alissa’s journal

aigues-vives

left le havre the day before yesterday; yesterday arrived at nîmes; my first journey! with no

housekeeping to do and no cooking to look after, and consequently with a slight feeling of idleness,

today, the 23rd may, 188-, my twenty-fifth birthday, i begin this journal – without much pleasure, a

little for the sake of company; for, perhaps for the first time in my life, i feel lonely – in a different, a

foreign land almost, one with which i have not yet made acquaintance. it has, no doubt, the same

things to say to me as normandy – the same that i listen to untiringly at fongueusemare – for god is

nowhere different from himself – but this southern land speaks a language i have not yet heard, and

to which i listen wondering.

24th may

juliette is dozing on a sofa near me – in the open gallery which is the chief charm of the house,

built as it is after the italian fashion. the gallery opens on to the gravelled courtyard which is a

continuation of the garden. without leaving her sofa, juliette can see the lawn sloping down to the

piece of water, where a tribe of parti-coloured ducks disport themselves, and two swans sail. a

stream which, they say, never runs dry in the heat of any summer, feeds it and then flows through the

garden, which merges into a grove of ever-increasing wildness, more and more shut in by the bed of

a dried torrent on the one side and the vineyards on the other, and finally strangled altogether between

them.

édouard teissières yesterday showed my father the garden, the farm, the cellars, and the

vineyards, while i stayed behind with juliette – so that this morning, while it was still very early, i

was able to make my first voyage of discovery in the park, by myself. a great many plants and

strange trees, whose names, however, i should have liked to know. i pick a twig of each of them so as

to be told what they are, at lunch. in some of them i recognize the evergreen oaks which jérôme

admired in the gardens of the villa borghèse or doria-pamfili – so distantly related to our northern

tree, of such a different character! almost at the further end of the park there is a narrow, mysterious

glade which they shelter, bending over a carpet of grass so soft to the feet that it seems an invitation

to the choir of nymphs. i wonder – i am almost scared that my feeling for nature, which at

fongueusemare is so profoundly christian, should here become, in spite of myself, half pagan. and

yet the kind of awe which oppressed me more and more was religious too. i whispered the words:

‘hic nemus’. the air was crystalline; there was a strange silence. i was thinking of orpheus, of

armida, when all at once there rose a solitary bird’s song, so near me, so pathetic, so pure, that it

seemed suddenly as though all nature had been awaiting it. my heart beat violently; i stayed for a

moment leaning against a tree, and then came in before anyone was up.

26th may

still no letter from jérôme. if he had written to me at le havre, his letter would have been

forwarded... i can confide my anxiety to no one but this book; for the last three days i have not been

distracted from it for an instant, either by our excursion yesterday to les baux, or by reading, or by

prayer. today i can write of nothing else; the curious melancholy from which i have been suffering

ever since i arrived at aigues-vives has, perhaps, no other cause – and yet i feel it at such a depth

within me that it seems to me now as if it had been there for a long time past, and as if the joy on

which i prided myself did no more than cover it over.

27th may

why should i lie to myself? it is by an effort of mind that i rejoice in juliette’s happiness. that

happiness which i longed for so much, to the extent of offering my own in sacrifice to it, is painful to

me, now that i see that she has obtained it without trouble, and that it is so different from what she

and i imagined. how complicated it all is! yes... i see well enough that a horrible revival of egoism

in me is offended at her having found her happiness elsewhere than in my sacrifice – at her not

having needed my sacrifice in order to be happy.

and now i ask myself, as i feel what uneasiness jérôme’s silence causes me: was that sacrifice

really consummated in my heart? i am, as it were, humiliated, to feel that god no longer exacts it.

can it be that i was not equal to it?

28th may

how dangerous this analysis of my sadness is! i am already growing attached to this book. is my

personal vanity, which i thought i had mastered, reasserting its rights here? no; may my soul never

use this journal as a flattering mirror before which to attire itself! it is not out of idleness that i write,

as i thought at first, but out of sadness. sadness is a state of sin, which had ceased to be mine, which i

hate, from whose complications i wish to free my soul. this book must help me to find my happiness

in myself once more.

sadness is a complication. i never used to analyse my happiness.

at fongueusemare i was alone, too, still more alone – why did i not feel it? and when jérôme

wrote to me from italy, i was willing that he should see without me, that he should live without me; i

followed him in thought, and out of his joy i made my own. and now, in spite of myself, i want him;

without him every new thing i see is irksome to me.

10th june

long interruption of this journal which i had scarcely begun; birth of little lise; long hours of

watching beside juliette; i take no pleasure in writing anything here that i can write to jérôme. i

should like to keep myself from the intolerable fault which is common to so many women – that of

writing too much. let me consider this notebook as a means of perfection.

there followed several pages of notes made in the course of her reading, extracts, etc. then, dated from

fongueusemare once more:

16th july

juliette is happy; she says so, seems so; i have no right, no reason to doubt it. whence comes this

feeling of dissatisfaction, of discomfort, which i have now when i am with her? perhaps from feeling

that such happiness is so practical, so easily obtained, so perfectly ‘to measure’ that it seems to cramp

the soul and stifle it...

and i ask myself now whether it is really happiness that i desire, so much as the progress towards

happiness. oh, lord! preserve me from a happiness to which i might too easily attain! teach me to

put off my happiness, to place it as far away from me as thou art.

several pages here had been tom out; they referred, no doubt, to our painful meeting at le havre. the journal

did not begin again till the following year; the pages were not dated, but had certainly been written at the time of my

stay at fongueusemare.

sometimes as i listen to him talking i seem to be watching myself think. he explains me and

discovers me to myself. should i exist without him? i am only when i am with him...

sometimes i hesitate as to whether what i feel for him is really what people call love – the picture

that is generally drawn of love is so different from that which i should like to draw. i should like

nothing to be said about it, and to love him without knowing that i love him. i should like, above all,

to love him without his knowing it.

i no longer get any joy out of that part of life that has to be lived without him. my virtue is all

only to please him – and yet, when i am with him, i feel my virtue weakening.

i used to like learning the piano, because it seemed to me that i was able to make some progress

in it every day. that too, perhaps, is the secret of the pleasure i take in reading a book in a foreign

language; not, indeed, that i prefer any other language whatever to our own, or that the writers i

admire in it appear to me in any way inferior to those of other countries – but the slight difficulty that

lies in the pursuit of their meaning and feeling, the unconscious pride of overcoming this difficulty,

and of overcoming it more and more successfully, adds to my intellectual pleasure a certain spiritual

contentment, which it seems to me i cannot do without.

however blessed it might be, i cannot desire a state without progress. i imagine heavenly joy, not

as a confounding of the spirit with god, but as an infinite, a perpetual drawing near to him... and if i

were not afraid of playing upon words i should say that i did not care for any joy that was not

progressive.

this morning we were sitting on the bench in the avenue; we were not talking, and did not feel

any need to talk... suddenly he asked me if i believed in a future life.

‘oh! jérôme!’ i cried at once, ‘it is more than hope i have; it is certainty.’

and it seemed to me, on a sudden, that my whole faith had, as it were, been poured into that

exclamation.

‘i should like to know,’ he added. he stopped a few moments; then: ‘would you act differently

without your faith?’

‘how can i tell?’ i answered; and i added: ‘and you, my dear, you yourself, and in spite of

yourself, can no longer act otherwise than as if you were inspired by the liveliest faith. and i should

not love you if you were different.’

no, jérôme, no, it is not after a future recompense that our virtue is striving; it is not for

recompense that our love is seeking. a generous soul is hurt by the idea of being rewarded for its

efforts; nor does it consider virtue an adornment: no, virtue is the form of its beauty.

papa is not so well again; nothing serious, i hope, but he has been obliged to go back to his milk

diet for the last three days.

yesterday evening, jérôme had just gone up to his room; papa, who was sitting up with me for a

little, left me alone for a few minutes. i was sitting on the sofa, or rather – a thing i hardly ever do – i

was lying down, i don’t know why. the lamp-shade was shading my eyes and the upper part of my

body from the light; i was mechanically looking at my feet, which showed a little below my dress in

the light thrown upon them by the lamp. when papa came back, he stood for a few moments at the

door, staring at me, oddly, half smiling, half sad. i got up with a vague feeling of shyness; then he

called me:

‘come and sit beside me,’ said he; and, though it was already late, he began speaking to me about

my mother, which he had never done since their separation. he told me how he had married her, how

much he had loved her, and how much she had at first been to him.

‘papa,’ i said to him at last, ‘do, please, say why you are telling me this this evening – what

makes you tell me this just this particular evening?’

‘because, just now, when i came into the drawing-room and saw you lying on the sofa, i thought

for a moment it was your mother.’

the reason i asked this so insistently was because that very evening jérôme was reading over my

shoulder, standing leaning over me. i could not see him, but i felt his breath and, as it were, the

warmth and pulsation of his body. i pretended to go on reading, but my mind had stopped working; i

could not even distinguish the lines; a perturbation so strange took possession of me that i was

obliged to get up from my chair quickly, whilst i still could; i managed to leave the room for a few

minutes, luckily without his noticing anything. but a little later, when i was alone in the drawing-

room and lay down on the sofa, where papa thought i looked like my mother, at that very moment i

was thinking of her.

i slept very badly last night; i was disturbed, oppressed, miserable, haunted by the recollection of

the past, which came over me like a wave of remorse.

lord, teach me the horror of all that has any appearance of evil.

poor jérôme! if he only knew that sometimes he would have but a single sign to make, and that

sometimes i wait for him to make it....

when i was a child, even then it was because of him that i wanted to be beautiful. it seems to me

now that i have never striven after perfection, except for him. and that this perfection can only be

attained without him, is of all thy teachings, my god! the one that is most disconcerting to my soul.

how happy must that soul be for whom virtue is one with love! sometimes i doubt whether there

is any other virtue than love... to love as much as possible and continually more and more... but at

other times, alas! virtue appears to me to be nothing but resistance to love. what! shall i dare to call

that virtue which is the most natural inclination of my heart? oh, tempting sophism! specious

allurement! cunning mirage of happiness!

this morning i read in la bruyère:

‘in the course of this life one sometimes meets with pleasures so dear, promises so tender, which

are yet forbidden us, that it is natural to desire at least that they might be permitted; charms so great

can be surpassed only when virtue teaches us to renounce them.’

why did i invent here that there was anything forbidden? can it be that i am secretly attracted by

a charm more powerful and a sweetness greater still than that of love? oh! that it were possible to

carry our own souls forward together, by force of love, beyond love!

alas! i understand now only too well; between god and him there is no other obstacle but myself.

if perhaps, as he says, his love for me at first inclined him to god, now that very love hinders him; he

lingers with me, prefers me, and i am become the idol that keeps him back from making further

progress in virtue. one of us two must needs attain to it; and as i despair of overcoming the love in

my coward heart, grant me, my god, vouchsafe me strength to teach him to love me no longer, so

that at the cost of my merits i may bring thee his, which are so infinitely preferable... and if today my

soul sobs with grief at losing him, do i not lose him to find him again hereafter in thee?

tell me, oh, my god! what soul ever deserved thee more? was he not born for something better

than to love me? and should i love him so much if he were to stop short at myself? how much all

that might become heroic dwindles in the midst of happiness!

sunday

‘god having provided some better thing for us.’

monday 3rd may

to think that happiness is here, close by, offering itself, and that one only has to put out one’s

hand to grasp it...

this morning, as i was talking to him, i consummated the sacrifice.

monday evening

he leaves tomorrow...

dear jérôme, i still love you with infinite tenderness; but never more shall i be able to tell you so.

the constraint which i lay upon my eyes, upon my lips, upon my soul, is so hard that to leave you is

a relief and a bitter satisfaction.

i strive to act according to reason, but at the moment of action the reasons which make me act

escape me, or appear foolish; i no longer believe in them.

the reasons which make me fly from him? i no longer believe in them... and yet i fly from him,

sadly and without understanding why i fly.

lord! that we might advance towards thee, jérôme and i together, each beside the other, each

helping the other; that we might walk along the way of life like two pilgrims, of whom one says at

times to the other: ‘lean on me, brother, if you are weary,’ and to whom the other replies: ‘it is

enough to feel you near me...’ but no! the way thou teachest, lord, is a narrow way – so narrow

that two cannot walk in it abreast.

4th july

more than six weeks have gone by without my opening this book. last month, as i was re-reading

some of its pages, i became aware of a foolish, wicked anxiety to write well... which i owe to him...

as though in this book, which i began only so as to help myself to do without him, i was

continuing to write to him.

i have tom up all the pages which seemed to me to be well written. (i know what i mean by this.)

i ought to have tom up all those in which there was any question of him. i ought to have tom them all

up, i could not.

and already, because i tore up those few pages, i had a little feeling of pride... a pride which i

should laugh at if my heart were not so sick.

it really seemed as though i had done something meritorious, and as though what i had destroyed

had been of some importance!

6th july

i have been obliged to banish from my bookshelves...

i fly from him in one book only to find him in another. i hear his voice reading me even those

pages which i discover without him. i care only for what interests him, and my mind has taken the

form of his to such an extent, that i can distinguish one from the other no better than i did at the time

when i took pleasure in feeling they were one.

sometimes i force myself to write badly in order to escape from the rhythm of his phrases; but

even to struggle against him is still to be concerned with him. i have made a resolution to read

nothing but the bible (perhaps the imitation), and to write nothing more in this book, except every

evening the chief text of my reading.

there followed a kind of diary, in which the date of each day, starting with july 1st, was accompanied by a text.

i transcribe only those which are accompanied by some commentary.

20th july

‘sell all that thou hast and give it to the poor.’

i understand that i ought to give to the poor this heart of mine which belongs only to jérôme. and

by so doing should i not teach him at the same time to do likewise?... lord, grant me this courage.

24th july

i have stopped reading the interior consolation. the old-fashioned language greatly charmed me,

but it was distracting, and the almost pagan joy it gives me is far removed from the edification which

i set myself to get from it.

i have taken up the imitation again and not even in the latin text, which i was vain of

understanding. i am glad that the translation in which i read it should not even be signed. it is true it

is protestant, but ‘adapted to the use of all christian communities,’ says the title.

‘oh, if thou wert sensible how much peace thou wouldest procure for thyself and joy for others,

by rightly ordering thyself, methinks thou wouldest be more solicitous for thy spiritual progress!’

10th august

if i were to cry to thee, my god, with the impulsive faith of a child and with the heavenly

tongues of angels...

all this comes to me, i know, not from jérôme, but from thee.

why, then, between thee and me, dost thou everywhere set his image?

14th august

only two months more in which to complete my work... oh, lord, grant me thy help!

20th august

i feel – i feel by my unhappiness that the sacrifice is not consummated in my heart. my god,

grant that henceforth i owe to none but thee the joy that he alone used to give me.

28th august

how mediocre and miserable is the virtue to which i attain! do i then exact too much from

myself?... to suffer no more.

what cowardice makes me continually implore god for his strength? my prayers now are

nothing but complainings.

29th august

‘consider the lilies of the field...’

this simple saying plunged me this morning into a sadness from which nothing could distract me.

i went out into the country and these words, which i kept continually repeating to myself, filled my

heart and eyes with tears. i contemplated the vast and empty plain where the labourer was toiling,

bent over his plough... ‘the lilies of the field...’ but, lord, where are they...?

16th september, 10 o’clock at night

i have seen him again. he is here under this roof. i see the light from his window shining on the

grass. he is still up as i write these lines, and perhaps he is thinking of me. he has not changed. he

says so and i feel it. shall i be able to show myself to him such as i have resolved to be, so that his

love may disown me?

24th september

oh, torturing conversation in which i succeeded in feigning indifference – coldness, when my

heart was fainting within me! up till now i had contented myself with avoiding him. this morning i

was able to believe that god would give me strength to be victorious and that to slink for ever out of

the combat was to prove myself a coward. did i triumph? does jérôme love me a little less? alas! i

both hope and fear it together. i have never loved him more.

and if it is thy will, lord, that to save him from me i must compass my own perdition, so be it.

‘enter into my heart and into my soul in order to bear in them my sufferings and to continue to

ensure in me what remains to thee to suffer of thy passion.’

we spoke of pascal... what did i say? what shameful foolish words? i suffered even as i uttered

them, but tonight i repent them as a blasphemy. i turned again to the heavy volume of the pensées,

which opened of itself at this passage in the letters to mademoiselle de roannez:

‘we do not feel our bonds as long as we follow willingly him who leads; but as soon as we begin

to resist and to draw away, then indeed we suffer.’

these words affected me so personally that i did not have strength to go on reading, but opening

the book in another place i came across an admirable passage which i did not know and which i have

just copied out.

the first volume of the journal came to an end here. no doubt the next had been destroyed, for in the papers

which alissa left behind the journal did not begin again till three years later – still at fongueusemare – in

september – a short time, that is to say, before our last meeting.

the last volume begins with the sentences which follow.

17th september

my god, thou knowest i have need of him to love thee.

20th september

my god, give him to me so that i may give thee my heart.

my god, let me see him only once more.

my god, i engage to give thee my heart. grant me what my love beseeches. i will give what

remains to me of life to thee alone.

my god, forgive me this despicable prayer, but i cannot keep his name from my lips nor forget

the anguish of my heart. my god, i cry to thee. do not forsake me in my distress.

21st september

‘whatever ye shall ask the father in my name...’

lord, in thy name, i dare not.

but though i no longer formulate my prayer, wilt thou be the less aware of the delirious longing

of my heart?

27th september

ever since the morning a great calm. spent nearly the whole night in meditation, in prayer.

suddenly i was conscious of a kind of luminous peace like the imagination i had as a child of the

holy ghost: it seemed to wrap me round, to descend into me. i went to bed at once fearing that my

joy was due only to nervous exaltation. i went to sleep fairly quickly without this felicity leaving me.

it is still here this morning in all its completeness. i have the certainty now that he will come.

30th september

jérôme, my friend! you whom i still call brother, but whom i love infinitely more than a brother...

how many times i have cried your name in the beech copse! every evening towards dusk i go out by

the little gate of the kitchen-garden and walk down the avenue where it is already dark. if you were

suddenly to answer me, if you were to appear there from behind the stony bank round which i so

eagerly seek you, or if i were to see you in the distance, seated on the bench waiting for me, my heart

would not leap... no! i am astonished at not seeing you.

1st october

nothing yet. the sun has set in a sky of incomparable purity. i am waiting. i know that soon i

shall be sitting with him on this very bench. i hear his voice already. i like it so much when he says

my name. he will be here! i shall put my hand in his hand. i shall let my head lean on his shoulder. i

shall breathe beside him. yesterday i brought out some of his letters with me to re-read, but i did not

look at them – i was too much taken up with the thought of him. i took with me, too, the amethyst

cross he used to like and which i used to wear one summer every evening as long as i did not want

him to go. i should like to give him this cross. for a long time past i have had a dream – that he was

married and i godmother to his first daughter, a little alissa, to whom i gave this ornament... why

have i never dared tell him?

2nd october

my soul today is as light and joyful as a bird would be that had made its nest in the sky. for today

he will come. i feel it! i know it! i should like to proclaim it aloud to the world. i feel i must write it

here. i cannot hide my joy any longer. even robert, who is usually so inattentive and indifferent to

what concerns me, noticed it. his questions embarrassed me and i did not know what to answer. how

shall i be able to wait till this evening?...

some kind of strange transparent bandage over my eyes seems to show me his image everywhere

– his image magnified, and all love’s rays are concentrated on a single burning spot in my heart.

oh! how this waiting tires me!

lord, unclose for me one moment the wide gateways of gladness.

3rd october

all is over. alas! he has slipped out of my arms like a shadow. he was here! he was here! i feel

him still. i call him. my hands, my lips seek him in vain in the night...

i can neither pray nor sleep. i went out again into the dark garden. i was afraid – in my room –

everywhere in the house – i was afraid. my anguish brought me once more to the door behind which

i had left him. i opened it with a mad hope that he might have come back. i called. i groped in the

darkness. i have come in again to write to him, i cannot accept my grief.

what has happened? what did i say to him? what did i do? why do i always want to exaggerate

my virtue to him? what can be the worth of a virtue which my whole heart denies? i was secretly

false to the words which god set upon my lips. in spite of all that my heart was bursting with, i could

bring nothing out. jérôme! jérôme, my unhappy friend in whose presence my heart bleeds and in

whose absence i perish, believe nothing of all i said to you just now, but the words spoken by my

love.

tore up my letter, then wrote again... here is the dawn, grey, wet with tears, as sad as my

thoughts. i hear the first sounds of the farm and everything that was sleeping re-awakens to life...

‘arise, now. the hour is at hand...’

my letter shall not go.

5th october

oh, jealous god, who hast despoiled me, take thou possession of my heart. all warmth

henceforth has forsaken it; nothing will touch it more. help me to triumph over the melancholy

remnant of myself. this house, this garden encourage my love intolerably. i must fly to some place

where i shall see none but thee.

thou wilt help me to bestow upon thy poor what fortune i possessed; let me leave

fongueusemare, which i cannot dispose of easily, to robert. i have made my will, it is true, but i am

ignorant of the necessary formalities and yesterday i could not talk to the lawyer properly, as i was

afraid he might suspect the decision i had taken and warn juliette and robert. i will finish this

business in paris.

10th october

arrived here so tired that i was obliged to stay in bed the first two days. the doctor, who was sent

for against my will, speaks of an operation which he considers necessary. what is the use of

objecting? but i easily made him believe that i was frightened at the idea of an operation and

preferred waiting till i had ‘regained my strength a little’.

i have managed to conceal my name and address. i have deposited enough money with the

management of the house for them to make no difficulty about taking me in and keeping me for as

long as god shall continue to think it necessary.

i like this room. the walls need no other decoration than their perfect cleanliness. i was quite

astonished to feel almost joyful. the reason is that i expect nothing more from life – that i must be

content now with god, and his love is sweet only if it fills to completion whatever space there is

within us...

the only book i have brought with me is the bible: but today there sounded in me louder than

any words i find there, this wild and passionate sob of pascal’s: ‘whatever is not god cannot satisfy

my longing.’

oh! too human joy, that my imprudent heart desired!... was it to wring this cry from me, lord,

that thou hast thus bereft me?

12th october

thy kingdom come! may it come in me; so that thou alone mayest reign over me and reign over

the whole of me. i will no longer grudge thee my heart.

though i am as tired as if i were very old, my soul keeps a strange childishness. i am still the

little girl, who could not go to sleep before everything in her room was tidy and the clothes she had

taken off neatly folded beside her bed... that is how i should like to get ready to die.

13th october

re-read my journal before destroying it. ‘it is unworthy of noble natures to spread round them the

disturbance they feel.’ it is, i think, clotilde de vaux who says this so finely.

just as i was going to throw this journal into the fire, i felt a kind of warning which held me back.

it seemed to me that it no longer belonged to me, that i had no right to deprive jérôme of it, that i had

never written it except for him. my anxieties, my doubts seem to me now so foolish that i can no

longer attach any importance to them, or believe that they will disturb jérôme. my god, grant that he

may at times catch in these lines the unskilled accent of a heart, passionately desirous of urging him

to those heights of virtue which i myself despaired of reaching.

‘my god, lead me to the rock that is higher than i.’

15th october

‘joy, joy, joy, tears of joy...’ [pascal]

above human joy and beyond all suffering, yes, i foresee that radiant joy. the ‘rock that is higher

than i’ bears, i know, the name of happiness... i understand that my whole life has been vain, except

in so far as it culminates in happiness... ah! lord, but thy promise to the pure and renouncing soul

was this: ‘blessed from henceforth’ said thy holy word, ‘blessed are they which die in the lord from

henceforth.’ must i wait until i die? this is the point where my faith wavers. lord! i cry unto thee

with all my strength. i am in the night! i am waiting for the dawn. i cry unto thee with a crying that

wastes me to death. come and slake the thirst of my heart. it is now, at once, that i thirst for

happiness... or ought i to persuade myself that i have it? and as the pipe of the impatient bird before

daybreak calls rather than heralds the light, ought i to sing, without waiting for the night to dwindle?

16th october

jérôme, i wish i could teach you perfect joy.

this morning i was shattered by a fit of sickness. and afterwards i felt so weak that for a moment

i hoped i was going to die. but no; first a great calm fell upon my whole being; then a pang of

anguish pierced me, a shudder of my flesh and soul; it was like the sudden and disenchanting

illumination of my life. it seemed to me that i saw for the first time the walls of my room in their

atrocious bareness. i was seized with fear. even now i am writing to reassure myself, to calm myself.

o lord! may i reach the end without blasphemy!

i was able to get up again. i went down on my knees like a child...

i should like to die now, quickly, before again realizing that i am alone.

i saw juliette again last year. more than ten years had gone by since her last letter, in which she

told me of alissa’s death. a journey to provence gave me an opportunity of stopping at nîmes. the

teissières occupy an important house in the avenue de feuchères, in a noisy and central part of the

town. although i had written to announce my arrival, it was with considerable emotion that i crossed

the threshold.

a maidservant showed me into the drawing-room, where juliette joined me in a few minutes. i

thought i saw aunt plantier – the same gait, the same stoutness, the same breathless hospitality. she

immediately began plying me with questions (without waiting for my answers) as to my career, my

manner of living in paris, my occupations, my acquaintances; what was my business in the south?

‘why shouldn’t i go on to aigues-vives, where édouard would be so happy to see me?... then she

gave me news of all the family, talked of her husband, her children, her brother, of the last vintage, of

the autumn prices... i learnt that robert had sold fongueusemare in order to live at aigues-vives:

that he was now édouard’s partner, which left her husband free to travel, and in particular to look

after the commercial side of the business, whilst robert stayed on the land, improving and increasing

the plantations.

in the meantime i was uneasily looking round for anything that might recall the past. i

recognized, indeed, amongst the otherwise new furniture of the drawing-room, certain pieces that

came from fongueusemare; but of the past which was quivering within me, juliette now seemed to

be oblivious, or else to be endeavouring to distract our thoughts from it.

two boys of twelve and thirteen were playing on the stairs; she called them in to introduce them

to me. lise, the eldest of her children, had gone with her father to aigues-vives. another boy of ten

was expected in from his walk; it was he whose advent juliette had told me of in the same letter in

which she had announced our bereavement. there had been some trouble over this last confinement;

juliette had suffered from its effects for a long time; then last year, as an afterthought, she had given

birth to a little girl, whom, to hear her talk, she preferred to all her other children.

‘my room, where she sleeps, is next door,’ said she; ‘come and see her.’ and as i was following

her: ‘jérôme, i didn’t dare write to you... would you consent to be the baby’s godfather?’

‘yes, with pleasure, if you would like me to,’ said i, slightly surprised, as i bent over the cradle.

‘what is my god-daughter’s name?’

‘alissa...’ replied juliette, in a whisper. ‘she is a little like her, don’t you think so?’

i pressed juliette’s hand, without answering. little alissa, whom her mother lifted, opened her

eyes; i took her in my arms.

‘what a good father you would make!’ said juliette, trying to laugh. ‘what are you waiting for to

marry?’

‘to have forgotten a great many things,’ i replied, and watched her blush.

‘which you are hoping to forget soon?’

‘which i do not hope ever to forget.’

‘come in here,’ said she, abruptly, leading the way into a smaller room, which was already dark,

and of which one door led into her bedroom, and another into the drawing-room. ‘this is where i

take refuge when i have a moment to myself; it is the quietest room in the house; i feel that i am

almost sheltered from life in here.’

the window of this small drawing-room did not open, like those of the other rooms, on to the

noises of the town, but on to a sort of courtyard planted with trees.

‘let us sit down,’ said she, dropping into an armchair. ‘if i understood you rightly it is to alissa’s

memory that you mean to remain faithful.’

i stayed a moment without answering.

‘rather, perhaps, to her idea of me. no, don’t give me any credit for it. i think i couldn’t do

otherwise. if i married another woman, i could only pretend to love her.’

‘ah!’ said she, as though indifferently, then turning her face away from me, she bent it towards

the ground, as if she were looking for something she had lost. ‘then you think that one can keep a

hopeless love in one’s heart for so long as that?’

‘yes, juliette.’

‘and that life can breathe upon it every day, without extinguishing it?’

the evening came slowly up like a grey tide, reaching and flooding each object which seemed to

come to life again in the gloom and repeat in a whisper the story of its past. once more i saw alissa’s

room, all the furniture of which juliette had collected together here. and then she turned her face

towards me again, but it was too dark for me to distinguish her features, so that i did not know

whether her eyes were shut or not. i thought her very beautiful. and we both now remained without

speaking.

‘come!’ said she at last: ‘we must wake up.’

i saw her rise, take a step forward, drop again, as though she had no strength, into the nearest

chair; she put her hands up to her face and i thought i saw that she was crying.

a servant came in, bringing the lamp.