Chapter XI: A Day in the Woods

Love is the god who most agreeably employs our leisure; he scoffs at distances and disarranges time. A lover is never bored, even when he is not favored. Memories, schemes, hopes, afford constant occupation to a loving heart. Love is the god of all countries and of all classes; he finds his way into the humble cottage as well as into the palace. Love is as sweet on the heather as on the softest cushions; indeed, some persons go so far as to maintain that love is truer in the country than in the city; it ought, at all events, to be more natural there. The mountaineer, the woodchopper, the ploughman, may not devote his time to the fine arts, to financial schemes, to political intrigues; but everybody is at liberty to love, luckily for the human race. Some author, I know not who, has said with much truth: "The happiest time of a man's life is that which he spends paying court to his mistress."

What a pity it is that this time is so short! It is probably to renew their happiness that men change mistresses so often. Women do not treat love so lightly. It is their life's history, while with us it is only a romance.

Frédéric soon arrived at the valley where there was dancing the night before, and which was now as peaceful and quiet as the whole neighborhood. A few laboring men passed, on their way to work; here and there, a peasant could be seen in the fields. In the country, the evening's enjoyment does not impair the morrow's toil; the good people find their diversion in talking over the pleasures of the holiday, which will not return for a year; but the time will pass quickly to them: they know so well how to employ it.

Frédéric rode toward the little, willow-lined path; there he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and plunged into the woods. He looked for the maid on the bank of the stream, but she was not at the place where he had seen her the night before. So he went farther into the woods, recalled what his guide had told him, and took the path to the left. Everything was peaceful and calm; the dark foliage of the firs almost excluded the daylight. At last he came to a clearing, descended a hill, and saw a wretched cabin before him. The wood of which it was built had rotted in several places, and the thatched roof threatened to fall in. There was a small garden at the right, surrounded by a picket fence, a part of which had fallen.

Frédéric's heart ached at the aspect of the place, which was eloquent of utter poverty and of a lack of the prime necessities of life.

"And this is where she lives," he said to himself; "where she has lived, in poverty and solitude, ever since she was seven years old! Poor child! When your sublime self-sacrifice, when the catastrophe which resulted from it, deserved the homage of all mankind, you had only this wretched hut in which to weep for your brother and parents, and were fortunate not to be left without a shelter and without bread!"

He leaned against a tree and gazed at the cabin; his heart was so full that he could not go forward; he could only sigh and say to himself:

"She is there!"

Several minutes passed. Suddenly, the door of the cabin was thrown open, and a girl appeared in the doorway and looked out into the woods. It was she! The depressing aspect of that wild spot, the gloomy woods, the dilapidated cabin, all vanished! The girl's presence instantly made her surroundings beautiful.--The woman we love wields a tremendous power; she communicates her fascination to everything about her: by her side, the darkest cavern causes no fear, the wildest spot on earth seems a paradise.

Sister Anne went back into the cabin, and soon came out again with four goats, her whole flock. There was a cow in the little garden; she patted her as she passed, as if promising to return soon. Then, driving her goats toward a hillside where there was an abundance of grass, the dumb girl walked slowly behind them, with her head bent forward, raising it only to see that her goats did not go astray.

Frédéric had retained his position against the tree, which concealed him almost entirely, and watched every movement of Sister Anne. When she went toward the hill, he followed her noiselessly; he longed to be by her side, to speak to her; but he was afraid of startling her if he appeared too abruptly. She seemed so shy and timid: suppose she should run away from him again!

But she seated herself on a green mound, and took from her little basket a piece of bread and some figs; she was about to breakfast. Frédéric drew nearer and nearer, until he stood close beside her; and when she turned her head to look after one of her goats, she saw before her again the young man of the previous evening.

The girl made a movement which seemed to be due rather to surprise than alarm; indeed, there was nothing about Frédéric to inspire fear; as he stood before her, himself anxious and trembling, his glance was gentle and timid; his whole aspect and manner bore witness to the tender interest she aroused in him.

As she seemed disposed to rise and go away, Frédéric said to her:

"Do not fly from me, I entreat you, sweet girl; I should be very unhappy if I caused you the slightest fear."

The child smiled, and gave him to understand, by shaking her head gently, that she had no such feeling.

"I saw you last night by the brook," said Frédéric, walking toward her. Sister Anne looked at him, then lowered her eyes, smiling again, as if to say that she remembered him.

"What! you remember me? And you, sweet girl, have not been out of my thoughts for one moment. How could I fail to be impressed by the sight of such lovely features and such charms of person and of manner?"

The girl listened in surprise; all that he said was entirely strange to her ears. He sat down on the turf, a few feet away from her. This action seemed to surprise her still more; she looked at him again, with something like alarm, but the sentiment expressed in his eyes soon set her heart at rest. She looked at the ground, but it was easy to read on her ingenuous features that she was waiting curiously for him to speak again.

"When I saw you yesterday, I felt the deepest interest in you. But how that interest has grown since I learned---- Poor child! Ah! I know of your sad plight! I know all the misfortunes that have been heaped upon you."

The dumb girl's features became more expressive than ever; a heartrending memory seemed to agitate her. She groaned, raised her eyes to heaven, then turned them on the ground once more as a flood of tears poured from them.

Frédéric went to her side; he put one arm lightly about her, and took her hand, which he placed upon his heart.

"I have revived your grief," he said; "pray forgive me. Would to heaven that I could, on the contrary, help you to forget it by making you happy! Poor child! let me wipe away your tears. From this moment, you are no longer alone on earth; you have a friend, there is a heart that beats in answer to yours, a heart that will beat for you alone, so long as it lives. Anne, dear friend, give me leave to love you, to share your grief, your suffering, to think constantly of you, to see you every day--oh! do not deny me this favor, or I shall be much unhappier than you are!"

Frédéric spoke with great animation; love excited him and made his voice sweeter than ever, his glance more seductive. The dumb girl listened to him at first with surprise; an unfamiliar sentiment disturbed her; she tried to withdraw her hand, but she had not the strength. Frédéric had ceased to speak, and she continued to listen.

But soon the remembrance of her condition, of her misfortune, destroyed the spell that was upon her. She looked at Frédéric with a melancholy expression, and, with a much bitterer glance at herself, withdrew her hand and pushed him away, shaking her head as if to say:

"No, you cannot love me; I am too unfortunate."

Frédéric understood her; he put her hand to his heart again, and said, pointing to the cabin:

"With you, I should be happy living here in these woods."

At that moment, they heard the sound of a little bell. It was a signal which notified Anne that old Marguerite had risen. She hastily called her goats together and prepared to return to the cabin.

"Will you come back?" asked Frédéric; "oh! do let me see you again to-day!"

She pointed to the sun, whose beams were just beginning to shine through the foliage, then rested her head on the back of her hand.

"When the sun goes to rest, you will go to the brook?"

Sister Anne made an affirmative gesture, then hastened back to the cabin, driving her goats before her. But she turned her head before she went in, and looked back to the place where she had left Frédéric, smiled at him, and disappeared. That glance and smile enraptured the young lover; he had already ceased to be a stranger to Sister Anne; that thought filled his heart with joy. It needs so little to make one happy, in love!

Frédéric went back to the place where he had left his horse; but, on the way, he asked himself whether he should go to Grenoble and return at night. It seemed to him more natural to remain in the village, to take a light lunch there, and then to wander about in the neighborhood of the cabin, which, even now, he found it so hard to leave. He cared little what his fellow travellers might think or say. They must end by accustoming themselves to his absences, for Frédéric had a feeling that he would come often to Vizille, or, rather, that he would rarely go to Grenoble. She whom he loved dwelt in those woods; Sister Anne was all in all to him; he no longer thought of the future, his station in life, or his father's plans; he saw only her, he had no wish to live except for her. To be sure, his love dated only from the night before, and he was only twenty-one.

In the village, whither he went to rest and breakfast, he talked about Sister Anne; and everyone seemed to take pleasure in praising her virtue, her sweet nature, her tender heart; but they generally added:

"The poor girl is greatly to be pitied; she stands a good chance of spending her life in that miserable hut; for what man would ever marry an unfortunate mute?"

Frédéric smiled and held his peace; but he was thinking that he had seen in Paris many women resplendent with beauty, charm, and talents, and that he preferred the dumb girl of the forest to them all.

He found in the village such refreshment as he required; he saw that his horse was bountifully fed; then, mounting him again, he rode back to the woods, where he fastened him to a tree near the stream, then bent his steps toward the lonely cabin.

The sun had performed but half his journey; but Frédéric hoped that, if he prowled about the little house, he might see Sister Anne, which would make it easier for him to wait patiently until evening.

As he approached the garden fence, which was only four feet high, he had no difficulty in taking in at a glance the whole extent of the garden. It was small, but they had made the most that could be made of it. Several fruit trees, a few grapevines, vegetables, and flowers, were growing together in that contracted space, where nature was at liberty to follow all her caprices.

As he looked about, Frédéric saw an old woman seated under a fig-tree. She was evidently very old, but her venerable face was the mirror of a calm and peaceful soul. He gazed at her for some time with profound respect; it was she who had adopted Anne, who had filled her mother's place.

The good old woman's face lighted up as the dumb girl approached her, carrying a wooden bowl filled with milk, which she placed on Marguerite's knees. The old woman patted her cheek, saying:

"That is nice, my girl, my dear child. Sit down here by my side. You know how I like to look at you while I am eating."

The girl at once sat down in front of Marguerite; she seemed to be on the alert to anticipate her lightest wish, and more than once she raised her withered hand and kissed it respectfully.

Frédéric did not stir; he could have passed hours watching that picture.

The old woman, after she had finished her meal of milk and fruit, rose, and with Sister Anne's assistance walked two or three times about the garden. Frédéric concealed himself when they passed, but he noticed that the girl glanced into the woods, as if looking for someone. Could that glance be for him! Ah! if so, how fortunate he would be! his heart dared to conceive the hope. He was tempted to enter the garden, to throw himself at the dumb girl's feet; but Marguerite's presence held him back.

At last they returned to the cabin, and Frédéric left the spot from which he could look into the garden. He wandered about the woods for some time. Everything brought the orphan's face before him; every tree, every bush spoke of her. Had she not lived in those woods nine long years? Her feet had trodden every foot of turf, and doubtless her eyes had rested on everything that surrounded her.

He walked slowly back to the brook, and sat down on the spot where he had first seen Sister Anne. It might be a long while before she came. Frédéric took his notebook and pencil from his pocket, and wrote--what? Poetry for Sister Anne; for is not every lover a poet? and are not poets more eloquent when they are lovers? We have the lines Tibullus wrote for Delia; Ovid immortalized Julia; Orpheus enchanted the Shades while seeking Eurydice; it was love that tuned Anacreon's lyre, love that inspired Sappho; Lesbia's charms aroused Catullus's poetic ardor, and Cynthia's imparted delicacy and passion to the flowing verses of Propertius. Does not Petrarch owe a large part of his renown to Laura? without her, he might have been a poet; but would he have sung of love? To you, Eucharis and Eléonore, we owe the moving elegies of Bertin and Parny's charming verses.

Time passes very swiftly when we are writing poetry for her we love. Frédéric was still leaning over his notebook and writing busily, when he heard a faint sound; he turned his head and saw Sister Anne behind him, watching him with deep interest. She blushed when he detected her, but Frédéric set her mind at rest, and, bidding her sit down beside him, read what he had written.

Sister Anne had no idea what poetry was; but she understood Frédéric's meaning in what he read. The heart is the key to an unsophisticated woman's mind; the opposite is true of women of worldly training.

The girl was already less shy and embarrassed in Frédéric's presence; at sixteen, one is quick to make acquaintances, especially when one has no knowledge of the customs of society or of its laws. Frédéric was so gentle and kind and sympathetic! he pitied her, he talked of her sad story, and the poor orphan was surprised to find that there was somebody besides old Marguerite who was interested in her destiny. The village people always manifested much sympathy and pity for her; but there is in that sentiment something distressing to its object. But that was not what she read in Frédéric's eyes. He talked to her with deep interest and looked at her with affection, and she was already beginning to feel less unhappy.

But the approach of night found them still seated by the stream. They had been there two hours, to their great surprise. Anne rose and pointed to Frédéric's horse; then turned her eyes anxiously toward the village, the woods, and the mountains, and lastly upon Frédéric himself.

"I am going to Grenoble," he said; "I am staying there now with two friends, who may be alarmed by my long absence. But I will come again to-morrow, I will come every day. Do you think that I could pass a single day without seeing you?"

The girl smiled, and seemed more content; she went with him to where his horse was waiting; he pressed her soft hand to his lips, and finally made up his mind to return to the city. Sister Anne went to the edge of the woods, in order to follow him with her eyes as far as the twilight permitted. Not until she could no longer hear his horse's step, did she return slowly to the cabin, pensive and dreamy, surprised by the unfamiliar sensations of which she was conscious, but which she could not understand.