For a while, we found that Mr. Vandeyi avoided meeting acquaintances, and whenever he saw acquaintances at a distance, he turned around and walked away; in a few months, he was obviously much older and sad. He had no intention of asking anything that had nothing to do with his daughter's happiness; he often spent the whole day wandering in front of his deceased wife's grave. Obviously, his heart was in agony; it was easy to guess that he was not totally deaf to gossip. He knows it all, and even believes it to be true. For ordinary people, no matter how noble his virtues are and how entangled he is, he may be able to get along with the evil deeds he has always hated, because he can not see through the bad deeds in disguise, because they appear in a special form in front of his eyes, and he feels uncomfortable. But it is impossible to judge: for example, one night, he heard some strange words and witnessed some incomprehensible acts, and the person who said these words and did these acts was the one who had all kinds of reasons to love and pity. However, to be resigned to the situation in which ordinary people mistakenly believe that only Gypsy people have, for people like Mr. Vandeyi, it will be much more painful than others. A hobby is something that is induced by natural instinct in a child. Sometimes it only needs to reconcile the morality of the parents, just like the color of the child's eyes, to induce a hobby. Whenever this hobby requires an essential occasion and a minimum of safety, a situation like that of a gypsy will arise. Nevertheless, Mr. Van der Eyre may know something about his daughter's behavior, but his love for her does not diminish slightly. Facts do not enter the realm of our beliefs; they neither produce nor destroy them; they persevere in refuting our beliefs, but they cannot shake our people's beliefs; and they will never make the family doubt God's mercy and the wisdom of doctors if their families continue to suffer and the scourge of disease falls. But when Mr. Vandeyi considers himself and his daughter from the standpoint of fame, from the standpoint of common people, and when he tries to make himself and his daughter rank among the people who are generally respected, he inevitably has social stereotypes, which are identical with those of the people who are most hostile to him in Gombre, he finds himself. Having fallen into the most disgusting end with his daughter, he has recently become self-abased and humble in his manner, admiring noble people from the bottom (though some people used to be much more humble than him), and showing a tendency to strive for heights, which is inevitable for all the underprivileged. A mechanical reaction. One day, we were walking with Mr. Swan on a street in Gombre, and Mr. Vander, who came out of another street, suddenly met us face to face. He couldn't escape, so Mr. Swan talked with him for a long time. Mr. Swan is a kind man who has seen the world and shows compassion in his speech and manner. He can not only eliminate his moral prejudice, but also find forgivable reasons from the humiliation of others. This generous gesture is more valuable to him than to the beneficiaries, and his self-esteem is greatly satisfied. In the past, he had never talked to Mr. Van der Eyre. Today, before he said goodbye to us, he asked Mr. Van der Eyre if he could let his daughter play in Songville. Such an invitation would have angered Mr. Van der Eyre two years ago, but today he feels grateful for it and feels guilty of it. He must not accept it shallowly. He felt that Mr. Swan's kindness to her daughter was in itself a decent and cordial support for him. Wouldn't it be better if he didn't take advantage of the opportunity to appreciate his kindness?
"How elegant he is," he sighed after Swan had said good-bye to us, in a tone that resembled a smart, beautiful civilian woman, who admired the grace of a duchess with all her heart and soul, even though she was ugly and old. Mr. Vandeyi was equally excited." How elegant he is! It's a pity that he married a woman with an improper portal. It's heartbreaking!"
At that time, the most sincere person's speech was also mixed with many false feelings. When talking to this person, he always forgot all about his views. When he left, he quickly commented on him. My elders, together with Mr. Vandeyi, lamented Swan's improper marriage, saying that it deviated from the principles and did not conform to the rules (they even mentioned them with Mr. Vandeyi to show that they were just as well-behaved as he was). Obviously, the implication was that Mr. Vandeyi's family had never gone beyond the rules. Rules and practices. Mr. Vander did not let his daughter go to Swan's house. Mr. Swan regretted that, because whenever he met Mr. Vander, he would always ask a person whose surname was also Vander's when he broke up. He thought that he must be Mr. Vander's family. When he arrived, he never forgot to ask an important question: When is Mr. Vandeyi going to bring his gold to Dangsongville?
Since the walk to Messengeris is the shorter of the two routes we take outside Gombre, we always go on uncertain days, so the weather over Messengeris often wet, and our eyes are always on the clearing in the Luxenville forest. There are many branches and leaves in the forest. We can take shelter from the rain if necessary. Notre Dame de Paris
Often the sun hides behind a cloud, which changes the face of the sun, and the sun paints the edges of the cloud yellow. Although the fields are still bright, they are not glorious. The grass and plants seem to be hanging in the sky. The small village over Russenville carved a series of white reliefs on the ridges of the sky delicately and carefully. A light breeze startled a crow, which fluttered into the distance and fell again. The chalky sky in the distance set off the trees more quietly, like glazed bricks adorning the walls of an old-fashioned house.
Sometimes, the rain predicted by the barometer in the kitchen window of the glasses shop finally began to fall, raindrops like migratory birds flying in rows and falling from the sky. They were close to each other, in the rapid speed, no drop left the team, each drop of rain not only kept its place, but also led the rain behind to follow closely, the sky * suddenly darkened like a swallow flying over a group of spring. We ran into the woods to shelter from the rain. After the shower, occasionally a few lazy and slow drops of rain fell, and we could not help but walk out of the woods, because the raindrops only played among the leaves. The ground is almost dry, but there are more than one two points in the tree chasing between the veins, or hanging on the tip of the leaf to rest, facing the sun shining, cold unexpectedly falling from its resting branches, dripping on our faces.
We often rush to the porch of St. Andrey's Church in a panic to shelter from the rain with stone statues of saints and elders. What a strong French flavor that church has! The saints, kings and knights on the door, each holding a lily, attending wedding ceremonies, or attending funerals, all vividly expressed the kind of look they should have in Franois's mind. The sculptor also depicted the story scenes in Aristotle's and Virgil's works, but in a manner similar to Francois's casual mention of St. Louis's past in the kitchen, listening to her voice as if she knew St. Louis herself and knew him well, and generally speaking, he was always mentioned as The factory compares him with my grandparents, who are not as "just" as St. Louis. We can feel that the medieval stone carving artists and the medieval female peasant (who lived to cook for us in the nineteenth century) are obviously neither accurate nor simple in their conception of ancient history or Christian history. Their historical knowledge is not derived from books, but directly from ancient times. The legends handed down orally from generation to generation and passed on from generation to generation have always been active though their original appearance is hard to recognize. I recognized another Gombre figure, and he was foreshadowed by the odd age sculptures of St. Andrey's Church: the young Daodor, a fellow at the Garmy grocery store. Franois actually felt that he was a strong person in her native place, and that she was a good cook. So when Aunt Leonie became more ill and Franois could no longer turn over and take her to the armchair alone, she would rather ask Diodor for help than let the kitchen lady go upstairs to "please" me. My aunt. The boy, who was fairly regarded as a troublemaker, was filled with the spirit of the relief sculpture of St. Andrey's Church, especially with the kind of respect Franois felt for the "poor patient" and her "poor hostess". When he put my aunt's head on the pillow, his face was innocent and warm, like the angels in relief with candles around the weak silk mother, as if those bare stone carvings were like winter trees, but temporarily in a dormant state. Sooner or later, they would be like Diodorna. Such a respectful and cunning, red as ripe apples, thousands of people's faces renewed their vitality. The image of a saint, no longer attached to the stones like those angels, emerged from the portico crowd; she was taller than the real person, standing on a stone foundation, as if standing on a bench to avoid her feet touching the wet ground; her face was plump and strong-breasted. Dresses bulging from the chest, like ripe fruit in sacks; narrow forehead, short and naughty nose, deep sockets, lively is a strong, rough and spicy look of the local farm girls. This vivid sculpture gives the statue a delicate and reasonable injection of a kind of tender sentiment that I had not expected to see before. Often several village aunts come to shelter from the rain as we do. Their voice and posture prove the accuracy of the sculpture. Like wild branches and leaves growing in the cracks near the branches and leaves of the stone carvings, it seems that they intentionally want to contrast with the sculpture to make people realize how vividly the works of art are depicted in front of us. Whether it is a land of paradise or a place of evil punished by heaven? I have never been in anyway. Sometimes the rain here has stopped, and Russenville continues to be punished by the rainstorm like the village mentioned in the Old Testament. The rainwater pours like whips on the houses of the city dwellers. Sometimes it is forgiven by God, and the sun reappears like a sacrifice. The reflective golden rays of Tai Sheng's vessel fell like tassels to the head of Luxenville.
Several times the weather was so bad that we had to go home or shut up. The fields on either side - cloudy - sunken, wet, far away as the vast sea, several lonely houses attached to the dark and rainy hillside, like boats with sails in floodlight, motionless moored in the vast night sea, what is more, a rain, or even a storm? Hinder! In summer, bad weather is just the temper of sunny weather, the surface-cloudy-sunny cannot conceal the potential and inherent sunshine; unlike the unstable sunshine in winter, sunshine in summer takes root on the ground and turns into dense branches and leaves; rainwater drops on branches and leaves can not damage the flourishing of branches and leaves. Throughout the summer, the sunny weather planted its Lavender * or white * banners all over the village streets and lanes, waving on the walls of houses and gardens. I sat in the small living room reading, waiting for dinner, and heard the pouring rain dripping from the currant trees in the garden. I knew that the pouring rain only made the leaves more moist and shiny. The trees were like collateral for summer, and they were rained all night to ensure the continuity of the sunny weather. I knew that despite the rain, they were raining all night. Tomorrow, when Songville's white palisade walls, the heart-shaped lilac leaves will still sway densely; I do not feel sad when I see the poplar struggling painfully and desperately in the storm in Bezanne Street; I hear thunder rolling through the lilac bushes at the end of the garden, and I am not dismayed by it.
If early in the morning - cloudy - rainy, my elders give up walking, then I can not go out. But then I used to go for a walk alone with Mercedes. That autumn. We went to Gombre to mourn because my Aunt Leonie was dead at last. Her death not only justifies the claim that her treatment will only deteriorate her health and ultimately lead to death, but also proves that it is the persistent view that she does not harm by hypocrisy but by organic * pathological changes that is the real insight; only when she dies, did the original skeptics have to admit defeat in front of the facts. Her death only caused great sorrow for a man who was uneducated and crude. During the last fifteen days of my aunt's illness, Franois kept watch over her day and night. She did not take off her clothes to sleep, nor let anyone take care of her. She did not break up with her until her aunt was buried. It turned out that her aunt spoke harshly to Franois, suspected that she was evil-minded and often lost her temper, which made Franois nervous all the time. In the past, we thought that she must have a secret hatred for her aunt. Now we know that she was afraid of her aunt, which is actually awe and admiration. That's her real hostess. When she was alive, she used unpredictable ideas and imposed irresistible tricks, but she was naturally compassionate and emotional. Now, such a queen, such a mysterious and supreme monarch, has passed away. Compared with her, we are in Franoise's heart. It's too insignificant. After that, although we went to Gombre every year for our holidays, it took years for us to win the prestige my aunt enjoyed in Francois's eyes. That autumn, my parents were busy with formalities, talking with notaries and tenants, and seldom had time to go out; moreover, occasionally when they were free, the gods were often not beautiful, so I often went for a walk alone with Messegris. To keep out the rain, I put on a Scottish cloak, which I intentionally put on my shoulder, because I felt that Franoise would be angry at the sight of the square on the Scottish tweed. We could not tell her that the color of the clothes * had nothing to do with filial piety. Besides, our sadness at the death of our aunt, She was also dissatisfied because we didn't have a big funeral party, we didn't use a special tone when we mentioned our aunt, and sometimes I even hummed songs in my mouth. I believe that if any book, based on the Song of Roland or the relief scenes in St. Andrey's Church, offered such a view of mourning, I would like Franois to think it very pleasant and agreeable. But Franois was right around me, and there was always a devil who instigated me to annoy her deliberately. I grabbed an excuse and said to her: Aunt is dead. I am sad because although she is funny, she is a kind-hearted person after all, not because she is my aunt; if she is my aunt, but I think she is very annoying, then I will never be sad when she dies. In that case, if it appears in any book, even I would feel a great adversity.
If Franois, like a poet at that time, had only a fluid and vague sense of grief and family mourning, and had no answer to my theory, but said, "I can't say it clearly," then I would have been worthy of Dr. Besbye's advice and reasonably ignorant of her self-recognition. I would shrug my shoulders and mutter to myself, "I'm so kind to go home and waste my breath with such an illiterate person who believes in you." In this way, I take the narrow point of view of ordinary people to judge Franoise's good and bad, playing the most likely role of the most despicable and one-sided men in life when they encounter mom-in-law scenes.
That autumn, I felt very happy walking, because I always read books for hours before going out for a walk. Throughout the morning, I sat in the lobby reading, tired of reading, I put the Scottish cloak on my shoulders and went out for a walk. After a long period of rest, my body has accumulated abundant vitality. It needs to consume the accumulated energy in the process of wandering like a thrown-out gyroscope. The outer walls of the house, when the fences in Songville, the trees in the Russenville forest, and the bushes behind Monshufan were beaten by my umbrella or cane, I heard my cheerful cries. These cries, just vague feelings, have not yet found a home in the light. They can't wait for a slow and difficult clarification. They prefer to find a shortcut to vent immediately. In fact, most of our so-called statements about our inner feelings are just to relieve us and let our feelings be released from our hearts in a vague form, which can not make us realize the true meaning of our feelings at all. When I tried to sum up what I had gained from Mercedes, how many tiny new discoveries I had made from the unexpected scenery * or at least the cause of my excitement, I couldn't help recalling that autumn when I walked up to the bushy hillside behind Montessorvon and was surprised for the first time. How incongruous are our impressions and our habitual expressions? After a merry hour of fighting against the storm, I came to a tiled hut near the Pond of Mengshufan, where Mr. Vandeyi's gardener laid gardening tools. The sun reappeared, its golden glow shining brightly on the horizon, on the branches, on the walls of the hut, and on the still wet tiles and roofs, washed by the rainstorm. A hen was walking on the roof. The wind flattened the weeds growing in the cracks of the wall, and all the feathers of the hens stood up, like a cluster of senseless, lightly floating things. The wind blew directly to the root of the feathers. The sunshine also made the pool water reflect the scenery of the pool like a mirror. The roof of the hut formed a pink streak on the water. I had never noticed such a streak before. I found pale smiles on the water and the walls echoing the smiles of the sky; I couldn't help feeling so excited that I raised my umbrella, which I had already collected, and said hello. At the same time, I felt that I should not confine myself to making a purposeful click, but should understand the root cause of my delight.
It was on that occasion that I learned that the same excitement did not occur to everyone in a predetermined order at the same time. Thanks to a passing farmer whose face was not very happy, I danced and almost hit him with an umbrella in the face, and his face was even more gloomy. I said happily, "Good weather, isn't it? It's so pleasant to go out and walk." His reaction was cold. Later, whenever I read a book for half a day and I am interested in finding someone to talk to, my friends who I hope to talk to are always talking about the past. I hope others will make him feel at ease to read. If I were filial, thinking about my parents and deciding to do something that would please them the most, they would blame me me for a fault I had forgotten at that time, and they would scold me when I was going to kiss them.
Sometimes, besides the excitement that loneliness gives me, there is another kind of excitement that I can't tell. It is caused by a desire. I hope that a farm woman will suddenly appear in front of me so that I can embrace her. In the midst of many totally different thoughts, such an idea suddenly sprang up, and I had no time to ascertain its exact origin and course, only felt that the pleasure that accompanied it was just a sublimation of the pleasure that all thoughts gave me. Everything I thought of at that time - the peach-red reflection of the tiled roof on the water, the weeds in the cracks, the villages in Russenville that I had long wanted to see, the trees in the forest, the bell tower of the church, all had further value because I felt the new excitement inside me, because I thought that It is all this that inspires the sublimation of my pleasure. It is like a strong, mysterious and unpredictable downwind, full of my sails, as if to send me into the embrace of all this faster. However, the idea of looking forward to the emergence of girls for me, of course, adds to the charm of the enchanting nature some kind of echo, on the contrary, the charm of nature also expands the charm of the girls who are too limited. As if the graceful trees also reflected the beauty of the girl, as if looking at the natural scenery, the village of Russenville, the books I read that year, all have their own souls, and the soul to be passed on to me by the kiss of the girl, my imagination once touched my physical feelings, it achieved vigorous vitality, it Like an electric current, it spreads everywhere I imagine, so my desire is no longer limited. In the embrace of nature, imagination often occurs when the role of habits is temporarily interrupted, and our abstract concepts of things are thrown aside. We sincerely believe that where we are, life is unique and has its own unique personality*. So, my desire | looks forward to the girl we are calling to. To me, it is not a typical character of this kind, not just a woman, but an inevitable and natural product of this land. Because, at that time, everything outside me, whether the earth or the living things, I felt particularly valuable, especially important, with a particularly real anger; they are not so valuable in the minds of adults, so real. And the earth, the living beings, was closely connected with me at that time. I want to meet the peasant girls of Messengerlis or Russenville, and the fisherwoman of Barbeck, just as I want to see the scenery of Messengerlis and the scenery of Barbeck. If I change their environment at will, the pleasure they may give me will become less real, and I may even lose faith in it. Meeting a Barbeck fisherwoman or a Mercedes farmer girl in Paris is like getting shells I've never seen on the beach, taking a bunch of ferns that I haven't met in the woods, it's like removing the pleasure of the environment from the pleasure she gave me, but I imagine she's natural. Beautiful scenery. If I wander through the forests of Russenville and I don't meet a farm girl who can be hugged, I can't recognize the hidden treasure of the forest and its deep beauty. I can only imagine the projection of the girl covered with leaves. In my mind, she is a local plant, but higher in taste than other plants. Her structure can make me feel the local flavor more deeply. The reason why I recognized it so easily (and believed that the caress she gave me in order to make me feel deeper was unique, and that other girls could not make me feel so happy except her), because I was very naive for a long time and had not won the hearts and hearts of all kinds of women. The pleasure of different women is abstracted, but it has not yet been generalized as a universal concept: different women can only be regarded as a tool to achieve the same pleasure, and each other can change at will. But at that time, the pleasure in my mind did not even exist in isolation, unrelated to other things, and self-contained. It had neither the purpose of pursuing women nor the experience of feeling confused beforehand. It seems as if it can be readily available at the thought of it; it is more appropriate to call it pleasure than the charm of a girl; for I am not thinking about myself, but about how to transcend myself. This kind of secretly anticipated, intrinsic and secret pleasure only reaches a climax at some time, that is, when the girl beside us looks at us affectionately, kisses us and causes us another pleasure, that pleasure in our feelings, especially like an impulse of gratitude to her. We compare this kindness, this favor, to grace, to happiness that satisfies us.
Alas! In vain, I pleaded with the tower of Russenville, as if to ask my only confidant friend, to let the girl of the village come to me, for I saw only the shadow of the clock tower in the room full of calamus fragrance upstairs of Gombre's house, in the middle of the half-closed lattice window. All the desires that sprang up in my heart told it; like an adventurer or a desperate suicide man, I hesitated and hesitated before making a heroic act, and finally became discouraged, trying to find a new way out of myself, but thinking that I was facing a desperate situation; all of a sudden, I found that, except for hanging down to the end of the mountains and rivers. In addition to the branches and leaves of the wild blackcurrant tree in front of me, there is such a snail-like footprint of nature. Now I beg for it, but it ignores it. I stared at the vast field in front of me in vain. I squeezed it with my eyes, trying to squeeze out a girl from it, but in vain. I could go all the way down to the porch of St. Andrey's Church to try my luck, but I never met a farm girl with certainty until I went with my grandfather, and then I couldn't talk to her. I stared at the trunk of a tree in the distance, looking forward to a girl coming out of the tree; the distance I looked for was never seen. As the darkness faded, I hopelessly held my attention to the barren soil, the exhausted land, as if to suck out potentially hidden creatures; I was no longer in high spirits, but beating the trees in the Russenville Forest with great anger, from which no living people would come, as if. They are just images painted on a circular canvas. I didn't want to go home before I hugged the girl I was so eager to hug, but after all I had to go back to Gombre; I couldn't help realizing that the chances of an unexpected encounter on the way * were slim. Besides, even if I met her halfway, would I dare to talk to her? I thought she might think of me as a madman; I no longer believed that the unrealistic desires I had during those walks would resonate with others and that such desires were still real outside my heart. I just think it's the product of my temperament, a purely subjective, powerless, hallucinatory creation. These desires have nothing to do with nature and reality, so reality loses all its charm and meaning, and becomes only a continuing framework of my real life, which is equivalent to the passengers sitting in the car reading a novel in order to kill time, and the car is the framework of the fantasy world of that novel.
A few years later, I probably had the same impression in the vicinity of Montesufan, which was still very vague at that time. It took me a long time to suddenly think of the concept of sadism. Eventually you will see that this impression has played a vital role in my life, though for other reasons. On that day, the weather was very hot. My elders had something to go out. If they could not come back during the day, they said to me, I would like to go home as late as I like. I went all the way to Montesufan's pond. I loved the reflection of the roof in the pond. I fell asleep on the bushy hillside where my father had been waiting for him when he visited Mr. Vandeyi. When I woke up, it was almost dark. I was about to get up when I saw Miss Vander (at least I thought I recognized her because I rarely saw her in Gombre, and she was a child when she started growing up as a girl) who must have just returned home a few centimeters from me, right in front of me. Her father once received my father in the room she used as her own small living room. The window was half hidden and the light was on in the room. I could see her every move, but she could not see me. But if I stepped on the dead branches of the bushes, she would hear the sound, thinking that I was hiding there to peek at her intentionally.
She was dressed in filial piety because her father died soon. We didn't go to see her. My mother was reluctant to see her because of a virtue that limited her kindness and magnanimity, that is, her sense of shame; but she still had pity for Miss Vandey in her heart. My mother never forgot Mr. Vandeyi's sad old age. He took good care of his daughter like a mother and a maid. For the rest of his life, he worried about his daughter first, and then fell into the pain that her daughter caused him. In the last few years, the old man's face was full of sorrow and sorrow, and my mother had always seen her. You know, Mr. Vandeyi abandoned his plan to put his last few works on the music score completely. Although they were only the works of an old piano teacher and an organist in a country church, they certainly had little value in themselves, but we did not underestimate them, because they were of great significance to him. Before he made sacrifices for his daughter, they were the reasons for him to live. Most of them were not even written down, but were kept in his mind. Some of them were scattered on fragmentary pieces of paper. Their handwriting was unclear and they were bound to be lost. My mother thought of another thing that Mr. Vandeyi could not help giving up, which was even worse: he had to give up his expectation of his daughter's future happiness, which was both decent and respected; it hurt the heart of my aunts and grandmothers'former piano teacher most, and my mother thought of what had happened. She thought that Miss Van der Eyre must hate it too. Of course, the bitterness is totally different. Miss Van der Eyre's mourning should be mixed with regret, because her father was almost killed by her." Mr. Van der Eyre is miserable, "said my mother." He lived for his daughter and died for her, but he didn't get the reward he deserved. Now that he's dead, what can he get in return? How to repay? Only his daughter can repay his kindness."
On the mantelpiece at the other end of Miss Vander's living room, there was a portrait of her father. As soon as she heard the sound of rolling cars and horses on the road, she rushed to fetch the statue and sat down on the couch, pulled over a coffee table and put it on it, just as Mr. Vandei put the music he wanted to play to my parents in his hands. After a while, Miss Vandeyi's girlfriend came into the living room. She said hello, but did not get up. Her hands were still behind her head, and she moved her body to the other end of the sofa as if to make room for visitors to sit. But she immediately realized that she seemed to have to adopt an attitude that she might think was superfluous to her visitors. She thought her friend might prefer to sit away from her. She felt herself out of order and her sensitive mind became alert. She lay on the couch again, closed her eyes and yawned, indicating that she was lying down just because she wanted to sleep. Although the undisguised intimacy prevailed in her relationship with that girlfriend, I found that her speech and manner still had the characteristics of her father's red tape and flickering words; she often stopped talking and suddenly became rigid. As soon as she closed her eyes, she got up again and pretended she wanted to close the window, but she couldn't.
"Let it go, I'm hot," said her girlfriend.
"It's awkward to drive. People will see us," answered Miss Vander.
She must have guessed what her friend would think; her friend knew that what she said was nothing more than a deliberate attempt to tease her to answer and say what she wanted to hear, but out of caution she was not able to point it out, but to say it on her own initiative. So, when she hastily added the following sentence, her eyes must have a special expression that my grandmother appreciated, but I could not tell it at that time. She hastily added that:
"When I say to see us, I mean to see us reading and studying, and to think that people's eyes are watching us, he can see everything we do clearly. How awkward it is."
She was generous in nature, and more out of an unconscious courtesy, she did not say what she had considered beforehand, although she believed that these words were essential to the successful realization of her wishes. Deep in her heart, there was a shy and earnest virgin at all times, pleading that a rude soldier who had the upper hand should not be rude to her or approach her.
"By the way, it's so late, in such crowded countryside, people will really look at us," her girlfriend sarcastically said. "How about seeing it!" She went on to say (and she thought it necessary to squeeze her eyes cunningly when she said it kindly, as if she were reading an article she knew Miss Vandeyi loved to listen to, and she preferred to read it in a cynical tone), "Whoever likes to look at it is better, isn't it?"
Miss Vander shivered and stood up. Her stiff and passionate eyes did not know what to say sincerely in order to satisfy her seven passions and six desires. She went beyond her true nature as far as she could, and found some coquettish girls to speak out. She really wanted to be such a person, but she thought that what she said naturally appeared to her lips to be false. The few words she dared to utter were rather far-fetched, and her shy habits made it impossible for her to exert her only pungency. Just listen to her nagging: "You are neither too cold nor too hot. You don't want to read any books alone, do you?"
"I think you have a bit of spring tonight, miss." She finally said this, probably repeating a sentence she had heard from her girlfriend.
Miss Vandeyi felt her girlfriend kiss at the fork of her Jorge's bra; she gave a whisper as if she had been stabbed by something, and then flickered away. So they jumped and chased, their wide sleeves flapping like wings, and they giggled like two flirting birds. Later, Miss Vandeyi finally fell into the sofa, and her girlfriend immediately pressed herself on her, but the girlfriend intentionally turned her back towards the small table with the portrait of the late piano teacher. Miss Van der Eyre knows that unless she draws attention, her girlfriend will never pay attention to the portrait. So she said to her girlfriend as if she had just discovered it.
"Ah! My father's portrait is watching us! I don't know who put it on the small table again. How many times have I said that it's not the place where the photos are.
I remember that Mr. Vandeyi said the same thing to my father about the score. The portrait must have been used to being used as a tool for blasphemy rituals because the girlfriend's reply seemed to be the singing of such rituals; she said:
"Leave it alone! Anyway, he can't blame us any more. Do you think that old thing will come crying and put on your coat when he sees you here and the window is open?
"Come on, come on," answered Miss Vandeyi, a slightly reproachful reply proving her generosity, not because she was angry when people talked about her father in that tone (apparently, out of some strange logic, there was always a feeling that she was used to at such times. Habitually buried in the heart but not revealed), but because it is tantamount to a restraint to herself, her girlfriend is trying to provide her with happiness, she intends to restrain herself in order not to appear self-conscious. However, this mild compromise between blasphemy and acts, this delicate voice and fragrant fake voice, seemed particularly despicable to her frank nature, just like the sweet words of men and women prostitutes; she preferred to be proficient in such shameless ways. But she couldn't resist the temptation to be happy; someone was so kind to her that she felt so happy that he was so mean to the defenceless dead. She jumped up and sat down on her girlfriend's lap, and naively put her head forward to kiss her as if she were her daughter. At the same time, she was very happy to feel that they were going to be cruel to the end, and together they went to Mr. Vander's grave to steal his father's love. Her girlfriend took Miss Vandeyi's face in her hand and kissed her on her forehead so gently because she loved Miss Vandeyi so much that she wanted to add some relief to the miserable career of a girl now orphaned.
"Do you know what I want to give this old monster?" She picked up the portrait and said.
She went up to Miss Vander's ear and whispered a few words that I could not hear.
"Oh! You dare not?"
"I can't spit?" Whoop up here?" The girlfriend said wilfully.
I can't hear it below. Because Miss Vander came over listlessly, clumsily, hurriedly, solemnly and sadly and closed the shutters. I finally know what kind of reward Mr. Vandeyi received from his daughter after he died, who had suffered so much for her.
Later, I thought that even if Mr. Vandeyi had witnessed the talented scene, his faith in his daughter's kindness might not be lost, even if he was clearly wrong, he would still believe in it. Of course, in Miss Vandeyi's daily behavior, evil is so thorough that it's hard for ordinary people to imagine how she can be so bad that she's almost as bad as a sadist. It's more appropriate for your girlfriend to spit on the remains of her father, who loved her dearly before she died, to appear on the theatre stage on the main road than in a veritable country house. Only sadism can provide aesthetic basis for melodrama in life. In fact, apart from the sadistic patients, the ordinary girls, even though they are as cruel as Miss Vandeyi in disregard of their father's will and the spirit of heaven, do not intentionally generalize their cruelty into such a kind of behavior, which is shown in such a simple and direct symbolic way; in their behavior, they show great disobedience to the manifestation of inhumanity. Now we should always conceal ourselves, conceal others, even we can't see clearly, and we don't admit that we have done bad things. But in addition to performance, at least at first there was no confusion between good and evil in Miss Vandeyi's mind. A sadist like her is an artist who does evil; an artist who can't be an artist from scratch because evil is not an external thing to them, but a natural character that cannot be separated from them; they will never regard morality, mourning and filial piety as sacrosanct and inviolable, so when he does When they desecrate such things, they do not feel the joy of great adversity and inhumanity. And sadistic people like Miss Vandeyi are people who act on their emotions and are born with shame. They even regard sensory enjoyment as a degeneration and a privilege that only bad people can enjoy. Once they make concessions to themselves in their conduct, once they indulge themselves for a moment, they always try to let themselves and their opponents get into the body of bad people, and even produce a temporary illusion that they have escaped from the rigid and meek soul and entered a non-human world of indulgence. I finally understood that, on the one hand, Miss Vandeyi hoped for it, and at the same time, she found that she could not succeed. When she wanted to make herself different from her father, her words and deeds reminded me of her father's ideas and statements. The things she desecrates, the things between her and her happiness that prevent her from directly tasting sweetness, she wants to make a contribution to her own pleasure. This is not only the picture, but also the image of herself and her father, the blue eyes that her father inherited from her as a heirloom, and even more, the blue eyes that grew on her grandmother's face. Gentle manners; between Miss Vandei and her bad deeds lay a sumptuous rhetoric and a state of mind incompatible with ugly behaviour, which prevented her from realizing how far her debauchery was from the many gifts she usually worshipped. It's not evil that makes her happy, it's not evil, it's not good in her mind. Because every time she indulges in pleasure, the happiness she feels is always accompanied by some bad thoughts that her chaste heart does not usually have, so she finally thinks that there is a kind of evil in happiness, which is evil. Maybe Miss Vandeyi felt that her girlfriend was not bad in nature and that the blasphemous language did not come from her heart. At least she was happy to kiss her face, the smiles and eyes on her face, which might be all pretended, but revealed evil and obscene expressions. A kind-hearted and painful person would never have that expression, just like a cruel and happy person. Perhaps she had a flash of thought and imagined that she was actually enjoying herself, just as a girl who clearly hated someone who had brutally desecrated her dead father was still fooling around with such a companion who had lost all her conscience. Perhaps she would not think that evil was a rare, unusual, exotic place in the world where she lived. How comfortable it is to go, but unfortunately she can't find numbness to pain in herself and in others. Some people deliberately create pain, but people are indifferent to it, call it numbness, call it anything else, in short, this is a manifestation of cruelty, is its terrible, lasting manifestation.
If it's easy to go for a walk at Mercedes'house, it's a different matter to go for a walk at the Galmont's house, because it's a long journey, so first you have to ask about the weather. He had to wait until it seemed that there would be several sunny days in a row, until Franois, who was worried about the "poor crops", saw only a few white clouds floating in the calm blue sky, despaired of the rain, and cried out with a sigh, "Aren't those clouds like sea dogs with pointed mouths out of the water? Hi! They are for the farmer's sake, let God rain a little! When the wheat grows up, the rain will continue to rattle and rattle, and it doesn't know what it's going on, as if it's going down in the sea." I had to wait until my father got the same sunny forecast from the gardener and the barometer; only then would we say at dinner, "If tomorrow is still such a good day, let's go for a walk over to the Galmont's house." After lunch the next day, we immediately stepped out of the garden's side door and into the narrow, sharp corner of Bezanne Street. The streets are covered with sargassum, and two or three wasps collect specimens from the grass all day long. The streets are as strange as street names. I even think that the strange features and inhumane personalities of the streets are all derived from strange street names. In the town of Gombre, there is nowhere to look for this street today. Schools have been built on the old roads. But just as the students under Violet-Leddick believed that the remains of the Roman Choir could be rediscovered in the Renaissance galleries and under the altars of the seventeenth century, and that the whole building could be restored to its original appearance in the twelfth century, so did my imagination. Now, it has been excavated on the old site and "restored as it is", and there is enough information for the restoration of Bezanne Street. People who are engaged in the restoration of ancient buildings generally do not have such precise historical information: some impressions of Gombre in my childhood that I have preserved may be as follows: Its last impressions, though still present, are doomed to wear out soon; precisely because it was Gombre of my childhood, who portrayed them in my heart before he disappeared, as if a portrait itself had vanished into obscurity, but what had been copied from its original works had flowed prominently. It's the same from generation to generation. My grandmother liked to send me copies of such works, such as prints from the original works of Last Supper and Jean-Dille Berini, which preserved Leonardo Da Vinci's masterpieces of frescoes and the doorway of St. Mark's Church.
(1) Violet-Ledik (1814-1879): French architect, who was responsible for the renovation of many medieval buildings including Notre Dame de Paris. His two books, The Textual Research of French Architecture from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Century and The Atlas of French Furniture Before the Renaissance, are full of historical data and have a very high history and art. Value.
(2) Jean-Dille Berini (1429-1507): the second-generation painter of the Berini family in the Venetian School of Italian painting. The Louvre in France has all his paintings such as The Passion of Christ.
We walked past the old bird Inn on Bird Street. In the seventeenth century, the cars of the Duchesses of Montbancia, Gelmonts and Montmoranci entered the courtyard of the inn. They came to Gombre, sometimes to settle disputes with tenants, sometimes to accept tribute from tenants. As we walked up the avenue, the bell tower of St. Elaine's Church appeared among the trees. I wish I could sit there all day and bury my head in the melodious bell, because the weather is so clear and the environment is so quiet, when the bell rings, it seems that it not only does not interrupt the calm of the day, but also alleviates the disturbance of the day. The bell tower is like a leisurely person who has nothing else to do, just relax. Every minute and minute, leisurely and delicately, comes to squeeze the saturated silence, slowly and naturally accumulating the golden juice in the silence, and squeezes it out bit by bit.
The most touching charm of the Galmont family is that the Vivena River runs almost always by your side. The first time we crossed the river was ten minutes after we left home, passing on a springboard called the Old Bridge. On the second day of our arrival at Gombre, we usually have Easter. Listen to the sermon. If it's sunny, I'll come and see the river. That morning, people were busy celebrating such a grand holiday as Easter. Preparing for the festival's rich supplies made the daily utensils that had not yet been put away look even more eclipsed. The river, which has been green from the blue sky, runs in the still bare black fields, accompanied by an early group of azaleas and several early-blooming primroses. Occasionally, a purple purple purple purple puckers up a small blue mouth. The weight of the fragrant juice in the flowers bends the stems. Walking across the Old Bridge is a path. Every summer, there is a walnut tree with blue leaves covered in shade. Under the tree, there is a fisherman wearing a straw hat, and he sits there like a rooted man. In Gombre, I know that the personality of a hammer blacksmith or grocery clerk * is hidden in the church guard's trumpet dress or the choir's white * vestment. Only this fisherman, I have never found his true identity, presumably he knows my elders, because when we pass by, he always carries his straw hat. I wanted to ask for his name, but there were always people who painted me silent for fear that I might frighten the fish that was on the hook. We walked up the path, and below it was a few feet high bank slope. The opposite bank is short, a wide grassland stretching all the way to the village and to the railway station in the distance. There were remnants of Gombre's former lord's castle, half buried in weeds. In the Middle Ages, the Vifora River was Gombre's defense against the invasions of the noble chiefs of Galmont and the priests of Martinville. Today, only the broken tiles and bricks of the arrow tower leave a few inconspicuous mounds of earth on the grassland. There are also a few mounds of pheasant fences from which bowmen and crossbowmen projected stone bullets. From there, sentinels monitored the movements of all the Gelmont lands under the jurisdiction of the Garments, such as Nouven, Claire Fontain, Martinville Drylands, and Bayofe Land. They sandwiched Gombre in the middle; the former territory had been leveled, and it was the children of the church school who dominated it. They came here to study their lessons or play after school games. The past, which had almost been buried underground, lay like a walker on the Bank of a river in a cool way, but it made me think that the meaning of Gombre's name not only refers to today's town, but also to another totally different city pool, half of which is buried under the marigold flower, and its incredible past features firmly grasp me. Thoughts. There are countless marigold flowers here; they choose this place to chase and play on the grass; some of them are lonely and independent, some in pairs, some in groups; they are yellow like egg yolk, and shiny, especially because I feel they can only satisfy my eyes, but can not afford to eat, I will watch them. Happiness accumulates on their golden glittering surface, and finally makes this kind of happiness quite strong enough to produce some unrealistic aesthetic feeling. I've done this since I was a child: I stretched out my hands to them from the path, and I didn't call them all by their names, just as beautiful as the names of the princes in French fairy tales; they may have moved from Asia hundreds of years ago, but they have settled in villages; they are very satisfied with the poor environment. Like the sun and the riverbank here, they have no ambition to overlook the inconspicuous view of the bus station, and they still retain the Oriental poetic brilliance in the simplicity of some of our ancient paintings.
I watched with interest the urchins put into the glass bottles of the Vifora River to hold fish. Only a bottle is full of river water, and the river water wraps the bottles tightly; they are transparent walls like "containers" made of a kind of solidified clear water, while sinking into a larger container made of flowing crystals; they are more refreshing and exciting here than on the dining table. Desire reflects a cool image, because on the table, the cool image of bottled water always spills between water and glass, our hands can not capture the cool image in the light water, and our upper palate can not taste the cool taste from the solidified glass. I intend to bring a fishing rod when I come back later; I tore a piece of bread from the picnic basket, twisted it into a ball and threw it into the Vivena River, which seems to be enough to cause a super-cannon and phenomenon in the water, because the water immediately solidified, and countless tiny tadpoles around the bread ball condensed into an oval ball. Originally these tadpoles must have been scattered in the river, invisible to the naked eye, but the density has reached the critical line of crystallization. A miserable world
Soon, the flow of the Vifora River was blocked by aquatic plants. At first, the river grew several solitary weeds, such as a floating lotus. The water flowed past it. It was pity that it had little peace in the middle of the current. The current washed it from the bank to the bank, like a motorized ferry, endlessly moving between the two banks. The stem of the water float lotus pushed to the shore stretches, stretches and tightens so as to reach the limit of tension; when it drifts to the shore, the current pulls it back again, and the stem of the green * begins to close again, leading the poor plant back to its place of departure, as it was called, but it can not survive for a second, and it has to be repeated. Take it here and there. I see it again and again on a walk, and it's always in the same situation, which reminds me of some neurotic people (my grandfather counted my Aunt Leonie among them), who, year after year, show us their invariable strange habits, which they claim to change every time, but always. Stick to it. They are stuck in unpleasant and grotesque gears. Even if they do their best, they can hardly get away. They can only make the gears work better and make their weird and doomed conservative therapies go back and forth like pendulums. The same is true of the water lily plant, and of such unfortunate patients, whose repeated and perpetual eccentric suffering once aroused Dante's curiosity. If Virgil did not walk away, forcing him to catch up quickly, Dante would endlessly ask those who suffered from such suffering to tell himself. The condition and cause of the disease, just as my parents have gone away by this time, I have to keep up with it quickly.
But further on, the water slowed down and flowed through a manor open to the public by the owner, who preferred the elegance of floating lotus plants to decorate the courtyard. In the ponds filled with the water of the Vifora River, the lotus flocks became beautiful and truly a matching garden for appreciating lotus. The trees on both sides of this area are lush and shady, which usually reflects the water green. But after several rainstorms, the evening is quiet. On my way back, I found the river blue and bright, almost purple, as if coated with a Japanese-style glaze. Several strawberry-like red lotuses are scattered on the water surface, their stamens are red and purple, and their petals are white at the edge. The lotus flowers in the distance are denser, but paler, less smooth, rough, and crepe. They are piled up into interesting balls by unintentional running water. It is like a lively amusement party, after people go to the garden empty, the roses on the flower ribbon float on the surface of the water, floating and sinking all the time. In another place, as if a corner had been set aside specially for the breeding of common varieties, there was an elegant white and pale red of parsley. Looking ahead, clusters of flowers crowded together to form a flower bed floating on the water, like butterflies in the garden, like a group of real butterflies, with blue wings like ice crystals. Bladder, resting on the transparent incline of this water flower bed; said it is a water flower bed, in fact, it is also a heavenly flower bed, because this flower bed provides a piece of color * more beautiful than flowers, more moving "soil" - water surface; in the afternoon, it shines like a kaleidoscope under floating flowers. Quiet and changeable light; at dusk, it is like a distant port, full of the red halo and dreams of the sunset, changeable and infinite, while at the same time around the more stable color flowers, always in harmony with the deeper, more mysterious, more uncertain time, and the infinite universe, at that time, it seems to make all of these things into harmony. The sky was full of rosy clouds.
After flowing out of the garden, the Vifora River was rushing again. How many times have I seen a boatman lying on his back with his oars down and the boat drifting with the waves, his head resting on the board, only to see the sky drifting slowly above him, his face expressing anticipated happiness and serenity; if I could live as I wanted, I would like to imitate his open-mindedness. Open and open!
We sat in the calamus bushes on the shore to rest. In the holiday sky, an idle cloud lingers for a long time. From time to time, a carp jumped out of the water, breathing anxiously. It's time for a picnic. We have to stay here for a long time before we go home; eat some fruit, bread, chocolate on the grass, and the bells of St. Elaine's church come along the horizon, weak but still thick and clanking; they penetrate layers of air from so far away, but they do not mix with the air, a continuous sound wave. The tremor left a rib around the bell and resonated as it passed the flowers until it reached our feet.
Sometimes, at the water edge surrounded by trees, we see a house called a villa, isolated and hidden in a secluded place, accompanied only by a river at the foot of the wall. A young woman is independent and thoughtful in the window; her gorgeous mask shows that she is not like a native. She came here "invisible" as the saying goes. Outside the window, all she could see was a boat tied to the door. Nobody in this place knows her name, especially the name of the man she once loved but could not continue to care about. She must feel bitter and happy about it. She looked absently up and heard the trees on the shore and then the passers-by before she could see what the passers-by looked like; she might have a good idea that they did not know and would never know who was the aspirant, that they had no impression of her in the past and that they might not have the chance to see her again in the future. It is generally believed that she lives in isolation, intentionally away from the place where she can see her sweetheart. Even at a glance, she tries to avoid it, so she avoids the place where she has never seen the person at all. On one occasion, when I walked home and passed the road she knew her loved one would never appear, I saw her take off her long, gaudy gloves helplessly.
We went for a walk over to the Galmont's house and never reached the source of the Viforna River; I often thought of the source, which in my mind was a very abstract and intense existence, and I would be surprised if someone told me that the source was in my province, only a few kilometres away from Gombre. To the extent that one can tell which exact place on earth was once the entrance to hell in ancient times. We have never been able to reach the destination I really want to go to: Gelmont. I know that it is the residence of the Lord Duke and Lady Garment; I know that they are real people, but when I think of them, I sometimes imagine them as people on the carpet, just like the image of Countess Garment on the carpet in our church called The Coronation of Estelle. And I imagine them as colorful and changeable characters, like the "bad fellow Hilbert" on the church's colored glass windows. When I fetch holy water, he looks green. When I sit down in my chair, he turns green plum again. Sometimes I imagine them as totally elusive, with the Garments. The image of Genaviev de Brabant, her distant ancestor, was the same --- a slide had reflected her image through the curtains of my room or onto the ceiling of the room. In short, they were always wrapped in the mysterious clothes of the Middle Ages, like being bathed by the sunset, immersed in the orange | Color * glow emitted by the two syllables of "Munter". Nevertheless, as dukes and duchesses, they are somebody in my mind, though they are different. On the other hand, their Duke status makes their image extremely inflated, and they become so vague that they can accommodate the name of the distinguished family behind their duke's name. Ermont, hold all of the "Galmont's side": the sunshine, the Viverna River, the water lilies on the river, the trees on the bank, and so many sunny afternoons. I know that they not only have the titles of Duke and Duchess of Gelmont, but since the fourteenth century, when their attempt to conquer Gombre failed, they married the great Lord and thus gained the sovereignty of Gombre, thus becoming the earliest citizen of Gombre and the only citizen who did not settle in Gombre. They were also Count Gombre and added Gombre's place name to their surname and identity. Needless to say, the strange and pious melancholy characteristic of Gombre actually entered their hearts. They were the masters of Gombre, but they had no private residence in the town and entered them. About all I had to do was stay outside, in the street, between heaven and earth, like Hillbe, the bad fellow on the stained glass window of St. Elaine's Church. When I went to the Garmi grocery store to buy salt, I passed the back of the church and looked up, only to see the dark side of the stained glass window.
Later, there was something like this: on the other side of the Galmont's house, I sometimes passed through a few damp little manors, with clusters of colorless flowers stretching out of the railings. I stopped and thought I had a valuable concept because I felt like I was in the corner of the river network I had been longing for day and night since I read a description by a beloved writer. Dr. Besbiere once told us about the flowers in the garden of the Palace Castle of Galmont and the meandering streams in the garden. As I listened, I thought of the river network area described by the writer and the illusory place with the rippling water, which changed the image of Galmont in my mind. I equate Gelmont with that fictional scene. It seemed to me that Mrs. Gelmont, on the spur of the moment, loved me and invited me to play; she accompanied me fishing all day. At dusk, she took my hand and we walked past her courtiers'little garden, along the low wall. She pointed me to a cluster of purple * and red * flowers hanging on the wall and told me their names. She asked me to talk about the themes of the poems I deliberately ran. This kind of dream reminds me that since I want to be a writer one day, I should make it clear what I want to write now. But once I ask myself to find a theme that can accommodate infinite philosophical implications, my thinking stops working and I just feel a blank in front of me; I feel that I lack genius, and maybe there is something wrong with my brain that hinders the development of talent. Sometimes I count on my father to help me straighten out this mess. He has a lot of methods and is very popular with the politicians. He can even make us refuse to obey the official decrees that Franois said were as irresistible as life and death. In the area where we live, only our family postponed the implementation of the "wall renovation" rule for one year; he also obtained the minister's permission for Saskraf's son who wanted to work in the water sector and passed the examination two months ahead of schedule - the list of candidates was arranged in the first alphabetical order of surname, after the permission of Saskrit. The names of Slavic sons should be included in the list of candidates whose surnames begin with A, but not S. If I were seriously ill, if I was kidnapped by robbers, I firmly believe that my father has the ability to write a letter of introduction that God can not refuse, and eventually make my serious illness, my kidnapping, is only a false alarm; I will not hurry to wait for the moment when the crisis will turn to safety, to be rescued or cured. 。 Perhaps my lack of talent, the black hole in my mind when I search for themes for my future works, is also a kind of unreliable illusion, as long as my father intervenes, this illusion will disappear; as if he had already reached a tacit understanding with the authorities and God, and agreed to make me the first in the contemporary era. A flowing writer. But there are times when my parents worry about me when they see me always lagging behind, when my real life no longer seems to be the product of my father's deliberate creation, no longer the product of his arbitrary change, on the contrary, it seems to be included in the reality that is incompatible with me, and there is no way to confront that. I don't have any allies among them. There is nothing but that reality. At that time, I felt that I was living in the world like ordinary people. Like everyone else, I would grow old and die. I was just one of the mediocrities who had no writing talent. So I was discouraged and gave up literature, even though Block encouraged me again and again. This inner, direct experience, this emptiness of thought, is more powerful than all the words of praise that people may give me. It is equal to a bad man who hears every act of kindness praised by others, and he can not help but find his conscience and regret his own inaction.
One day, my mother said to me, "Since you always mention Mrs. Galmont... Dr. Besbye treated her four years ago and took good care of her. Now that the doctor's daughter is getting married, she will definitely come to Gombre to attend the wedding. You can see her at the wedding. About Mrs. Gelmont, I heard the most about Dr. Besbye. He even showed us a picture in which she took a picture of herself in a fancy costume at Princess Leon's costume party.
At the moment of the wedding mass, the church guard moved a little, and suddenly I saw a lady with golden | coloured * hair sitting in a hall. She had a big nose, a pair of blue eyes that looked like three-thirds of a person's bones. The fluffy silk bow tie in front of her chest was light purple, flat, new and smooth, with a small one beside her nose. Blister. She blushed and seemed very hot. From that face, I recognized some similarities to the picture in the pictorial paper. Although it was blurred like faded color, the features I found on her face, if I sum them up, were exactly the same as the cover that Dr. Besbye described before me. Mrs. Ermont had exactly the same characteristics: a big nose and blue eyes; so I thought to myself: the lady looked very much like Mrs. Galmont; the hall where she sat listening to the Mass was the hall of the bad fellow Hilbert, and the hall where Her Highness was already as loose and yellow as a honeycomb, resting in the ancient Earl of Brabant. Their remains, I remember hearing that the hall was dedicated for the Garments to attend religious ceremonies in Gombre, and that day, which happened to be the day Mrs. Garments was supposed to come, there might be only one woman in the hall who resembled Mrs. Garments'photograph, that is, herself. I was disappointed. The disappointment was that I never expected her to be like this; in the past, when I thought of Mrs. Gelmont, I always painted her image in my heart with tapestries or coloured glass windows, imagining her as another century, with a totally different manner from that of a living person. I never expected that she would be as red and purple as the Saskrits, and her egg-shaped face reminded me of some people I had seen at home. I could not help but wonder that the lady in the hall might be the same in terms of generative principles and molecular composition. Mrs. Gelmont has no real name. She has no idea of the weight of her surname on her head. I'm afraid she belongs to the same type as the wife of a doctor and a businessman. I stared at her in surprise, and the expression on my face was like saying, "That's the way it is, and Mrs. Galmont is just the way it is!" Naturally, her image had nothing to do with the image of Mrs. Galmont, which had appeared in my fantasies many times, because she was different from the image I had abstractly imagined. She appeared suddenly in front of me for the first time in a moment, in church; her sex was totally different in nature and could not be colored arbitrarily by me. I imagine people who listen to syllables spilling orange * soaking through their bodies. They are real people. Everything on her body, including the inflamed blisters in the corner of her nose, confirms that she belongs to the law of life. It's like a play that is so enthusiastic and charming that the fairy's skirt folds and the trembling of her fingers are exposed. It shows the real existence of a living actress. Although the theatregoer was suspected for a while, he did not know whether what he saw was just a phantom cast by lights.
But at the same time, I tried to give this image, the image of the big nose and the sharp eyes in my field of vision (maybe those two things appeared in my field of vision before I could even think that this woman might be Mrs. Gelmont, and carved the first on it). This is Mrs. de Gelmont. However, I can not make such understanding and image fit properly, they are like two disks separated from the gap, always unable to turn together. Nevertheless, Mrs. Galmont, whom I used to dream about and now witness with my own eyes, still exerts further influence on my imagination; when my imagination comes into contact with a reality entirely different from its expectations, it numbs for a while and then begins to react to me, saying, "Guy." The Ermont family was well known long before Charles the Great and had the right to life and death for their subordinates; Mrs. Galmont was a descendant of Genaviev de Brabant. She doesn't know or want to know anybody here."
Ah! What a wonderful independence the human eye enjoys! It is tied to the human face by a loose, long, elastic rope, so it can scan away from the human face alone! Mrs. Gelmont's body was sitting in the hall where her ancestors were buried. Her eyes wandered around, looking up from pillar to pillar, and even staying on me like a beam of sunshine wandering in the main hall, except that it seemed to realize that I was being touched by it. As for Mrs. Gelmont herself, she sat still, like a mother, whose children were acting wilfully and talking to people she didn't know, but she turned a blind eye to them, so I couldn't know that she was in favor of disapproving her eyes and going around like this when her mind was too lazy to move. Wander around.
But I think it's important that she don't go away until I see her enough, because I remember how many years ago I thought it was a dream to see her, and when I saw her, my eyes would never leave her again, as if I could really show her big nose, red cheeks and face at every glance. All the valuable first-hand information of the characteristics is stored in my memory bank. Everything in my mind about her at that time made me feel that her face was beautiful - perhaps especially the desire not to be disappointed, the instinct to preserve our inner desire for the best things, to put her out of the ordinary people, to take a cursory look at her, and I had the first moment to identify her with her. Ordinary people are confused, but after all, she is the same person as Mrs. Galmont in my old mind. Someone whispered around me at that time: "She looks better than the Saskraks and is better than Miss Vandeyi." I was so angry that they seemed to be able to compare themselves with her. So I stared at her golden hair, her blue eyes and her neck, which excluded all the features that might make me think of other people's faces. Looking at this sketch, which was not entirely deliberately drawn, I couldn't help exclaiming, "How beautiful she is!" How graceful and magnificent! She must be a proud lady of the Garments, a descendant of Genaviev de Brabant!" I was so focused on her that I almost isolated her that if I recalled the wedding today, I would no longer remember the other people who attended the wedding, but only her and the church attendant, because I asked the church attendant if the lady was Mrs. Galmont. The church guard gave me a positive answer. Speaking of her, I especially experienced the scene of her entering the sacred vestibule with all of you. It was a windy day and a heavy rain came from time to time. The hot, sometimes non-existent sun illuminated the sacred vessel room. Mrs. Gelmont was crowded with the people of Gombre, who knew nothing about their surnames, but their indecency set off her sublime so clearly that she could not help but have a kind heart for them, and her elegant and simple manners made everyone awe her. When ordinary people see people they know, their eyes always intentionally contain certain exact meanings; but she can't give such a look. She just turns her careless thoughts into sparkling blue light that she can't hide. She wishes that the light will flow through the little people and be there at any time. When touching those little people, don't make them feel uncomfortable, don't appear arrogant and indifferent. I still remember that the purpose of her eyes was to show a little surprise and a little shy smile on a light purple, fluffy silk tie, which was not intended to be seen by anyone, but felt by everyone present; that manner was like a queen's humble expression to her subjects. Out of her love for the people; the smile fell on me who had been staring at her. Her eyes were as blue as the sunshine coming into the house through the stained glass window of "Bad Guy Hilbert." It stayed on me during the Mass, and I could not help thinking, "She must have noticed me." I'm sure she likes me. She'll think of me when she leaves church, and maybe she'll be sad for me when she gets back to Gelmont. I fell in love with her at once, because sometimes it only took her a disdainful glance at us as I imagined Miss Swan's attitude, and we thought that the woman could never be attracted to us, which was enough to make us fall in love with each other; but sometimes it only took a lady like Gail. Mrs. Munter looked at us so kindly that we thought she could be happy with both of us, which was also enough to haunt us. Her eyes are like a long spring flower of blue lotus color that can not be picked; although I can not pick them, she is a gift to me; has been blocked by a dark cloud half of the sun, but still try to project the light onto the square and the sacred vessel room, to add a flesh red texture to the red carpet laid for the wedding, so that the wool carpet grows out. A pink plush, with a shiny skin; Mrs. Gelmont walked on the carpet with a smile, and the gentle, solemn and cordial atmosphere permeated the luxurious and cheerful scenes, similar to some fragments in the opera "Loch Green", similar to some of Cappaccio's paintings, which also made people realize. Why can you use the adjective "sweet" to describe the sound of brass wind?
(1) Lochen Green: Wagner's first opera, which broke through the traditional form, was first performed in Weimar in 1850, based on German legend: Lochen Green rescued Princess Brabant, fell in love with her, married her, and left her because of birth problems.
(2) Capacio (1455-1525): Italian painter, a student of Jean-Dille Berini mentioned above.
(3) Portrell (1821-1867): French poet, the author of The Flower of Evil.
From that day on, whenever I went for a walk at the Garments'house, I was more distressed than ever by my lack of literary talent and the fact that I had to stop being a great writer. When I left the crowd and meditated alone, regret made me more miserable, so that in order not to suffer from the pain, my reason * took deliberate painkiller measures, totally without thinking about poetry, fiction and the poetic future that I could not hope for because of my lack of talent. On the other hand, a roof, a little sunshine reflecting on a stone, a special breath of a path, suddenly broke away from all literary thinking, and made me feel a special pleasure without connection with anything, which made me stop and stay. Another reason why I stopped watching was that all these things seemed to be invisible to me. There is something hidden in the secret that I am asked to pick, but I try my best to find it nowhere. Because I felt it was inside them, I stood there motionless, looking with my eyes, sniffing with my nose, trying to get inside the image and the smell with my own thoughts. If I had to catch up with my grandfather and move on, then I would close my eyes and try to recall what I had just seen. I am absorbed in and meticulous in recalling the shape of the roof and the subtle details of the stone; and somehow, I always feel as if they were full to crack, as if they were ready to give me everything under their cover. Of course, although it is not these impressions that give me hope to reborn as writers and poets, because they are always associated with an individual object that has neither the value of thinking nor the relevance of any abstract truth, they at least give me a sense of helpless pleasure, an illusion of active literary thinking, and thus relieve me of my distress. I was tempted by the sense of incompetence I hated whenever I wanted to find a philosophical theme for writing a great book. But those impressions, in concrete form, colour, color and smell, compelled me to realize my grave responsibility: I had to work hard to find something hidden in them. But the task was too arduous, and I soon found myself an excuse to escape hard work and avoid fatigue. Fortunately, my elders called me at that time, and I felt that I did not have the calm mood necessary for effective inquiry at that time. It was better not to think about it before returning home, so as to save me from early futility. So I stopped worrying about the thing that was wrapped in a form, a fragrance, but didn't know what to hide inside; I felt safe because I was taking home the thing protected by the image coat, and I felt that it was under the image coat and on the days when adults allowed me to go fishing. The fish brought home with fresh grass in the basket is as fresh and lively as the fish. But when I got home, I thought differently. So the sunshine-reflected stone, the roof on the water, the long bells, the smell of grass and trees, and many different images all accumulated in my mind, just like the wild flowers and other people sent me when I was walking. Everything piles up in my room. And the reality hidden in those images, although I had some feelings, but always lack enough perseverance to find, and later vanished. On one occasion, however, we took longer walks than usual and met Dr. Besbye, who was driving by, on the way home. As it was near dusk, the doctor recognized our party and asked us to get on the bus. I got a similar impression that time, but I did not put it aside easily, but went on to explore it further. I was arranged to sit next to the coachman. The carriage was galloping, for Dr. Besbye had to stop in Madanville to see a patient before returning to Gombre; he told us that we would wait for him at the patient's door. When the car reached the corner, I suddenly felt a special joy, totally different from other pleasures, because I saw the two towers of Madanville Church standing side by side from afar, and with the galloping of the carriage and the reflection of the setting sun, the towers seemed to be moving, and later, they were separated by a hill and located in another place. The Bell Tower of Viovik on the higher plain seems to be close to them.
While noticing the shape of the twin towers, I blocked the displacement of their outlines and the reflection of the sunset on the towers. I felt that I could not understand my impression. I always felt that in this movement and this reflection, something was both contained by the twin towers and stolen by them.
The two bell towers seemed far away from us, as if our carriage hadn't gone towards them. I was surprised when we suddenly stopped in front of the church. I don't know why I am so happy when I see the towers, and it seems very difficult to find out why; but I want to store these sunny outlines in my mind, at least for the time being. If I had explored them, the two bell towers would be forever linked with so many trees, roofs, smells and sounds. The reason why I could distinguish these things from all the confused things is that they are related to the plain which I have never explored in depth. I jumped out of the carriage and chatted with adults while waiting for the doctor. Then we started to go on the road again, and I still sat in the seat next to the coachman. I looked back at the towers. After a little while, I finally looked at them around the corner. Although the coachman is not good at talking, he seldom answers anything I say. As there was no one else to accompany me, I had to accompany myself and recall my two belfrys helplessly. Soon, their outline, their sunny surface suddenly cracked like a shell, and something hidden inside revealed a corner. At that time, I suddenly read that it did not exist in the first second, but a series of words and phrases came into my mind; the joy I felt when I first saw the towers swelled up immediately, making me feel drunk and unable to think about anything else. At that time, we were far away from Madanville, and I looked back and saw the twin towers again; this time they were two shadows, because the sun had set. Several times, the road turned and erased the towers from my view. Later, they appeared on the horizon for the last time and disappeared completely before my eyes.
I didn't realize that something hidden in the twin towers might be similar to beautiful sentences, because it appeared in front of me in the form of words that inspired me. I borrowed paper and pen from the doctor, and regardless of the bumps in the traffic, I wrote the following paragraph to soothe my agitated heart and vent my full heart. Enthusiasm; Later I found the original text, and now I have only made a few changes, transcribed as follows:
"Rising alone from the horizon, as if buried in a vast field, the twin towers of Madanville pierce the blue sky on high ground. Soon, we saw three towers: a belated bell tower, Viovic's bell tower, shaking around and standing in front of them, joining them. As time goes by, our carriages are also speeding. However, the three towers are always standing in front of us, like three birds, standing motionless in the plains. Their figures are very distinct in the sunshine. Later, Viovic's bell tower hid aside and pulled away. The two towers of Madanville still stood side by side. They were so illuminated by the sunset that I could see the sunset playing and smiling on the slope of the spire even so far away from them. We spent so much time approaching them that I thought it would be a long time before we could reach them. Suddenly, the car turned and sent us to the bottom of the tower. The Twin Towers suddenly rushed towards us and, fortunately, braked in time, otherwise they almost hit the temple door. We went on; we had left Madanville, and the village disappeared after a few seconds of walking with us. On the horizon, there were only the twin towers of Madanville and the Bell Tower of Viovik, shaking the sunny spires, saying goodbye to us and watching us gallop away. Sometimes one of them disappears and the other two look at us again, but the road changes direction, and they turn like three golden axes in the sun, and then disappear before our eyes. After a while, when we were not far from Gombre, the sun had gone up the hill, and I looked at them for the last time, they were just like three little flowers painted under the bottom line of the field. They also remind me of the legendary three girls who were abandoned in the wilderness where darkness had fallen. Just as our carriage was running away, I saw them timidly looking for their way, only to see their noble figures stumbling and stumbling, and then to each other, one hiding behind the other, leaving only a graceful and humble shadow in the evening sky, and finally disappearing in the darkness.
I never thought about it again, but at that time, I was sitting next to the doctor's coachman, where he usually kept a chicken cage filled with chickens and ducks he bought at the market in Madanville. I sat there and felt very happy after writing the above paragraph. I thought it was clever. I freed myself thoroughly from the entanglement of the Bell Tower, so that I could explain the connotation of the Bell Tower. I was as happy as a hen who had just laid an egg, singing straight at the door. Le Cousin Pons
I could spend a whole day wondering how happy it would be to be Mrs. Garment's friend, fishing for trout and riding a boat on the Vifora River; and I had no other desire for happiness at that moment, but I wish I could be so happy every afternoon of my life. But on the way back, when I saw a farm at the left, my heart suddenly jumped. I knew we would be home in less than half an hour. The farm is quite far from the other two nearby farms. To enter the city of Gombre, it only needs to fold into the tree-lined Avenue between oaks. On one side of the avenue, there are three farm orchards, with apple branches hanging on the ground, and the oblique sunset sketches the Japanese-style pattern for the shade. Every time I go for a walk at the Garments'house, it's the same. I have dinner shortly after I get home. As soon as I finish eating, they send me to bed. If there's a visitor at home, my mother can't leave and go upstairs to my bed to say good night to me. Comparing with the happy realm I put in joyfully not long ago, I entered this sad realm sadly. It is so distinct that it is like the horizon of clouds, where a red halo is cut off by a green line or a black line. There is a bird flying in the red clouds. It will fly to the end, almost near the black area. Then it flies in. Looking forward to going to Gelmont, to traveling, to happiness was still haunting me a moment ago, but now I'm thousands of miles away from them; I don't feel any pleasure in fulfilling these aspirations any more. I am willing to abandon all this, only to cry all night in my mother's arms! I shivered, and I stared anxiously at my mother's face. She would not come to my room tonight. The sight of living alone in a solitary room had come to my mind. I wish I could die. This mood continued until the next morning, when the sunshine, like a ladder in a gardener, rested on a wall full of dried lilies (those dried lilies had been on the edge of the wall and grew up to my window), I got out of bed and hurried to the garden, regardless of the time when dusk would break up with my mother. So I learned to distinguish the different moods that appeared to me at some time, even in a day, from one mood to another, like a regular fever, every minute; they were connected, independent, and each other. There is no communication between them, so that in one mood, I can not understand or even imagine what I expect or fear or what I have done in another mood.
So for me, the Mercedes side and the Garments side are closely related to the many details of our parallel lives, which are the most tortuous and episodic, that is, to our spiritual life. Undoubtedly, it is progressing quietly in our hearts, and we believe that the truth that changes in meaning and appearance opens a new path for us has long been prepared to discover it, but we are not aware of it; in our minds, truth only becomes apparent from it. The day and the minute are easy to see. The flowers that played on the grass, the rivers that flowed in the sunshine, were once associated with the surrounding scenery, which still lingers on their unconscious or indifferent features; needless to say, when they were examined for a long time by the insignificant passer-by and the imaginative child, it is like A king was carefully examined by a memoir writer who was buried in the crowd. In that corner of nature, that part of the garden may not necessarily think that they survived their fleeting features thanks to the child; however, they skimmed over the hedge, followed by the fragrance of the Hawthorn that was replaced by the wild rose, the echoing footsteps on the steps of the flower path, the flood of water in the river. The blisters that immediately broke the grass remained in my agitated heart, and they were unforgettable for so many years, while the roads around them disappeared in my memory. Those who have traveled those roads are dead, and even the memories of those who have traveled those roads are gone. Sometimes, the fragments of scenery that have survived to this day emerge alone and clearly from the vast world, and the blossoming islands float in my mind, but I can't tell where they came from, when they began, or what dreams they might just come from. But the reason why I want to think about Messengers and the Garments is, first of all, to see them as deep deposits in my spiritual sphere and as a solid place on which I still depend. Because when I traveled through those two places, I believed in people and things, so the only things and people I knew when I passed through those places still made me believe them and still made me happy. Perhaps because the confidence in creation has withered in my heart, perhaps because reality only takes shape in my memories. Today people show me flowers I have never seen before. I just don't think they are real flowers. Along the way there are lilac, hawthorn, cornflower, Lily and apple tree Messengeris side, along the way there are tadpole floating rivers, water lilies, marigold Garments side, in my mind forever constitute the area I enjoy living in between, where I first ask for a place to fish, there are Local boating, there are places to see the remnants of the Gothic castle, as in St. Andrey's, can find a mill-like golden, vernacular, magnificent church between the waves. Now I can occasionally meet cornflower, hawthorn and apple trees in the fields when I wander. Because they are printed in my heart, they are on the same level with my past, so they are directly connected with my heart. Nevertheless, because of the uniqueness of one place, once I had the desire to visit the Garments again, even if I was led to a river, the water lilies in the river were as beautiful or even more beautiful as those in the Vifora River, and I could not be satisfied; likewise, I would return home at dusk and be anxious at the moment of attack. (Later this worry moved into the field of love and became inseparable from love.) I did not want a more beautiful and intelligent mother than my mother to say goodnight to me. No, in order for me to sleep happily and safely, what I need is her, my mother, her face bent over me, what seems to be a defect under her eyes, but I also like it; besides my mother, no mistress can give me such delicate and undisturbed peace, because For you, even when you trust them, you can never get their hearts as I did when I received a kiss from my mother; the kiss from my mother is complete, without any distraction, with no other intention but for me. Likewise, I want to see Fanghua again, which I know of over there in the Galmont family, a farm halfway away from the other two adjacent farms, at the shady intersection of the oak trees; the grass that is reflected by the setting sun like a pond, reflecting the apple tree's low branches and forks. Land. Sometimes this scene enters my dream at night, and its unique personality * holds me tightly with a near magical force, but when I wake up from the dream, I can't find it. Undoubtedly, these different impressions are firmly engraved in my heart and are always closely connected, so that I will face so many disillusionments in my future life, even that, only because they leave different impressions in my heart and at the same time make me experience them personally. So many mistakes. Because I often want to see someone again, but I don't realize that it's just because that person reminds me of the Hawthorn bud fence, so I think - and let others believe - that I can revisit my old dreams just by wandering around. Likewise, even if I am in this situation, the impressions of the past still exist in the impressions I may have had with Messeglis and the Garments, but the impressions of those two places provide a solid foundation, a certain depth and a range that other impressions do not have; they also make my old impressions. There is a kind of charm, a kind of meaning that only I can feel. Every summer evening, the harmony of the sky sounds like the roaring thunder of beasts. When everyone complains about the storms and storms, it is the past scene over Messengeris that drives me to smell the fragrance of lilacs in my heart through the falling rain alone.
In this way, I often daydream about Dadan, think of the time spent in Gombre, think of the bleak sleepless night, think of all kinds of scenes in the past - the taste of a cup of tea later (Gombre people call it "fragrance"), evoke many vivid images of the past - more because of the chain reaction of memories, I think of. It happened long before I was born, but it wasn't until many years after I left Gombre that I heard about Swan's love experience. It's impossible to be accurate in detail, because sometimes we're dealing with the lives of people who have died for hundreds of years. It's easier to know some details, but it's not easy to get a detailed understanding of the lives of our closest friends, so it's impossible to be precise. It's like chatting with people in another city from this city. It seems impossible to do so without knowing what way to reverse the impossibility. All these memories overlap and pile up, but they are not indistinguishable. Some are old memories, some are relatively backward memories caused by the aroma of a cup of tea, and some are the memories of others I heard from others. Of course, there are "cracks" and "faults" in them. At least there are similar textures and mottled spots showing the different origins, ages, structures of some rocks, some of the mottled stones.
Of course, when it was Xu Ming, the short haze that seemed to wake me up had already disappeared. I knew I was lying in a room, because I had imagined it as it was before night; and by my memory alone, or by the hint of a faint oil lamp I placed under the curtain, I had put the whole room in the same way as the architect and decorator who maintained the original layout of the windows and doors. Both furniture and furniture are in their place as they are supposed to be. I put the mirror in place and the cabinet in the place it usually occupies. But sunshine is not what I mistook for sunshine at first. It is actually the reflection of charcoal embers on brass curtain poles. When the sunshine just drew the first corrected white line in the darkness with chalk, the window that I had misplaced in the doorframe immediately took the curtain off the frame and ran with it; the desk in the wrong place in my memory pushed the fireplace forward to make way for the curtain, and set aside the wall on the other side of the aisle; a small courtyard was stable and stable. The place that had been occupied by the bathroom a moment ago landed on the ground, and the apartment I had rebuilt in the darkness, driven by the pale sign drawn by the fingers of the dawn over the curtain, fled into the ranks of other apartments that had sprung up in the whirlpool of memories when I first woke up.