She had a vague
recollection that he had done something foolish, and had trouble in
consequence. And instead of scolding him as he deserved, she forgave
him tacitly, with a magnanimous smile, like a little princess. "Dear
Uncle," she said, with an affectionate if slightly patronising tone:
"you must not worry yourself, it will all come out right.... Give me a
kiss!"
As Clerambault went away he was amused by the consolation he had
received from her whom he had gone to console. He realised how slight
our suffering must appear in the eyes of indifferent Nature. All her
concern is for the bloom of the coming spring. Let the dead leaves
fall now to the ground, the tree will grow all the better and put
forth fresh foliage in due season.... Lovely, beloved Spring!
Those who can never bloom again find you very cruel, gentle Spring!
Those who have lost all that they loved, their hopes, their strength,
their youth--everything that made life worth living to them....
The world was full of mutilated bodies and souls; some bitterly
lamenting their lost happiness, and some, yet more miserable,
sorrowing for what had been denied them, the cup dashed from their
lips, in the full bloom of love, and of their twenty years.
* * * * *
Clerambault came home one evening at the end of January, wet and
chilled through with the fog, after standing at a wood-yard.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231