Chapter 1 Chapter One
"Come in through the narrow gate as best you can."
—Luke Chapter 13, Verse 24.
The experience I am talking about here may be written into a book by others, but I spent all my energy to spend it, exhausting my own characteristics, so I can only record my memories extremely simply.These past events sometimes seem fragmented, but I have no intention of inventing anything to patch them up or connect them: the labors spent on embellishing them would interfere with the final pleasure I hoped for in telling them. I was not yet twelve years old when my father died. My mother felt that Le Havre, where my father had practiced medicine before his death, had nothing to worry about, so she decided to take me to live in Paris so that I could finish my studies with better grades.She took a small flat near the Luxembourg Gardens, and Mademoiselle Flora Ashbuton moved in with her.This young lady has no family anymore. She was my mother's elementary school teacher, and later accompanied my mother, and the two became good friends soon.I have been living among these two women, and they both have the same tender and sad expression, and they can only be seen in mourning clothes in my eyes.And one day, I guess it must have been a long time since my father passed away, I saw the sash on my mother's cap changed from black to lavender, and I exclaimed in surprise: "Oh! Mom! You look ugly in that color!" The next day, she put on the black sash again. My physique is weak.My mother and Miss Ashbuton took care of me in every possible way, lest I would be tired. Fortunately, I really like to study, so they didn't make me a lazy idiot.As soon as the weather is pleasant, they think that I have turned pale and should leave the city, so as soon as the middle of June enters, we set off for the Fengsmar Grange on the outskirts of Le Havre: where Uncle Buclin lives. There, it hosts us every summer. The garden of the Buclin family is not very big and not very beautiful. Compared with other gardens in Normandy, it has no characteristics; the house is a small white three-story building, similar to many rural farmhouses in the last century.The small building faces east from west, facing the garden, with about 20 large windows on the front and back sides, and dead walls on both sides.The windows were lined with small panes of glass, some of which were new, and looked particularly bright, while the old glass around them was a dull green.Some glass still has flaws, which our elders call "bubbles"; looking through the glass, the trees are crooked, and the postman will suddenly swell up when he passes by. The garden is rectangular and surrounded by walls.In front of the house, a sizable lawn is shaded by greenery and bordered by a gravel path.The wall on this side was lowered, and one could see the farm compound surrounding the garden, and the border of the compound, a beech avenue according to the local custom. To the west of the back of the small building, the garden is wider.Against the south wall there is a flower path, sheltered from the sea breeze by a thick screen of Portuguese laurel and several tall trees below the wall.There is also a flower path along the north wall, which is hidden in the dense bushes; my cousins call it the "black path", and they dare not walk rashly at dusk.Walk down a few steps along the two paths, and you will reach the vegetable garden, which is the continuation of the garden.A small secret door was opened in the wall at the edge of the vegetable garden, and beyond the wall was a scrub forest where the beech-lined roads on the left and right met.Standing on the steps to the west, looking beyond the undergrowth, you can see the highland and enjoy the crops growing on the highland.Moving my eyes to the horizon, I could still see the church in a small village not too far away, and when the wind was clear at dusk, I could still see the smoke from the kitchens of several families in the village. On a clear summer evening, after dinner, we went to the "Lower Garden" and walked out of the small secret door to a section of raised avenue overlooking the surrounding area.There, my uncle.Mother and Miss Ashbuton sat down beside the hut in the abandoned peat rock mine.Before our eyes, the small valley was filled with mist, and the sky over the woods a little further away was dyed golden yellow.Then, as dusk grew deeper, we lingered in the garden.My aunt almost never went out for a walk with us, and every time we came back, we could always see her in the living room... For us children, the evening activities ended here; however, when we returned to the bedroom, we often read books, After a while, I heard the adults also went upstairs to rest. A day, except for going to the garden, we spent in the "study room".This room was originally my uncle's study room, and a few desks would do.My cousin Robert and I sat side by side studying, with Juliette and Alyssa sitting behind us.Alyssa was two years older than me, Juliet a year younger; of the four of us Robert was the youngest. It is not my original memories that I intend to write here, but they are the only ones that are relevant to this story.It can be said that this story did begin in the year of his father's death.My natural sensibility, when strongly stimulated by our mourning, if not by my own mourning, at least by witnessing my mother's mourning, may be liable to new passions: I was ripe at an early age.When we went to the Fengsmar Grange that year, I saw Juliet and Robert and felt smaller, and when I saw Alyssa, I suddenly understood that we were no longer children. Yes, it was the year my father died; and a conversation my mother had with Miss Ashbuton when we first arrived at the Grange confirmed my memory.She was talking with her girlfriends in the room, when I broke in by accident and heard them talking about my aunt: my mother was very angry, saying that my aunt was not in mourning or had already taken off her mourning clothes. (Honestly, I find it hard to imagine that Aunt Bucolin is wearing a black dress, just like my mother is wearing a light-colored dress).I still remember Lucile Buccolain wearing a tulle dress the day we arrived.Miss Ashbuton, always a peacemaker, tried her best to persuade my mother, and expressed tremblingly: "Anyway, white is also mourning." "And what about the red veil she draped over her shoulders, what do you call 'mourning'? Flora, you've got nothing else to look for!" cried my mother. Only during the months of vacation, I could see my aunt, no doubt because of the hot summer, I saw her always wearing a thin shirt that was opened very low.My mother couldn't bear her wearing a fiery red scarf, and she was particularly angry when she saw her bare chest and arms. Lucile Bucolin was very pretty.I keep a small portrait of her, and I can see her beauty at that time: she looks very young, almost like the sister of her two daughters.She was sitting sideways in her usual posture, with her left hand resting her slightly tilted head, her fine fingers curled playfully close to her lips.A thick-eyed hairnet caught the thick, curly hair that fell halfway down the nape of his neck.The shirt had a wide open collar, revealing a loose black velvet belt from which hung an Italian mosaic.A black velvet belt tied in a large flowing bow, and a wide-brimmed soft straw hat hung from the back of the chair by the chinstrap, all of which added a little childishness to her.Her right hand hangs down, holding a closed book. Lucile Bucolin was a Creole she had never met, or had lost her parents very early.My mother later told me that the Vautier priest and his wife adopted this abandoned daughter or orphan before they had any children; soon, they left Martigny with their family and moved to Le Havre with their children, and Buclin. If the family lives in the same city, the two families will get close to each other.My uncle, who was working as a clerk in a foreign bank at the time, returned after three years, fell in love with little Lucile, and immediately proposed to her, much to the grief of his parents and my mother.Lucile was sixteen years old then.After Mrs. Vautier adopted her, she gave birth to two children. She found that her adoptive daughter's temperament was becoming more and more weird, and she began to worry about affecting her own children; besides, the family income was also meager... All these were told by my mother. Let me understand, Vautier, why they accepted her brother's proposal with joy.Besides, I presume that they began to worry especially about Lucile, who had grown into a girl.I know the social atmosphere of Le Havre quite well, and it is not difficult to imagine the attitude of the people there to this very charming girl.Later I got to know the Reverend Vautier, and found him a kindly man, industrious and naive, incapable of dealing with intrigue, still less of evil: the good man must have been in trouble.As for Madame Vautier, I have nothing to say: she died of dystocia with the fourth child, who was about my own age and who later became my friend. ①The descendants of the descendants of the Antilles and other places in Latin America are collectively referred to as the Creoles. Lucile Bucolin rarely came into our circle of life: she came down from her bedroom only after lunch, then lay down on a cot or hammock, and did not get up lazily until evening.She often puts a handkerchief on her forehead, as if to wipe off the sweat, but in fact there is no crystal clear sweat; the handkerchief is very delicate, and it exudes a fragrance that is more like fruity than floral, which makes me amazed.She also often took out a small mirror with a smooth silver cover hanging from the watch chain at her waist, and looked at herself, moistening the corners of her eyes with some saliva on her lips with her fingers.She tends to hold a book, but it is almost always closed with a horny bookmark inserted in the middle.When someone approached, she would not withdraw her thoughts from her reverie and glance at them.From her careless or tired hands, from the arm of a sofa or the folds of a dress, often a handkerchief, or a book, or a flower, or a bookmark fell.One day—I'm still talking about childhood memories here—I picked up the book and found it was poetry, and I couldn't help but blush. After dinner, Lucile Buclin did not go to the family table, but sat at the piano and played Chopin's Adagio mazurka triumphantly, sometimes breaking the rhythm abruptly, stopping at a chord. superior…… I always felt particularly uncomfortable in the presence of my aunt, an emotional turmoil of admiration and fear.Perhaps instinct was secretly warning me against her; besides, I felt that she had contempt for Flora Ashbuton and my mother, and that Miss Ashbuton was afraid of her, and my mother did not like her. Lucile Bucolin, I don't want to hate you any more, let me forget for a moment how much damage you have done... At least I will try to talk about you calmly. Either this summer or the next summer—because the background is always the same, and my memories overlap, sometimes it is inevitable to confuse—once, I went into the living room to find a book, saw her in it, and wanted to immediately When I exited, she stopped me, and usually she seems to ignore me: "Why go in such a hurry? Jerome! Are you afraid to see me? I had to walk over, and my heart was pounding; I tried to smile at her, and gave her my hand.She held mine with one hand and stroked my cheek with the other. "My poor child, how poorly your mother dresses you! . . . " As she said that, she began to rub the wide-lapel middy and skirt I was wearing. "The collar of the sailor suit should be opened wide!" As she spoke, she tore off a button on her dress. "Here! See how much better you look like this!" She picked up the small mirror again, put my face against hers, put her bare arms around my neck, put her hands into my half-open clothes, smiled and asked me if I was afraid of tickle, and at the same time continued to hold my hands. Touching down... I suddenly jumped and pulled away violently, my clothes were torn; my face was on fire, and I only heard her yell: "Bah! What a fool!" I escaped and ran to the depths of the garden, soaked a handkerchief in the small pool where the vegetables were poured, put it on my forehead, and then washed and rubbed, scrubbing my face, neck and the parts touched by this woman again. There were days when Lucile Bucolin was "sick" and had sudden attacks that disturbed the whole family.In such a case, Miss Ashbuton hurried to lead the children to other things; but no one could silence them, and terrible cries came from the bedrooms or the parlour, and reached the children's ears.My uncle was in a panic, and he was running in the corridor, looking for towels, toilet water, and ether.When it was time to eat, my aunt hadn't shown up yet, and my uncle had just become anxious and looked much older. After an episode had almost passed, Lucile Bucolin called the children to her side, at least Robert and Juliet, never Alyssa.On such sad days Alyssa kept her house away, and her father sometimes visited her, because father and daughter often talked to each other. The aunt's outbursts frightened the servants too.One night, when I was very ill; I was in my mother's room, and could not quite hear what was going on in the drawing-room, but the cook was running down the corridor, shouting: "Call sir down quickly, the poor lady is dying!" My uncle was upstairs in Alyssa's room when my mother went out to meet him.A quarter of an hour later, as they passed by the open window, not noticing my presence, my mother's words reached me: "Do you want me to tell you, friend: If you make a scene like this, it's just a play for others to watch." She also repeated it several times word by word: make a show for one person to see. This happened towards the end of the summer vacation, two years after my father's death.I didn't see my aunt again for a long time afterwards.A tragic incident which turned the whole family upside down, and which was shortly preceded by a small incident which transformed my complex and vague feelings towards Lucile Buclin at once into pure hatred.However, before I describe these circumstances, I should also say something about my cousin. Alyssa Bucoland was beautiful, but I didn't realize it at the time.There was a charm other than mere beauty that drew me to her side.Needless to say, she looks very much like her mother, but her eyes are quite different, so it took me a long time to discover the similarity between mother and daughter.I can't describe her face, the outline of the facial features, and even the color of the eyes. I only remember the almost melancholy expression she showed when she smiled, and the two curved eyebrows raised above the eyes: I have never seen that arched brow line anywhere... no, I have seen it, it is in a statuette of Florence in the period of Dante, and I imagine that when Beatrice was a child, Naturally, there are such towering arched eyebrows.This kind of eyebrows gave her eyes and even the whole person an expression of concern, inquiry and trust—yes, an expression of intense inquiry.Every part of her was reduced to question and anticipation... I'll tell you how this inquiry seized me and ordered my life. ① Beatrice: A Florentine girl, who is the prototype of a character in Dante. It may seem that Juliet is more beautiful, she is full of health and joy; however, compared with her sister's elegance, her beauty is exposed, and it seems that anyone can see it at a glance.As for my cousin Robert, there was nothing special about him, just an ordinary boy of my age.I played with Juliet and Robert, but with Alyssa I talked.Alyssa didn't take part in our games very much, and no matter how far back I go, I always remember her as serious, smiling and thoughtful. —What are we talking about?What can two children talk about together?I will explain it to you shortly; however, I will finish my aunt first, so as not to mention her again. It was two years after my father died, and my mother and I went to Le Havre for Easter. Since the Buclin family’s house in the city was relatively small, we did not go to live there, but lived in the house of one of my mother’s sisters.My aunt's house was spacious. Her name was Plantier. She had been a widow for many years. I seldom saw her, nor did I know her children very well: they were much older than I, and their temperaments were very different.According to Le Havre, the "Mansion Plantier" is not located in the city, but is located on the hillside overlooking the whole city, known as the "seaside".The Buckland home is close to the business district.Walking a steep path, I can go from one house to another quickly. I have to run uphill and downhill several times a day. Let's say that day, I had lunch at my uncle's house.He was going out soon after dinner; I accompanied him as far as his office, and then went up the hill to the Plantiers' to see my mother.When I got there, I heard that my mother and aunt had gone out and would not return until supper time.So I immediately went down the mountain again, back to the urban area where I seldom had the opportunity to wander, walked to the dark port due to sea fog, and strolled on the pier for an hour or two.I had a sudden desire to catch Alyssa, who had just broken up, by surprise... I ran across the city, rang the doorbell of the Buclin's house, and rushed upstairs as soon as the door opened, but was stopped by the maid up: "Don't go upstairs, Mr. Jerome! Don't go upstairs: Madame is sick." But I ignored it: "I'm not here to see my aunt..." Alyssa's room was on the fourth floor.The second floor is the living room and dining room, and my aunt's room is on the third floor, and there are voices in it.I had to go through the door, which was wide open, and a ray of light shone from it, dividing the corridor into light and dark.Afraid of being seen, I hesitated for a moment, then ducked into the darkness, and was startled at the scene in the room: the curtains were all drawn, the light from two candelabra candles added a kind of happiness; On the bench in the center of the room, there are Robert and Juliet at their feet, and behind them stands a strange young man in a lieutenant's uniform.From today's perspective, having two children in the presence is really bad, but I was so naive at the time that I thought it was safe. They smiled and watched the stranger, and heard him repeat in melodious tones: "Bucolan! Bucolan! . . . If I ever had a sheep, I'd call it Buco My aunt giggled.I saw her hand the young man a cigarette, the young man lit the cigarette, she took a few puffs of it, then threw it on the ground, the young man rushed to pick it up, pretended to trip over a shawl, and fell to his knees In front of my aunt... This kind of theatrical scene was so ridiculous that I took the opportunity to sneak past without being seen. When I came to the door of Alyssa's room, I stopped for a moment, and heard the chatter and laughter from downstairs.I knocked on the door, but there was no response, probably because the knock on the door drowned out the chatter and laughter downstairs.I pushed it, and the door opened without a sound.The room was already very dark, and it was impossible to see where Alyssa was for a while.It turned out that she was kneeling at the head of the bed, with her back facing the window through which a ray of sunset light penetrated.She turned her head as I approached, but instead of getting up she muttered, "Oh, Jerome, what are you doing back again?" I leaned down to kiss her and she burst into tears... This moment determined my whole life, and I still feel panic when I think about it.At that time, of course, I didn't fully understand the cause of Alyssa's pain, but I already felt such great pain strongly. This trembling young heart and this frail body that wept and twitched couldn't bear it at all. I stood beside Alyssa, who was kneeling all the time, and I didn't know how to express the passion that was just sprouting in my heart. I just hugged her head tightly to my chest and pressed my lips to her forehead to pour out my soul.I am intoxicated with love and pity, with passion.In a mixed and vague germ of devotion and virtue, calling out to God with all his strength, willing to give up any purpose in life, to spend his life protecting this girl from fear, evil, and life.My heart was full of prayers, and at last I knelt down and let her hide in my arms, and vaguely heard her say, "Jerome! They didn't see you, did they? Oh! Come on! Don't Let them see you." Then, she lowered her voice: "Jerome, don't tell anyone... Poor dad doesn't know anything..." I didn't say a word to my mother; however, I also noticed that Aunt Plantier always whispered to my mother, endlessly, and the two women looked mysterious, hurried and sad. If they approached, they sent me away: "Children, play aside!" All this showed me that they were not ignorant of the secrets of the Bucolan family. We had just returned to Paris when we received a telegram asking my mother to return to Le Havre: my aunt had eloped. "Did the same person run away?" I asked Miss Ashbuton, who was left behind by my mother to look after me. "Son, ask your mother about this later, I can't answer you," said the old friend of the family; she was also deeply surprised when this happened. Two days later, the two of us set off to see my mother.It was a Saturday, and I could see my cousins at church the next day, with all my mind on it; my child's mind especially valued the sanctification of our reunion.In the final analysis, I don't care about my aunt's affairs, and I don't care about face, so I never ask my mother. There were not many people in the chapel that morning, and Reverend Vautier obviously intended to play on the words of preaching Christ: "Enter through this narrow door as best you can." Alyssa was sitting in front of me a few seats away, and I could only see her profile. I stared at her intently, completely forgetting myself. Even the words I listened to sincerely seemed to be passed on to me through her.The uncle sat next to the mother and wept. The pastor first read this verse: "Do your best to enter through the narrow gate, for the wide gate and the broad road lead to hell, and many people enter in; but the narrow gate and narrow road lead to eternal life, and only a few Talents can be found.” Then, he clarified this theme in sections, first talking about Kuanlu... I wandered out of my mind, as if in a dream, and saw my aunt’s room again, and saw her lying there, smiling, that handsome officer Laughing too... the very concept of laughter and joy also turns into hurt and insult, as if it has become a sinful and hateful show off! ... "There are a lot of people going in," repeated the Reverend Vautier, and went on to describe; and I saw a laughing, richly dressed crowd going noisily forward, drawing out the long procession, and I felt that I could neither And I don't want to save myself, because walking with them will take me away from Alyssa every step I take. —The pastor went back to the beginning of the verse, and I saw again the narrow door through which I should strive.In my dream, the narrow gate I saw was like a rolling mill. I struggled to squeeze through it. I felt a huge pain, but I also had a foretaste of the blessings of heaven.Then, this door became Alyssa's door again. In order to get in, I tried my best to shrink my body and get rid of all selfish distractions... "Because the narrow road leads to eternal life..." Pastor Vautier continued.Then, at the end of all austerities, at the end of all sorrows, I imagined and foreseen another joy, that pure and mysterious angelic joy, for which my soul longed.I pictured that joy as a shrill and soft violin, a fire that would burn Alyssa's and mine's hearts to ashes.The two of us are wearing the white clothes described in the "Apocalypse", our eyes are fixed on the same goal, and we are walking hand in hand... What does it matter if this kind of childhood dream makes people laugh!When I reproduced the whole story, it is inevitable that there are some ambiguities. I cannot express my feelings more accurately, but it is only because of incomplete wording and images. ①See "Bible Revelation", only those with unblemished souls can wear holy white clothes. "Only a few find it," said the Reverend Vautier at last.He also explains how to find the narrow gate... "the few". —Maybe I am one of them. Towards the end of the sermon, I was so nervous that I ran away after Monday, not going to see my cousin, but it was out of pride, to test my resolution (I had already made up my mind) , thinking that only by going away immediately can he be more worthy of her.
The experience I am talking about here may be written into a book by others, but I spent all my energy to spend it, exhausting my own characteristics, so I can only record my memories extremely simply.These past events sometimes seem fragmented, but I have no intention of inventing anything to patch them up or connect them: the labors spent on embellishing them would interfere with the final pleasure I hoped for in telling them. I was not yet twelve years old when my father died. My mother felt that Le Havre, where my father had practiced medicine before his death, had nothing to worry about, so she decided to take me to live in Paris so that I could finish my studies with better grades.She took a small flat near the Luxembourg Gardens, and Mademoiselle Flora Ashbuton moved in with her.This young lady has no family anymore. She was my mother's elementary school teacher, and later accompanied my mother, and the two became good friends soon.I have been living among these two women, and they both have the same tender and sad expression, and they can only be seen in mourning clothes in my eyes.And one day, I guess it must have been a long time since my father passed away, I saw the sash on my mother's cap changed from black to lavender, and I exclaimed in surprise: "Oh! Mom! You look ugly in that color!" The next day, she put on the black sash again. My physique is weak.My mother and Miss Ashbuton took care of me in every possible way, lest I would be tired. Fortunately, I really like to study, so they didn't make me a lazy idiot.As soon as the weather is pleasant, they think that I have turned pale and should leave the city, so as soon as the middle of June enters, we set off for the Fengsmar Grange on the outskirts of Le Havre: where Uncle Buclin lives. There, it hosts us every summer. The garden of the Buclin family is not very big and not very beautiful. Compared with other gardens in Normandy, it has no characteristics; the house is a small white three-story building, similar to many rural farmhouses in the last century.The small building faces east from west, facing the garden, with about 20 large windows on the front and back sides, and dead walls on both sides.The windows were lined with small panes of glass, some of which were new, and looked particularly bright, while the old glass around them was a dull green.Some glass still has flaws, which our elders call "bubbles"; looking through the glass, the trees are crooked, and the postman will suddenly swell up when he passes by. The garden is rectangular and surrounded by walls.In front of the house, a sizable lawn is shaded by greenery and bordered by a gravel path.The wall on this side was lowered, and one could see the farm compound surrounding the garden, and the border of the compound, a beech avenue according to the local custom. To the west of the back of the small building, the garden is wider.Against the south wall there is a flower path, sheltered from the sea breeze by a thick screen of Portuguese laurel and several tall trees below the wall.There is also a flower path along the north wall, which is hidden in the dense bushes; my cousins call it the "black path", and they dare not walk rashly at dusk.Walk down a few steps along the two paths, and you will reach the vegetable garden, which is the continuation of the garden.A small secret door was opened in the wall at the edge of the vegetable garden, and beyond the wall was a scrub forest where the beech-lined roads on the left and right met.Standing on the steps to the west, looking beyond the undergrowth, you can see the highland and enjoy the crops growing on the highland.Moving my eyes to the horizon, I could still see the church in a small village not too far away, and when the wind was clear at dusk, I could still see the smoke from the kitchens of several families in the village. On a clear summer evening, after dinner, we went to the "Lower Garden" and walked out of the small secret door to a section of raised avenue overlooking the surrounding area.There, my uncle.Mother and Miss Ashbuton sat down beside the hut in the abandoned peat rock mine.Before our eyes, the small valley was filled with mist, and the sky over the woods a little further away was dyed golden yellow.Then, as dusk grew deeper, we lingered in the garden.My aunt almost never went out for a walk with us, and every time we came back, we could always see her in the living room... For us children, the evening activities ended here; however, when we returned to the bedroom, we often read books, After a while, I heard the adults also went upstairs to rest. A day, except for going to the garden, we spent in the "study room".This room was originally my uncle's study room, and a few desks would do.My cousin Robert and I sat side by side studying, with Juliette and Alyssa sitting behind us.Alyssa was two years older than me, Juliet a year younger; of the four of us Robert was the youngest. It is not my original memories that I intend to write here, but they are the only ones that are relevant to this story.It can be said that this story did begin in the year of his father's death.My natural sensibility, when strongly stimulated by our mourning, if not by my own mourning, at least by witnessing my mother's mourning, may be liable to new passions: I was ripe at an early age.When we went to the Fengsmar Grange that year, I saw Juliet and Robert and felt smaller, and when I saw Alyssa, I suddenly understood that we were no longer children. Yes, it was the year my father died; and a conversation my mother had with Miss Ashbuton when we first arrived at the Grange confirmed my memory.She was talking with her girlfriends in the room, when I broke in by accident and heard them talking about my aunt: my mother was very angry, saying that my aunt was not in mourning or had already taken off her mourning clothes. (Honestly, I find it hard to imagine that Aunt Bucolin is wearing a black dress, just like my mother is wearing a light-colored dress).I still remember Lucile Buccolain wearing a tulle dress the day we arrived.Miss Ashbuton, always a peacemaker, tried her best to persuade my mother, and expressed tremblingly: "Anyway, white is also mourning." "And what about the red veil she draped over her shoulders, what do you call 'mourning'? Flora, you've got nothing else to look for!" cried my mother. Only during the months of vacation, I could see my aunt, no doubt because of the hot summer, I saw her always wearing a thin shirt that was opened very low.My mother couldn't bear her wearing a fiery red scarf, and she was particularly angry when she saw her bare chest and arms. Lucile Bucolin was very pretty.I keep a small portrait of her, and I can see her beauty at that time: she looks very young, almost like the sister of her two daughters.She was sitting sideways in her usual posture, with her left hand resting her slightly tilted head, her fine fingers curled playfully close to her lips.A thick-eyed hairnet caught the thick, curly hair that fell halfway down the nape of his neck.The shirt had a wide open collar, revealing a loose black velvet belt from which hung an Italian mosaic.A black velvet belt tied in a large flowing bow, and a wide-brimmed soft straw hat hung from the back of the chair by the chinstrap, all of which added a little childishness to her.Her right hand hangs down, holding a closed book. Lucile Bucolin was a Creole she had never met, or had lost her parents very early.My mother later told me that the Vautier priest and his wife adopted this abandoned daughter or orphan before they had any children; soon, they left Martigny with their family and moved to Le Havre with their children, and Buclin. If the family lives in the same city, the two families will get close to each other.My uncle, who was working as a clerk in a foreign bank at the time, returned after three years, fell in love with little Lucile, and immediately proposed to her, much to the grief of his parents and my mother.Lucile was sixteen years old then.After Mrs. Vautier adopted her, she gave birth to two children. She found that her adoptive daughter's temperament was becoming more and more weird, and she began to worry about affecting her own children; besides, the family income was also meager... All these were told by my mother. Let me understand, Vautier, why they accepted her brother's proposal with joy.Besides, I presume that they began to worry especially about Lucile, who had grown into a girl.I know the social atmosphere of Le Havre quite well, and it is not difficult to imagine the attitude of the people there to this very charming girl.Later I got to know the Reverend Vautier, and found him a kindly man, industrious and naive, incapable of dealing with intrigue, still less of evil: the good man must have been in trouble.As for Madame Vautier, I have nothing to say: she died of dystocia with the fourth child, who was about my own age and who later became my friend. ①The descendants of the descendants of the Antilles and other places in Latin America are collectively referred to as the Creoles. Lucile Bucolin rarely came into our circle of life: she came down from her bedroom only after lunch, then lay down on a cot or hammock, and did not get up lazily until evening.She often puts a handkerchief on her forehead, as if to wipe off the sweat, but in fact there is no crystal clear sweat; the handkerchief is very delicate, and it exudes a fragrance that is more like fruity than floral, which makes me amazed.She also often took out a small mirror with a smooth silver cover hanging from the watch chain at her waist, and looked at herself, moistening the corners of her eyes with some saliva on her lips with her fingers.She tends to hold a book, but it is almost always closed with a horny bookmark inserted in the middle.When someone approached, she would not withdraw her thoughts from her reverie and glance at them.From her careless or tired hands, from the arm of a sofa or the folds of a dress, often a handkerchief, or a book, or a flower, or a bookmark fell.One day—I'm still talking about childhood memories here—I picked up the book and found it was poetry, and I couldn't help but blush. After dinner, Lucile Buclin did not go to the family table, but sat at the piano and played Chopin's Adagio mazurka triumphantly, sometimes breaking the rhythm abruptly, stopping at a chord. superior…… I always felt particularly uncomfortable in the presence of my aunt, an emotional turmoil of admiration and fear.Perhaps instinct was secretly warning me against her; besides, I felt that she had contempt for Flora Ashbuton and my mother, and that Miss Ashbuton was afraid of her, and my mother did not like her. Lucile Bucolin, I don't want to hate you any more, let me forget for a moment how much damage you have done... At least I will try to talk about you calmly. Either this summer or the next summer—because the background is always the same, and my memories overlap, sometimes it is inevitable to confuse—once, I went into the living room to find a book, saw her in it, and wanted to immediately When I exited, she stopped me, and usually she seems to ignore me: "Why go in such a hurry? Jerome! Are you afraid to see me? I had to walk over, and my heart was pounding; I tried to smile at her, and gave her my hand.She held mine with one hand and stroked my cheek with the other. "My poor child, how poorly your mother dresses you! . . . " As she said that, she began to rub the wide-lapel middy and skirt I was wearing. "The collar of the sailor suit should be opened wide!" As she spoke, she tore off a button on her dress. "Here! See how much better you look like this!" She picked up the small mirror again, put my face against hers, put her bare arms around my neck, put her hands into my half-open clothes, smiled and asked me if I was afraid of tickle, and at the same time continued to hold my hands. Touching down... I suddenly jumped and pulled away violently, my clothes were torn; my face was on fire, and I only heard her yell: "Bah! What a fool!" I escaped and ran to the depths of the garden, soaked a handkerchief in the small pool where the vegetables were poured, put it on my forehead, and then washed and rubbed, scrubbing my face, neck and the parts touched by this woman again. There were days when Lucile Bucolin was "sick" and had sudden attacks that disturbed the whole family.In such a case, Miss Ashbuton hurried to lead the children to other things; but no one could silence them, and terrible cries came from the bedrooms or the parlour, and reached the children's ears.My uncle was in a panic, and he was running in the corridor, looking for towels, toilet water, and ether.When it was time to eat, my aunt hadn't shown up yet, and my uncle had just become anxious and looked much older. After an episode had almost passed, Lucile Bucolin called the children to her side, at least Robert and Juliet, never Alyssa.On such sad days Alyssa kept her house away, and her father sometimes visited her, because father and daughter often talked to each other. The aunt's outbursts frightened the servants too.One night, when I was very ill; I was in my mother's room, and could not quite hear what was going on in the drawing-room, but the cook was running down the corridor, shouting: "Call sir down quickly, the poor lady is dying!" My uncle was upstairs in Alyssa's room when my mother went out to meet him.A quarter of an hour later, as they passed by the open window, not noticing my presence, my mother's words reached me: "Do you want me to tell you, friend: If you make a scene like this, it's just a play for others to watch." She also repeated it several times word by word: make a show for one person to see. This happened towards the end of the summer vacation, two years after my father's death.I didn't see my aunt again for a long time afterwards.A tragic incident which turned the whole family upside down, and which was shortly preceded by a small incident which transformed my complex and vague feelings towards Lucile Buclin at once into pure hatred.However, before I describe these circumstances, I should also say something about my cousin. Alyssa Bucoland was beautiful, but I didn't realize it at the time.There was a charm other than mere beauty that drew me to her side.Needless to say, she looks very much like her mother, but her eyes are quite different, so it took me a long time to discover the similarity between mother and daughter.I can't describe her face, the outline of the facial features, and even the color of the eyes. I only remember the almost melancholy expression she showed when she smiled, and the two curved eyebrows raised above the eyes: I have never seen that arched brow line anywhere... no, I have seen it, it is in a statuette of Florence in the period of Dante, and I imagine that when Beatrice was a child, Naturally, there are such towering arched eyebrows.This kind of eyebrows gave her eyes and even the whole person an expression of concern, inquiry and trust—yes, an expression of intense inquiry.Every part of her was reduced to question and anticipation... I'll tell you how this inquiry seized me and ordered my life. ① Beatrice: A Florentine girl, who is the prototype of a character in Dante. It may seem that Juliet is more beautiful, she is full of health and joy; however, compared with her sister's elegance, her beauty is exposed, and it seems that anyone can see it at a glance.As for my cousin Robert, there was nothing special about him, just an ordinary boy of my age.I played with Juliet and Robert, but with Alyssa I talked.Alyssa didn't take part in our games very much, and no matter how far back I go, I always remember her as serious, smiling and thoughtful. —What are we talking about?What can two children talk about together?I will explain it to you shortly; however, I will finish my aunt first, so as not to mention her again. It was two years after my father died, and my mother and I went to Le Havre for Easter. Since the Buclin family’s house in the city was relatively small, we did not go to live there, but lived in the house of one of my mother’s sisters.My aunt's house was spacious. Her name was Plantier. She had been a widow for many years. I seldom saw her, nor did I know her children very well: they were much older than I, and their temperaments were very different.According to Le Havre, the "Mansion Plantier" is not located in the city, but is located on the hillside overlooking the whole city, known as the "seaside".The Buckland home is close to the business district.Walking a steep path, I can go from one house to another quickly. I have to run uphill and downhill several times a day. Let's say that day, I had lunch at my uncle's house.He was going out soon after dinner; I accompanied him as far as his office, and then went up the hill to the Plantiers' to see my mother.When I got there, I heard that my mother and aunt had gone out and would not return until supper time.So I immediately went down the mountain again, back to the urban area where I seldom had the opportunity to wander, walked to the dark port due to sea fog, and strolled on the pier for an hour or two.I had a sudden desire to catch Alyssa, who had just broken up, by surprise... I ran across the city, rang the doorbell of the Buclin's house, and rushed upstairs as soon as the door opened, but was stopped by the maid up: "Don't go upstairs, Mr. Jerome! Don't go upstairs: Madame is sick." But I ignored it: "I'm not here to see my aunt..." Alyssa's room was on the fourth floor.The second floor is the living room and dining room, and my aunt's room is on the third floor, and there are voices in it.I had to go through the door, which was wide open, and a ray of light shone from it, dividing the corridor into light and dark.Afraid of being seen, I hesitated for a moment, then ducked into the darkness, and was startled at the scene in the room: the curtains were all drawn, the light from two candelabra candles added a kind of happiness; On the bench in the center of the room, there are Robert and Juliet at their feet, and behind them stands a strange young man in a lieutenant's uniform.From today's perspective, having two children in the presence is really bad, but I was so naive at the time that I thought it was safe. They smiled and watched the stranger, and heard him repeat in melodious tones: "Bucolan! Bucolan! . . . If I ever had a sheep, I'd call it Buco My aunt giggled.I saw her hand the young man a cigarette, the young man lit the cigarette, she took a few puffs of it, then threw it on the ground, the young man rushed to pick it up, pretended to trip over a shawl, and fell to his knees In front of my aunt... This kind of theatrical scene was so ridiculous that I took the opportunity to sneak past without being seen. When I came to the door of Alyssa's room, I stopped for a moment, and heard the chatter and laughter from downstairs.I knocked on the door, but there was no response, probably because the knock on the door drowned out the chatter and laughter downstairs.I pushed it, and the door opened without a sound.The room was already very dark, and it was impossible to see where Alyssa was for a while.It turned out that she was kneeling at the head of the bed, with her back facing the window through which a ray of sunset light penetrated.She turned her head as I approached, but instead of getting up she muttered, "Oh, Jerome, what are you doing back again?" I leaned down to kiss her and she burst into tears... This moment determined my whole life, and I still feel panic when I think about it.At that time, of course, I didn't fully understand the cause of Alyssa's pain, but I already felt such great pain strongly. This trembling young heart and this frail body that wept and twitched couldn't bear it at all. I stood beside Alyssa, who was kneeling all the time, and I didn't know how to express the passion that was just sprouting in my heart. I just hugged her head tightly to my chest and pressed my lips to her forehead to pour out my soul.I am intoxicated with love and pity, with passion.In a mixed and vague germ of devotion and virtue, calling out to God with all his strength, willing to give up any purpose in life, to spend his life protecting this girl from fear, evil, and life.My heart was full of prayers, and at last I knelt down and let her hide in my arms, and vaguely heard her say, "Jerome! They didn't see you, did they? Oh! Come on! Don't Let them see you." Then, she lowered her voice: "Jerome, don't tell anyone... Poor dad doesn't know anything..." I didn't say a word to my mother; however, I also noticed that Aunt Plantier always whispered to my mother, endlessly, and the two women looked mysterious, hurried and sad. If they approached, they sent me away: "Children, play aside!" All this showed me that they were not ignorant of the secrets of the Bucolan family. We had just returned to Paris when we received a telegram asking my mother to return to Le Havre: my aunt had eloped. "Did the same person run away?" I asked Miss Ashbuton, who was left behind by my mother to look after me. "Son, ask your mother about this later, I can't answer you," said the old friend of the family; she was also deeply surprised when this happened. Two days later, the two of us set off to see my mother.It was a Saturday, and I could see my cousins at church the next day, with all my mind on it; my child's mind especially valued the sanctification of our reunion.In the final analysis, I don't care about my aunt's affairs, and I don't care about face, so I never ask my mother. There were not many people in the chapel that morning, and Reverend Vautier obviously intended to play on the words of preaching Christ: "Enter through this narrow door as best you can." Alyssa was sitting in front of me a few seats away, and I could only see her profile. I stared at her intently, completely forgetting myself. Even the words I listened to sincerely seemed to be passed on to me through her.The uncle sat next to the mother and wept. The pastor first read this verse: "Do your best to enter through the narrow gate, for the wide gate and the broad road lead to hell, and many people enter in; but the narrow gate and narrow road lead to eternal life, and only a few Talents can be found.” Then, he clarified this theme in sections, first talking about Kuanlu... I wandered out of my mind, as if in a dream, and saw my aunt’s room again, and saw her lying there, smiling, that handsome officer Laughing too... the very concept of laughter and joy also turns into hurt and insult, as if it has become a sinful and hateful show off! ... "There are a lot of people going in," repeated the Reverend Vautier, and went on to describe; and I saw a laughing, richly dressed crowd going noisily forward, drawing out the long procession, and I felt that I could neither And I don't want to save myself, because walking with them will take me away from Alyssa every step I take. —The pastor went back to the beginning of the verse, and I saw again the narrow door through which I should strive.In my dream, the narrow gate I saw was like a rolling mill. I struggled to squeeze through it. I felt a huge pain, but I also had a foretaste of the blessings of heaven.Then, this door became Alyssa's door again. In order to get in, I tried my best to shrink my body and get rid of all selfish distractions... "Because the narrow road leads to eternal life..." Pastor Vautier continued.Then, at the end of all austerities, at the end of all sorrows, I imagined and foreseen another joy, that pure and mysterious angelic joy, for which my soul longed.I pictured that joy as a shrill and soft violin, a fire that would burn Alyssa's and mine's hearts to ashes.The two of us are wearing the white clothes described in the "Apocalypse", our eyes are fixed on the same goal, and we are walking hand in hand... What does it matter if this kind of childhood dream makes people laugh!When I reproduced the whole story, it is inevitable that there are some ambiguities. I cannot express my feelings more accurately, but it is only because of incomplete wording and images. ①See "Bible Revelation", only those with unblemished souls can wear holy white clothes. "Only a few find it," said the Reverend Vautier at last.He also explains how to find the narrow gate... "the few". —Maybe I am one of them. Towards the end of the sermon, I was so nervous that I ran away after Monday, not going to see my cousin, but it was out of pride, to test my resolution (I had already made up my mind) , thinking that only by going away immediately can he be more worthy of her.