The Choice of Life | Page 2

to which I pay
homage, without as yet being able to define it?
I dare not hope.
Hitherto, events have not justified me any more than my reason.
The swift walker goes alone upon his road; there is never any but his
shadow to follow him.
I know how conscious we are of our weakness when we try to bring our
energies into action; and I know that my pride will suffer, for I have
never seen my footprint on the sand without pitying myself....
2
Those who are close to our soul have no need of our words to
understand it; and those who are far removed from it do not hear us
speak. Then for whom do we speak, alas?
The blackbird's song describes precious waves in the still air; pearls are

scattered over the blue sky.
The lily's whiteness ascends like a fervent prayer; the bees make haste;
the careless butterflies enjoy their little day. Near me, a tiny ant
exhausts herself in a task too heavy for her strength. Lowly and
excellent counsellors, does not each of them set me the example of her
humble efforts?
CHAPTER II
1
It was yesterday. When I woke, the cornfield under my windows,
which seemed a steadfast sea of gold, had already half disappeared. The
scythes flashed in the sun; and the ripe corn fell in great unresisting
masses.
The smallest details of that meeting are present in my memory; and I
do not weary of living every moment of it over again. The air was cool.
I still feel the caress of my sleeves, which the wind set fluttering over
my arms. I drank the breeze in great gulps. It filled me, it revived me
from head to foot. My skirts hampered me and I went slowly, holding
my hat in both hands before my face and vaguely guided by the little
patches of landscape that showed through the loose straw: a glimpse of
blue sky, of swaying tree-tops, smoking chimneys and a dim horizon.
I have come to the far end of the field, where the reapers are. It is the
hour of the first meal. The men have laid down their scythes, the girls
have ceased to bind the sheaves and all are sitting on the slope beside
the road.
Curious, I go closer still. A young woman, whom the others call
"mademoiselle," is kneeling a few steps away from me, in front of the
provision-basket; she has her back turned to me and is distributing
slices of bread and cream-cheese to the labourers; she hands the jug
filled with cider to the one nearest her, who drinks and sends it round.
For one second the movement of her arm passes between the sky and
my gaze, which wavers a little owing to the brilliancy of the light; and

that arm dewy with heat appears to me admirably moulded, with bold,
pure lines.
She is dressed like her companions, in a coarse linen skirt, whose
uncouth folds disguise her hips, and a calico smock imprisoned in a
black laced bodice, a sort of shapeless, barbarous cuirass. A
broad-brimmed straw hat, adorned with a faded ribbon, casts its
shadow on her shoulders; but, when she bends her head, I see the glint
of her hair, whose tightly bound and twisted masses shine like coils of
gold.
The rather powerful neck is beautifully modelled. It is delicately
hollowed at the nape, where a little silver chain accentuates the gentle
curve. I can see almost nothing of her figure under the clumsy clothes,
but its proportions appear to me accurate and fairly slender.
I feel inclined to go away without a word; my fastidious eyes bring me
misgivings. When the first taste is good, why risk a second? But one of
the reapers has seen me. He bids me a friendly good-morning; and,
before I have time to answer, she has turned round.
It is so rare, in our country districts, to see a beautiful woman that, for
an instant, I blame the charm of the hour and accuse the friendly light
of complicity. But little by little her perfection overcomes my doubts;
and, the more I watch her, the lovelier I think her. The almost
statuesque slowness of her movements, the vigorous line of her body,
the glad colours that adorn her mouth, her cheeks and her bare arms
seem to make her share in the health of the soil. The fair human sheaf is
bound to nature like the golden sheaves that surround it.
Without stirring, we two stand looking at each other face to face.
2
O miracle of beauty, sovran of happiness and magnet of wandering
eyes, that day it shone in the noon-day sun like a star on the forehead of
that unhappy life; and it