it was. ”
But the unhappy creature! Did some one go to her relief;
was a physician sent for - a priest ? »
"A priest, madame knows that as well as I. But if I were a
priest - A wretched creature, so abandoned as to kill herself!
And besides, she had no behavior, – that is easily seen. She


## p. 9950 (#358) ###########################################

9950
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
(
a
belonged to the Opera, so they told me: all those girls end
badly. She put herself in the window; she tied her skirts with
a pink ribbon, and — flop! ”
"It is the poor young girl in mourning! ” cried Madame de
Piennes, speaking to herself.
“Yes, madame: her mother died three or four days ago. It
must have turned her head. And with that, her lover perhaps
had left her in the lurch. And then rent day came
and no
money. And that kind doesn't know how to work. ”
"Do you know if the unhappy girl has what she needs in her
condition, - linen, a mattress? Find out immediately. "
“I shall go for madame, if madame wishes,” cried the maid;
enchanted to think of seeing, close by, a woman who had tried to
kill herself.
“But,” she added, “I don't know if I should have
the strength to look at her,- a woman fallen from the third
story! When they bled Baptiste I felt sick: it was stronger
than I. »
"Well then, send Baptiste, cried Madame de Piennes; but
let me know immediately how the poor thing is getting along. "
Luckily her physician, Dr. K—, arrived as she was giving
the order. He came to dine with her, according to his custom,
every Tuesday, the day for Italian opera.
“Run quick, doctor! ” — without giving him time to put down
his cane or take off his muffler. "Baptiste will take you. A
poor girl has just thrown herself from a third-story window, and
she is without attention. ”
“Out of the window ! ” said the doctor. If it was high, I
shall probably have nothing to do. ”
At the end of an hour the doctor reappeared, slightly un-
powdered, and his handsome jabot of batiste in disorder.
“These people who set out to kill themselves,” he said, "are
born with a caul. The other day they brought to my hospital
a woman who had sent a pistol shot into her mouth.
way! she broke three teeth and made an ugly hole in her left
cheek. She will be a little uglier, that is all. This one throws
herself from a third-story window. A poor devil of an honest
man, falling by accident from a first-story, would break his skull.
This girl breaks her leg, has two ribs driven in, and gets the
inevitable bruises - and that is all. But the worst of it is, the
ratin on this turbot is completely dried up, I fear for the roast,
and we shall miss the first act of Othello. "
A poor


## p. 9951 (#359) ###########################################

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9951
"And the unfortunate creature — did she tell you what drove
her to it?
“Oh, madame, I never listen to those stories.
I ask them,
'Had you eaten before ? ' and so forth, and so forth, - because
that is necessary for the treatment. Parbleu! When one kills
one's self, it is because one has some bad reason for it. You
lose a sweetheart, a landlord puts you out of doors,- and you
jump from the window to get even with him. And one is no
sooner in the air than one begins to repent. "
“I hope she repents, poor child. ”
«No doubt, no doubt. She cried and made fuss enough to
distract me. What makes it the more interesting in her case
is, that if she had killed herself she would have been the gainer,
in not dying of consumption — for she is consumptive. To be in
such a hurry, when all she had to do was to let it come!
The girl lay on a good bed sent by Madame de Piennes, in
a little chamber furnished with three straw-seated chairs and a
small table. Horribly pale, with flaming eyes. She had one arm
outside of the covering, and the portion of that arm uncovered
by the sleeve of her gown was livid and bruised, giving an idea
of the state of the rest of her body. When she saw Madame de
Piennes, she lifted her head, and said with a sad faint smile:-
“I knew that it was you, madame, who had had pity upon
me. They told me your name, and I was sure that it was the
lady whom I met near St. Roch. ”
You seem to be in a poor way here, my poor child,” said
Madame de Piennes, her eyes traveling over the sad furnishment
of the room. “Why did they not send you some curtains ? You
must ask Baptiste for any little thing you need. ”
"You are very good, madame, What do I lack ? Nothing.
It is all over. A little more or a little less, what difference does
it make ? )
And turning her head, she began to cry.
"Do you suffer much, my poor child? said Madame de
Piennes, sitting by the bed.
“No, not much. Only I feel all the time in my ears the
wind when I was falling, and then the noise-crack! when I fell
on the pavement. ”
“You were out of your mind then, my dear friend: you re-
pent now,
do you not?
“Yes; but when one is unhappy, one cannot keep one's head. ”
>>
(
>


## p. 9952 (#360) ###########################################

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PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
But, my
no one
"I regret not having known your position sooner.
child, in no circumstances of life should we abandon ourselves to
despair. ”
“Ah! I do not know,” cried the sick girl,
cried the sick girl, “what got into
me; there were a hundred reasons if one. First, when mamma
died, that was a blow. Then I felt myself abandoned
interested in me. And at last, some one of whom I thought
more than of all the rest of the world put together— madame,
to forget even my name! Yes, I am named Arsène Guillot, -
G, u, i, double 1: he writes it with a y! ”
"And so you have been deceived, poor child ? ” resumed Ma-
dame de Piennes after a moment of silence.
“I? No. How can a miserable girl like myself be deceived ?
Only he did not care for me any longer. He was right: I am
not the kind for him. He was always good and generous.
I
wrote to him, telling him how it was with me, and if he wished —
Then he wrote to me — - what hurt me very much. — The other
day, when I came back to my room, I let fall a looking-glass
that he had given me; a Venetian mirror, he called it. It
;
broke. I said to myself, “That is the last stroke! That is a
sign that all is at an end. ' I had nothing more from him. All
the jewelry I had pawned. And then I said to myself, that if I
destroyed myself that would hurt him, and I would be revenged.
The window was open, and I threw myself out of it. ”
"But, unfortunate creature that you are! the motive was as
frivolous as the action was criminal. ”
“Well — what then ? When one is in trouble, one does not
reflect. It is very easy for happy people to say, Be reason-
able. )
"I know it,- misfortune is a poor counselor; nevertheless,
even in the midst of the most painful trials there are things
one should not forget. I saw you a short while ago perform an
act of piety at St. Roch. You have the happiness to believe.
Your religion, my dear, should have restrained you, at the very
moment you were abandoning yourself to despair. You received
your life from God. It does not belong to you. But I am wrong
to scold you now, poor little one. You repent, you suffer: God
will have mercy upon you. ”
Arsène bent her head, and tears moistened her eyelids.
"Ah, madame! ” she said with a great sigh, "you believe me
to be better than I am. —You believe me to be pious. — I am not
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9953
(
-
>>>
(
very much so. — I was not taught- and if you saw me at church
burning a candle, it was because I - did not know what else to
put my wits at. )
“Well, my dear, it was a good thought. In misfortune, it is
always to God that one must turn. ”
“They told me that if I burned a candle to St. Roch But
no, madame, I cannot tell you that. A lady like you does not
know what one can do when one has not a sou.
“One must ask God for courage above all. ”
"Anyway, madame, I do not wish to make myself out better
than I am; and it would be stealing to profit by the charity
you show me, without knowing what I am. I am an unfortunate
girl — But in this world one lives as one can. — To come to
an end, madame, I burned a candle because my mother said that
when one burned a candle to St. Roch, eight days never passed
without finding some one — »
Madame de Piennes with downcast eyes murmured faintly:
« Your mother! Poor thing! how can you dare to say it? "
“Oh, my mother was like all mothers — all the mothers of
such as we. She supported her mother; I supported her; -fortu-
nately I have no child — I see, madame, that it frightens you --
but what would you have ? You have been well reared; you have
never lacked. When one is rich, it is easy to be honest. As for
me, I would have been honest had I had the means. I never
loved but one man, and he left me. - See, madame, I am talking
to you this way, so frankly, although I see what you think of
me; and you are right. But you are the only honest woman I
ever talked to in my life - and you look so good — that a while
ago I said to myself, “Even when she knows what I am, she
will take pity on me. I am going to die, and I ask of you only
one favor: to have a mass said for me in the church where I
first saw you. One single prayer, that is all, and I thank you
I
from the bottom of my heart. ”
“No, you will not die,” cried Madame de Piennes, greatly
moved. “God will have pity upon you, poor sinful one. You
will repent of your faults and he will pardon you. Those who
have reared you are more guilty than you are. Only have
courage and hope. Try above all to be calmer, my poor child.
The body must be cured; the soul is ill too; but I will answer
for its cure. ”
She had risen while speaking, rolling in her fingers a piece
of paper that contained a few louis.
XVII-623
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)
one.
« Take this,” she said, “if you have any little fancy — ”slip-
ping it under the pillow.
“No, madame! ” cried Arsène impetuously, thrusting back the
paper: «I do not wish anything from you but what you have
promised. Good-by. We shall see one another no more. Have
me taken to a hospital, so that I can die without bothering any
You would never be able to make anything out of me.
A great lady like you will have prayed for me; I am content.
Adieu. ”
And turning around as much as the apparatus that held her
to the bed would permit, she hid her head in the pillow, so as
to keep from seeing anything further.
“Listen, Arsène," said Madame de Piennes in a grave tone.
“I have plans for you: I want to make an honest woman of
you.
I have confidence in your repentance.
I shall see you
often, I shall take care of you. One day you will owe me your
self-esteem,” — taking her hand, which she pressed lightly.
« You have touched me,” cried the poor girl, "you have
pressed my hand. ”
And before Madame de Piennes could withdraw her hand, she
seized it and covered it with tears and kisses.
« Calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear,” said Madame de
Piennes. “ You must not talk any more. Now I know all, and
I understand you better than you understand yourself. It is I
who am to be the doctor of your head your poor weak head.
And you must obey me -I insist upon that — just like any other
doctor. I shall send you in a priest, one of my friends. You
must listen to him. I shall choose good books for you; you must
read them. We will talk together sometimes. And when you
get better, we will busy ourselves about your future. ”
The nurse entered, fetching a vial from the druggist. Arsène
continued to weep.
Repentance was not difficult for poor Arsène, who, with the
exception of a few hours of gross pleasure, had known only the
miseries of life.
The poor girl was in a pitiable condition. It was evident
that her last hour was near. Her respiration was nothing more
than a painful rattle; and Madame de Piennes was told that sev.
eral times during the morning she had been delirious, and that
the physician did not think she could last until the next day.
Arsène, however, recognized her protectress and thanked her for
coming
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“You will not tire yourself any more by mounting my stairs,”
she said in a faint voice.
Every word seemed to cost her a painful effort, and exhaust
the little strength she had left. They had to bend over her to
hear her. Madame de Piennes took her hand; it was already
cold and inanimate.
Max arrived shortly after, and silently approached the bed of
the dying girl. She made him a slight sign of the head, and
noticing that he had a book in his hand, — «You will not read
to-day,” she murmured faintly.
Abbé Dubignon, who had been all the morning with Arsène,
observing with what rapidity her strength was being exhausted,
wished to use for her salvation the few moments that yet re-
mained to her. He motioned Madame de Piennes and Max aside;
and bending over the bed of suffering, he spoke to the poor
girl those solemn and consoling words that religion reserves for
such moments. In a corner of the room, madame was on her
knees praying; Max, standing at a window, seemed transformed
into a statue.
“You pardon all those who have offended you, my daughter? ”
said the priest in a moved voice.
“Yes. May they be happy," said the dying girl, making an
effort to be heard.
“Trust in the mercy of God, my daughter,” resumed the
Abbé: "repentance opens the gates of heaven. ”
For several minutes longer the Abbé continued his exhorta-
tions; then he ceased to speak, in doubt whether he had not a
corpse before him.
Madame de Piennes softly arose to her feet,
and each one remained for awhile motionless, anxiously looking at
the livid face of Arsène. Each one was holding breath, for fear
of disturbing the terrible slumber that perhaps had commenced
for her; the ticking of a watch on the stand by the bed was dis-
tinctly heard in the room.
"She has passed away, the poor young lady," at last said the
nurse, after holding her snuff-box before the lips of Arsène:
see, the glass is not dimmed. She is dead. ”
"Poor child,” cried Max, coming out of the stupor in which
he seemed sunk, what happiness has she known in this world! »
Of a sudden, as if recalled by his voice, Arsène opened her
eyes: “I have loved,” she said in a lifeless voice. “I have
loved,” she repeated with a sad smile. They were her last words.
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Grace King.
»
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9956
THE MEXICAN NUN
LA MONJA DE MEXICO - JUANA YÑEZ DE LA CRUZ
(1651-1695)
BY JOHN MALONE
M
Hile, in the middle of the seventeenth century, that portion
of North America which now comprises the United States
was unexplored wilderness, the empire of Spain held a
brilliant court in the city of the Montezumas. Scholars, artists,
and philosophers, boasting the
best blood of proud Castilian
races, were gathered in the
New World about the persons
who represented the Crown and
its authority. Great must have
been the surprise of the learned
and able in the imperial city of
Madrid, when in 1689, in that
city, Maria Luisa, Countess of
Parades, wife of the viceroy of
Mexico, caused to be published
a volume of poems by a native
of the wonderful country in
which Cortez and his daring fol-
lowers had set up the triumph-
ant standard of Spain. Still
greater was the wonder when
upon reading, it was found that
THE MEXICAN NUN
these poems of "La Monja
de Mexico ” (The Mexican Nun)
were brilliant enough to compare with any from the pen of the most
admired and distinguished authors of the home land. So eagerly was
the book read, and so passionately admired, that in three years it
went through as many editions, and gained for the cloistered writer
the unanimous tribute of the title “La Decima Musa” (The Tenth
Muse).