The intellectual value of a salon is often inversely proportional to elegance. However, since Swan considers Mrs. Bondang to be likable, that is to say, when a person is forced to work with another kind of person because of sinking, he no longer demands on them, and no longer finds fault with their intelligence and others. If this is true, then individuals, like nations, lose their independence * while losing their own cultural accomplishment, even language. One of the consequences of this tolerance is that, starting at a certain age, people increasingly like to be praised and encouraged by others for their talents and temperaments. For example, great artists no longer associate with geniuses of uniqueness, but only with students. The latter and his only common language are his doctrines, and they are resigned to him. For example, at a party, an excellent man or woman who is love-oriented will think that the person who has mediocre intelligence but who understands and agrees with romantic affairs between words is the smartest person, because his words make the lover or mistress's love instinct pleasant. Take Swan for example. Mrs. Bondang said that some salons only serve the duchesses. How could that be true? At this time, Swan, the husband of Odette, nodded and said that if he had been in the Vildeland home in the past, he would have disagreed with Mrs. Bondang, but now he said that she was a good woman, full of wit and elegance. He was also happy to tell her some interesting things that made her "happy to stand up". She had never heard of these things, but she "knew" that she liked to be pleasant and amused.
"So the doctor doesn't love flowers as much as you do?" Mrs. Swan asked Mrs. Godard, "Ah! You know, my husband is a saint, the middle way. But he has a hobby." With cunning, joy and curiosity in Mrs. Bondang's eyes, she asked, "What hobbies, madam?" Godard said simply, "Read a book." This hobby has nothing to worry about for his wife. Mrs. Bondang exclaimed, with a restrained evil smile, "You know, the doctor is completely in the book!" Well, you don't have to worry about it. Li, have you heard that Mrs. Vildiran is going to install lights in her new house? The news was not told to me by my private agent, but from another source, the electrician Mild. You see, I have no secret of the source. Even the bedroom should be equipped with electric lights, with a lampshade to make light soft, what a wonderful luxury! Our contemporaries always pursue new things, even if they are unique in the world. My friend's sister-in-law installed a telephone at home and ordered from the supplier without going out. I admit I did a little trick to get her to agree that I would talk to the phone someday. The telephone is very attractive to me, but I prefer to call my friends'house rather than install it myself. Once the freshness is over, the telephone will become a complete burden. Okay, Odette, I'm leaving. Don't keep Bond as Mrs. She's going to take me home. I have to go. You've got me in trouble: my husband came home before me! "
I should also say goodbye and go home, although I haven't tasted the pleasure of winter contained in chrysanthemum's bright and colorful shell. The pleasure had not yet arrived, and Mrs Swan seemed to be waiting for nothing. She asked her servant to tidy up the tea set as if she were announcing, "Close the door!" She finally said, "Really, you're leaving too?" All right, good-bye. Even if I stayed, I would not necessarily be able to experience this strange pleasure, and the reason is not only my melancholy, that is to say, the pleasure does not exist on the old road of time that quickly led to the moment of departure, but on a path that I do not know. I should have turned in. But my visit has at least achieved its goal. Hilbert will know that I visited her parents when she was not at home, and that, in Mrs. Godard's words, I "conquered Mrs. Vildiran from the very beginning" (Mrs. Doctor has never seen Mrs. Vildiran so "courteous" or "courteous"). You're probably born with destiny. Hillbert will know that I have spoken of her appropriately and affectionately, and that I can still live without meeting her, and that her recent dislike of me, in my opinion, is precisely because she thinks I have no such ability. I told Mrs Swan that I couldn't see Hilbert again. I said that as if I were determined never to see her again. The same is true of the letter I am going to write to her. However, in order to inspire myself, I asked myself to make a final, short-term effort. I said to myself, "This is the last time I refused her appointment. I will accept the next appointment. In order to reduce the pain of this separation, I do not regard it as a permanent separation, although I feel that it will be permanent. Gadfly
New Year's Day this year is very painful for me. When you are unfortunate, whether it is a meaningful day or a memorial day, everything will make you miserable. However, if you lose loved ones, then the pain only comes from the strong contrast between the past and the present, but my pain is not, it is mixed with unstated hope: Hillbert actually only looked forward to my initiative to reconcile, see I did not take the initiative, she conveniently wrote to me on New Year's Day: "What is the matter?" I'm in love with you. Come on. We can talk openly. I can't live without you. From the end of the old year, I thought such a letter was entirely possible, maybe not, but my desire and need for it was enough to make me think it was entirely possible. Before soldiers are killed, before thieves are captured, or generally, before they die, they believe that they have an indefinite extension of time. It is like an amulet, so that individuals, sometimes nationalities, avoid fear of danger (rather than avoid danger), which in fact makes them not believe that danger really exists. Risk, therefore, in some cases, they can face danger without courage. This same type of baseless belief supports the lover, making him hope for reconciliation and letters. In fact, as long as I don't look forward to it, I won't wait any longer. Although you know that the woman you still love is indifferent to you, you still give her a series of ideas --- even cold thoughts --- giving her the intention to express these ideas, giving her a complex inner life (you are always disgusting in her heart, but always noticing). I experienced Hilbert's feeling on New Year's Day in the next few years. At that time, I simply ignored whether she was attentive or silent, passionate or indifferent to me. I would not think, or even could not think, of seeking answers to the problems I no longer had. When we are in love, love is so huge that we can't accommodate it. It radiates to the loved, touches her surface, is blocked, and is forced to return to the starting point. This rebound of our own feelings is mistaken for the feelings of the other party. It is more fascinating than launching, because we can't see that this love comes from us. I.
New Year's Day passed hour by hour, but Hilbert's letter did not come. I received several late or delayed New Year's cards in those days, so on January 3rd and 4th, I still looked forward to her letter, but the hope was getting weaker and weaker. In the next few days, I cried many times. That's because I didn't give up Hillbert as sincerely as I thought. I had been looking forward to receiving her letter in the New Year. This hope was dashed, and I had no time to prepare another one. I was as miserable as a patient who had taken a small bottle of morphine and had no second bottle of morphine on hand. But there is another explanation, and these two explanations are not mutually exclusive, because the same feeling sometimes includes the opposite factor, that is, in my heart, the hope of Hillbert's letter once brought her image closer to me, when I was eager to see her, how I saw her, how she treated me, and so on. The excitement caused by the species once again came to mind. The possibility of immediate reconciliation * denies obedience - its enormous power is often not perceived by us. People say that as long as they lie in bed and don't read newspapers, they will gradually quiet down. However, patients do not believe that this way of life will only stimulate their nerves. Similarly, lovers observe "give up" from the opposite psychological state, before it is really put into practice. Nor do they believe that giving up can be beneficial to both body and mind.
Because my heart was beating fast and people asked me to reduce the dosage of caffeine, and when I did, my heartbeat stopped violently, so I began to wonder if the anxiety I felt when I was close to breaking up with Hilbert was caused by caffeine. And whenever this anxiety recurs, I always think it's because I can't see Hilbert, or (occasionally) because I feel pain when I see her cold face. But if the drug is the cause of pain, and my imagination misinterprets it (no wonder, because the heaviest mental pain of lovers is often caused by the physical habits of the women they live with), then it seems to make Tristol and Iser fall in love for a long time after drinking. Medicinal wine. Although the reduction of caffeine immediately improved my health, it did not eliminate my depression. If the toxic drug did not create depression, at least it made it more acute. Tristol and Heather are two figures in French folk legends in the twelfth century. They fall in love forever and suffer persecution for drinking medicine and wine by mistake.
Towards mid-January, my hopes for the New Year's letter were dashed, and the additional pain caused by disappointment eased slightly. However, the grief before the festival returned. It is cruel because I am the producer of grief, conscious, voluntary, ruthless and patient. Hilbert's relationship with me was the only thing I cherished, and I spared no effort to destroy it, gradually creating my indifference (not her indifference, but actually the same thing) in a long-term way. I have been making every effort to make my cruel, chronic suicide in love with Hilbert, and I am clearly aware of my actions at this moment and the consequences for the future. Not only do I know that I will not love Hilbert any more, but I also know that she will regret it. She will try her best to meet me, but she will not get what she wants, not because I love her too much, but because I am sure I will love another woman. I will longing for her for a long time, waiting for her, No. Ken spared a second to meet Hilbert, because Hilbert would mean nothing to me. There's no doubt that right now (I'm determined not to see her unless she formally asks for an explanation or a confession of all her love, which will never happen), I've lost Hillbert, but I love her more (I feel more strongly than I did last year how important she is to me, and every afternoon last year I was able to do what I wanted to do). Stay with her and think our friendship is not threatened. There is no doubt that at this moment I hate the idea that one day I will have the same feelings for another woman. This idea took away not only Hilbert from me, but also my love and pain, and I was in love and pain, trying to determine the meaning of Hilbert in tears, but now I must admit that this love and pain is not her exclusive, sooner or later they will be dedicated to another woman. So --- at least that's what I thought at that time --- we are always beyond the specific object. When we fall in love, we feel that there is no specific object's name in love. It may be born for another woman (not this woman) in the future and in the past: and when we don't fall in love, we are wise. Attitudes towards the contradictions in love, we talk freely, but we do not experience love, so we do not know it, because the understanding of love is intermittent *, the emergence of feelings, knowledge will die. I will no longer love Hilbert. My pain gives me a glimpse of the future that my imagination can't see. Of course, it's time to warn Hilbert that the future is taking shape and that it's imminent, even inevitable, if she doesn't come to help me there. Words destroyed by future apathy still in its infancy. How many times have I imagined writing to Hilbert or running to her and saying, "Please note, I've made a decision. This is my last effort. This is our last meeting. Soon I won't love you any more!" But why? What right do I have to blame Hilbert for being indifferent? Am I not indifferent to everything except her and not blaming myself? Last hole! It's a big deal for me, because I love Hilbert. But for her, it's like a friend writing a letter asking for a visit before moving abroad, and we tend to refuse it (as if we refuse to love our loathsome women) because we are looking forward to happiness. The time we spend every day is flexible, the passion we experience inflates it, the passion we generate shrinks it, and the habit fills it up.
Besides, even if I told Hilbert, she couldn't understand. When we speak, we always think that the listener is our own ear and brain. My words seemed to reach Hilbert through the moving curtain of the rainstorm, turning around in a completely different way, just a funny voice without any meaning. The truth expressed by discourse is not irresistibly conclusive. It cannot be convinced immediately. It must take some time for the truth to take shape in discourse. For example, in a debate, someone dismisses the opposite theory as rebellious despite all kinds of evidences, but later he converts to the belief that he hates at first, but the people who spread this belief in vain no longer believe it. Another example is a masterpiece. For the worshipers who read aloud, of course, it is a masterpiece from generation to generation without proof, while the listener thinks it is meaningless or mediocre, but later the listener also admitted that it is a masterpiece. Unfortunately, it is too late for the author to know. Likewise, in love, no matter what you do, obstacles will never be destroyed from the outside by the desperate; only when you are no longer interested in them will they be pushed down by the inner strength of women who do not love you; in the past you tried to push them down but never succeeded, but now they suddenly collapse, but have no intention of you. Righteousness. If I told Hilbert about my future apathy and its precautions, she would think that I had done so to show that my love and needs for her exceeded her estimates, so she hated meeting me even more. Indeed, it was love that made me more clearly foresee the end of this love than she did, because I was constantly in a contradictory state of mind. I could have warned Hilbert by writing or meeting him, because it meant that I didn't have to leave her, and proved to her that I could live without her. Unfortunately, some people, not knowing whether it was good or bad, spoke to her about me, and that tone made her think that I had asked them to do so. Whenever I learned that Godard, my mother and even Mr. Nobwa had used clumsy words to undermine the sacrifices I had just made and to trample on the results of my restraint (they misled her into thinking that I was no longer restrained), I felt twice as angry. First of all, my conscientious and fruitful avoidance must start from scratch, because those disgusting people undermined my efforts and made me lose all my previous achievements behind me. Not only that, but the pleasure of meeting Hillbert diminished, because she no longer thought I was respectfully obedient, but that I was secretly acting in order to seek a meeting she disdained as a reward. I curse people for their bored gossip, which often hurts us deeply at critical moments without any intention of doing harm or helping. They don't want to talk at all. Sometimes it's because we can't keep silent with them and their mouths aren't tight (like us). Of course, in this cruel project of destroying love, their role is far less than that of two people, who tend to make everything go down the drain when everything is about to be settled satisfactorily, one of them out of excessive goodwill, the other out of excessive malice, and we are not as resentful as the Godars who are ignorant of current affairs. These two people, because the second is our loved ones, the first is ourselves.
Every time I visit Mrs. Swan, she always invites me to have tea with her daughter and asks me to write back directly to her daughter. Therefore, I often write to Hilbert. I don't choose the most convincing words in the letter, but just look for the most tender river bed for my tears, because regret and desire are the same, and I don't try. Graph self-analysis requires only self-satisfaction. When a person is in love, his time is not used to figure out what his love is, but to make a date for tomorrow. When he gave up love, he did not try to understand his sadness, but tried to offer what he thought was the most touching words to the woman who caused it. What he said was what he thought it was necessary to say, but what the other party did not understand was that he was speaking for himself. I wrote, "I thought it was impossible, alas! It doesn't seem very difficult. I also said, "Maybe I will never see you again." My words avoided indifference (she would think it was artificial), but when I wrote them down, I was crying because I felt they were not expressing what I might believe, but what was actually about to happen. The next time she asked me to meet, I would be as brave as I am this time, so that, after repeated refusals, I would gradually reach the state that I did not want to meet because I had not met for a long time. I cried, but I had the courage (and pleasure) to sacrifice the happiness of meeting her in order to attract her one day. However, on that day, attracting or not attracting her did not matter to me. I assume - though unlikely - that she loves me at the moment, as she said during my last visit, that her boredom was not due to my boredom, but to the sensitivity of jealousy *, a hypothesis that only made my decision less cruel out of a false indifference similar to mine. I imagined a few years later, when we forgot each other, I looked back and told her that none of the letters I wrote at the moment were true. She would reply, "Why, you loved me at that time?" You know how much I look forward to this letter, how much I look forward to meeting you, how sad it makes me cry!" I started writing letters as soon as I came back from her mother's house. Although I thought I might be making a mistake, the idea, because of its sadness and pleasure (I imagine Hilbert loves me), prompted me to write them down.
When Mrs. Swan's "tea party" ended and the guests left, I was thinking about how to write to her daughter, but Mrs. Godard was thinking about something totally different. She toured, without exception, to praise Mrs. Swan for her new living room furniture and eye-catching new additions, in which she found a few things (albeit very few) in her former apartment on Rabelus Street, especially her mascot, a gemstone-carved animal.
Mrs Swan learned the word "obsolete" from a friend she respected, and it opened up (new horizons, because it referred to what she thought was "fashionable" a few years ago, so all these things faded away, along with the golden lattices that had been used as a support for chrysanthemums, candy boxes in many Shilou stores, and Stamped letterheads were stacked together (not counting the cardboard coins, which she had been advised to put away by a well-educated man long before she knew Swan). In addition, in these dark * walls (completely different from Mrs. Swan's later white * living room), in this artistic disorder and studio-like mess, Far Eastern style is losing in the eighteenth century, and Mrs. Swan embroiders Louis X on the chair bench she slaps to make me more "comfortable". Five-style bouquet, not Chinese dragon. She often stays in the room, she said: "I like this room very much, and I often use it. I can't live among hostile, stale things. I can work here." (She didn't say whether she was painting or writing books; women who didn't want to do anything and wanted to be somewhat active began to be interested in writing books.) She was surrounded by Saxony porcelain (she said the word with an English accent, and she liked it, even if she said anything: it was beautiful, like flowers on Saxony). She cherishes them even more than the porcelain statues and pots of the past, lest ignorant servants should ruin them. Their ignorant hands often made her nervous and angry, and Swan, such a gentle and courteous master, saw his wife clamour without repugnance. Watching shortcomings soberly is not detrimental to love at all. On the contrary, it makes shortcomings more lovely. Today, Odete is no longer wearing Japanese pajamas while receiving her friends. Instead, she is wearing a colorful, colorful silk bath robe. She stroked the foam in her pattern with her hands. She soaked in it, leisurely and carefree, playing with her heart. Her skin was so cool and breathed so deeply that it seemed that silk gown was not like a set in her eyes. The ornaments are designed to satisfy her requirements for appearance and hygiene, such as tub and footing. She often said that she would rather have no bread than art and cleanliness. She often said that if "Mona Lisa" was burned, it would make her more sad than "a lot of" friends were burned. These theories seemed ridiculous to her friends, but they made her stand out and led to weekly visits by Belgian ministers. People in this small world, where she is the sun, would be shocked to learn that she is regarded as a silly woman elsewhere, such as in the Vildeland family. Because of her flexible mind, Mrs Swan preferred to deal with men rather than women. When she commented on women, she always criticized them from the point of view of romantic women. They were not appreciated by men. They were clumsy in body shape, ugly in face, wrong in writing, heavy sweat on legs, bad smell, false eyebrows and so on. On the contrary, for a woman who had been generous to her, she was not so shrewd, especially when her life was unfortunate. She cleverly defended the woman and said, "People are unfair to her. I'm sure she's a good person."
If Mrs. Godard and Mrs. Cressie's old friends hadn't seen Audrey for a long time, it would be difficult for them to recognize the furnishings of Audrey's living room, or even Audrey herself. She looks much younger than before! Of course, that's partly because she's getting fat. Now that she's healthier, she looks so peaceful, energetic and radiant. On the other hand, because of her new hairstyle, smooth and smooth hair increases the width of the face, rose powder makes the face more graceful, the once too sharp edges of the eyelids and sides now seem to be more gentle. Another reason for this change is as follows: in middle age, Audrey finally discovered or invented her own unique features, some kind of eternal sexuality, some type of beauty, so she was in the uncoordinated contour of her face, which had been dominated by erratic, weak and incompetent bodies, with the slightest fatigue. It grew several years in a flash, as if it were temporary aging, so for a long time, it provided her with a fragmented, changeable, amorphous, charming face based on her mood and face * sticking to this fixed face, as if it were eternal youth.
Swan's room had no beautiful pictures of his wife. Although she wore different clothes, her mysterious and triumphant expression still made people recognize her proud figure and face. There was only a very simple old-fashioned photograph in his room, which was taken before Audrey put a fixed face on it, so her youth and beauty did not seem to exist and had not yet been discovered by her. Nevertheless, Swan was faithful to another idea, or restored to his original one. What he appreciated in this thin young woman, who was walking and still, tired and meditative, was Botticellian beauty. Indeed, he still likes to see Botticelli's painters in his wife. Odette, on the contrary, is not very prominent, but to make up for and cover up the things she dislikes. They may be her "sex character" in the artist's eyes. As a woman, she thinks that this is a shortcoming and even does not want to be mentioned by others. Swan had a beautiful, blue and pink Oriental shawl. He bought it because the Virgin Lady in the Hymn of the Virgin Lady wore it too, but Mrs Swan never wanted to wear it. Only once did she allow her husband to make a suit of clothes for her, decorated with daisies, cornflower, forget-not grass, bell grass, and the same as "Spring". Sometimes in the evening when she was tired, Swan whispered to me to see her meditative hands, their unconscious gestures as dexterous and slightly uneasy as the posture of the Virgin Mary dipping ink into the ink bottle held by the angel before she wrote in the Book of Notre Dame (where the Hymn of the Virgin has been written). But Swan went on to say, "Don't tell her, she must know that she will change her posture."
The works of Botticelli.
(2) Botticelli's murals.
In addition to Swan's uncontrollable attempt to find Botticelli's melancholy rhythm in Audrey, at other moments, Audrey's body is a unity, all surrounded by "lines", which delineate the outline of the woman, while the rugged lines, ornamental convex and concave corners, networks and points of the old style All the scattered gadgets are deleted, and when the body shows errors and unnecessary bending on the inside or outside of the ideal line, the line boldly corrects the errors of nature and makes up for the defects of body and fabric on the whole journey. Those cushions, their ugly "waist pads" have disappeared, and there is no trace of the hanging tail jacket. Previously, this kind of jacket covered the skirt and was supported by stiff whalebone. It has been giving Odette a false abdomen, making her seem to be a clump of seven, scattered components. Nowadays, the vertical line of Tassels and the arc of frills have been replaced by the curve of the body, which makes the silk undulate. As if the mermaid was beating the waves, the Becklin gauze also had human nature, and the body broke away from the long, chaotic and vague envelope of the outdated style and became an organic and living form. However, Mrs Swan likes and is good at keeping some traces of the old style in the new style. Sometimes when I had no intention of working at night and knew that Hillbert and her girlfriends had gone to the theatre, I temporarily decided to visit her parents. Mrs. Swan usually wears beautiful casual clothes. Her skirt is a beautiful dark * (dark red * or orange *), which is not a fashionable color. It seems to have another meaning. It is embroidered with a broad, hollow black ribbon, reminiscent of the old pleats. One day before I broke up with her daughter, Mrs. Swan invited me to the zoo in the cold spring. When she got warm, she opened her coat more or less, revealing the dental trim of her shirt, as if it were a slight dental trim on the vest she used to wear a few years ago but now no longer wears. Her tie -- "She's faithful to the Scottish Flower" -- but the color * is much softer (red * turns pink *, blue * turns lilac *), so that people almost think it's the most popular flash * taffeta --- tied to their chin in a unique way that people can't see where it knots and can't help recalling today. No longer popular hat band. If she persisted for a while, the young man would try to explain her dress and say, "Mrs. Swan herself is a whole generation, right?" Beautiful style is to overlap various forms, and the hidden tradition makes it more beautiful. So does Mrs. Swan's dress. The hazy recollections of vest and knot, together with the trend of "rowing suit" which was immediately restrained, and even the distant and vague reflection of "follow me, young man" made the old form - Recreation (incomplete recreation) in the concrete form in front of us, which was impossible for tailors or tailors. Women's clothing manufacturers really make it, but it touches people's minds. Therefore, Mrs. Swan has a noble colour, which may be because these decorations are useless, so they should have a higher purpose than utilitarianism, perhaps because they are the traces of the past years or the unique personality of this woman's clothes. In short, this noble colour makes her various. The manner of dress is the same. People feel that her dress is not just for physical comfort or decoration. Her clothes seemed to be the exquisite and spiritual system of the whole civilization, wrapping her around.
Boat jacket.
(2) Here refers to the flower knot on the female cap, with the ribbon draped behind her.
Generally speaking, on her mother's reception day, Hillbert often invites friends to tea. Sometimes she is not at home, so I take the opportunity to go to Mrs. Swan's "afternoon tea party". She always dresses beautifully, taffeta, crepe de chine, velvet, silk and satin. Her clothes are not as casual as those at home, but carefully matched, as if ready to go out. In such an afternoon, her leisure at home has added some sensitivity and activity. The style of the dress is bold and simple. It fits her figure very well. The sleeves of the dress seem to be symbolic and change colours according to different days. Blue velvet expresses sudden determination, white taffeta expresses pleasure, and in order to show the graceful and noble prudence contained in the arm-stretching movement, she adopts the form of black crepe crepe with a smile of great sacrifice. At the same time, the "decoration" which has no practical benefit and no obvious reason adds a little detachment, a little meditation and a little mystery to the colorful gown, which is completely consistent with her usual melancholy, at least with the melancholy contained in her dark circles and knuckles. Sapphire mascot, enamel four-leaf clover, silver medallion, golden neck ornament, Turquoise amulet, ruby chain, Topaz chestnut. Under this large amount of jewelry, the gown itself has a color * pattern, which goes beyond the mosaic part and is carried out all the time. There is also a row of constructed, unsolvable, small. Small Satin buttons and subtle hints of delicate and implicit ribbons; all this on clothes, like jewelry, seems - for no reason whatsoever - to reveal a certain intent, to constitute a guarantee of love, to conserve secrecy and to abide by superstitions, as if it were healing, vows, love or the double nucleus. Memorial of the game. Sometimes, the blue velvet bodice looms with Henry II's stitching fork, and the black satin gown has a slight bump, either on the sleeve close to the shoulder, reminding people of the "lantern sleeve" of 1830, or on the skirt, reminding people of the "skirt ring" of Louis XV. The gown thus appears delicate, as if it were a cosmetic dress, which permeates the hazy memories of the past into the immediate life, thus giving Mrs. Swan some kind of charm of historical or novel characters. If I mentioned this to her, she said, "I don't play golf like many girlfriends. I have no reason to wear sweaters like them."
When Mrs. Swan came back to see the guests off, or took a snack for them to taste, and passed me by, she pulled me aside during the confusion and said, "Hilbert specifically asked me to invite you to dinner the day after tomorrow. I didn't know if I could see you. I'm going to write to you if you don't come!" I continue to resist, and this resistance is becoming less and less painful for me, because, although you still like poisons that are harmful to you, since you stop taking them for a period of time because of some necessity, you can't help but cherish the tranquility (which you have lost before), the state of neither excitement nor pain. If you say to yourself that you will never see the woman you love again, if that is not entirely true, then it is not entirely true that you said you would like to see her again. People can tolerate separation from their loved ones precisely because they believe it is only a temporary separation. They think of the day of reunion. However, on the other hand, they deeply feel that meeting can lead to jealousy, which is more important than daily reunions (which are about to be realized but are delayed again and again!). The reverie is more painful, so the news of meeting the woman you love can cause unpleasant excitement. People procrastinate day by day. They don't want to end the intolerable anxiety caused by separation, but they fear that there will be no way out for them to come back. People like to recall but don't like this kind of meeting. Memories are tame. People can add fantasies to their memories as they like. So the woman who doesn't love you in real life can tell you the truth in your fantasies. People gradually incorporate wishes into memories, making them very sweet. Since it's more pleasant than meeting, meeting is delayed again and again, because you can't make the other party say what you love to hear in the meeting, you have to endure the new indifference and unexpected rudeness of the other party. When we stop falling in love, we all know that unpleasant love is more painful than forgetting or vague memories. Although I did not admit it to myself, it was this forgetfulness that I was looking forward to bringing peace and quiet.
In addition, the pain caused by this kind of psychiatric detachment and loneliness therapy is weakening day by day for another reason. This therapy weakens the stubborn idea of love before it can be cured. My love is still fierce, insisting on winning back all my prestige in Hilbert's eyes. I think that since I intentionally don't meet Hilbert, my prestige seems to be growing, so those successive, continuous, indefinite days (without the intervention of the pest) are winners, not losers, every day. Maybe it's meaningless to win, since I'll be declared healed soon. Obedience, as a customary way, makes certain forces grow indefinitely. On the first night of the standoff with Hilbert, the power of my sadness was very weak, but now it has become immeasurably strong. However, the tendency to maintain the status quo is occasionally interrupted by sudden impulses, and we do not care to let impulses dominate, because we know how many days and months we have done and will continue to do so. When the savings bag was about to fill up, people suddenly emptied it. One day, Mrs. Swan said to me, as usual, how happy Hillbert would be to see me, as if putting my long-abandoned happiness within my reach. I was shocked to realize that I wanted to taste it. It wasn't too late, so I waited eagerly for the next day. I was going to see Hilbert unexpectedly before dinner.
All day long, I waited patiently because I was planning something. Since the past has been cancelled, and since we are back together, I want to meet her as a lover. I will give her the most beautiful flowers in the world every day. If Mrs. Swan (although she has no right to be an overly strict mother) does not allow me to send flowers, then I will give more precious gifts every other time. My parents didn't give me enough money to buy gifts, so I thought of the ancient Chinese porcelain bottle. It was a gift from Aunt Leonie. Every day my mother predicted that Franois would come to her and say, "It's all broken up." In that case, would it be better to sell it? In that case, I would be able to make Hillbert happy. It's probably worth a thousand francs. I asked the servant to wrap it up. As a result of habit, I have never paid attention to this porcelain bottle, and its change of hands has at least produced such an effect - let me know it. I took it with me and went out. I told the driver Swan's address and asked him to walk down Champs Elysees Street, because there was a big Chinese antique shop my father used to visit on the corner. To my great surprise, the shopkeeper immediately offered 10,000 francs instead of 1,000 francs, and I happily accepted the stack of bills. I had enough money to buy roses and lilacs for Hilbert every day for a whole year. I stepped out of the shop and got into the carriage. As Swan's family was very close to Bronillin Park, the driver did not follow the usual road, but followed the Champs Elysees Street. As the car passed the corner of Berry Street, in the twilight, I could see Hilbert walking in the opposite direction near Swan's house. She walked steadfastly, but slowly, talking to a young man beside her, whose face I could not see. I stood up straight in the car, trying to stop the driver, but hesitating. By this time, the two walkers had gone far, and the two soft and symmetrical lines drawn by their leisurely pace soon disappeared into the shadows of the Champs Elysees. Then I arrived at Hillbert's house. Mrs Swan received me and said, "Ah! She will regret it. Somehow she's not at home. Just now she felt very hot in class and told me that she wanted to go out with her girlfriend for a change of air. It may be she that I saw in the Champs Elysees. It can't be true. In short, don't tell her father that he doesn't like her going out at this hour. Good evening. I said goodbye and asked the coachman to return from the original road, but I couldn't find the two walkers. Where have they gone? What are they talking about secretly in the evening?
I went home desperately thinking of the unexpected ten thousand francs, which should have enabled me to please Hilbert from time to time, but now I am determined not to see her again. Staying in an antique shop in China once filled me with joy, because I expect my girlfriend to be satisfied and grateful when she sees me from now on. But if it hadn't been for this stop and if the carriage hadn't passed the Champs Elysees, I would not have met Hilbert and the young man. Therefore, from the same thing, the opposite branches grow, and the misfortune it produces at the moment makes the happiness it once produced vanish. This time, contrary to what usually happens, people want to be happy, but they lack the material means to achieve it. La Bruyere said, "It's sad to fall in love without money." So little by little, I tried to extinguish the expectation of joy. In my case, on the contrary, material means are available, but at the same time, joy disappears out of the inevitable consequences of the first success, or at least its accidental consequences. In this way, our joy should never be realized. Of course, generally speaking, the disappearance of joy does not occur on the same night that we acquire the means to achieve it. The most common situation is that we continue to work hard and hope (for some time), but happiness will never come true. When external factors are overcome, nature shifts the struggle from the outside to the inside, gradually changing our minds and making us expect something else rather than something we are about to possess. If the situation turns sharply and our minds remain unchanged, then nature will never give up its conquest of us. Of course, it has to be delayed a little, but it is more ingenious and equally effective. Thus, at the last moment, the possession of happiness is taken away from us, or, because of the evil tricks of nature, the possession itself destroys happiness. When nature fails in all areas of events and life, it creates the last impossibility, the impossibility of happiness. Happiness is either unattainable or produces the most bitter psychological response. Metamorphosis
I hold ten thousand francs, but they are of no use to me. I soon ran out of flowers, faster than sending Hilbert flowers every day. Whenever the twilight comes, my heart is depressed and I can't stay at home, I go to the women I don't love and cry in their arms. Even Hilbert's wish to cheer him up vanished. Going to the Hilbert's now only adds to my pain. The first day I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world to see Hilbert again, but now I think it's not enough, because when she's not around, she scares me. This is how a woman unconsciously increases her power to us through the new pain she brings us, but at the same time increases our demands on her. She has made us miserable, narrowing our siege and increasing our shackles, but at the same time we have increased our shackles beyond the shackles that we thought were infallible. On the first day, if I wasn't afraid to bore Hilbert, I would ask for a few meetings, and now I can't satisfy them, I would put forward many other conditions, because the more defeated you are in love and war, the harsher and harsher your conditions will be, if you still have the ability to make conditions for each other. If so. But I didn't have the ability, so I first decided not to go to her mother's house. I still thought to myself: I already knew that Hilbert didn't love me. If I wanted to see her, I could gradually forget her if I didn't want to. However, this idea is like a drug that is ineffective for some diseases. It can't help the two parallel lines that sometimes appear in front of me - Hillbert and the young man walking slowly down the Champs Elysees. It's a new kind of pain. One day it will run out. One day when this image appears in my mind, it will lose its venom completely. It's like we play with poison without danger. It's like we light a cigarette with a little gunpowder without fear of explosion. At this moment, another force and harmful force are fighting in me --- repeated Hilbert's walk in the twilight --. My imagination acts effectively in the opposite direction to crush the repeated attacks of memory. Of these two forces, the former, of course, continues to show me the two strollers on Champs Elysees Street, and provides other unpleasant images from the past, such as the shrug of Hilbert's shoulders when her mother asked her to stay with me. But the second force draws a picture of the future according to the blueprint I hope to weave. It is happier and fuller than such a narrow and pitiful past. If, for a minute, the gloomy Hilbert reappeared before my eyes, then in how many minutes I envisioned the future, she would try to reconcile with me, and perhaps even engage us! Of course, the power of imagination in the future comes from the past. As my irritation with Hillbert's shrug fades, so does my memory of her charm, which makes me look forward to her coming back to me. In the past, there was far from death. I still love women I think I hate. Whenever people praise my hairstyle or color, I always want her to be there. At that time, many people expressed their willingness to receive me. I was very unhappy and refused to accept it. I even caused a quarrel at home because I refused to accompany my father to a formal dinner party where there were Bondang couples and their niece Albertina, who was almost a child. This is how different periods of our lives overlap. You refuse contemptuously to meet what you think is not necessary today for what you love today, but what you will love tomorrow. If you promise to see it, you may fall in love with it earlier, it will shorten your current pain, and of course, replace it with some other pain. My pain is changing. I was surprised to find that in my mind, today is the feeling, tomorrow is the feeling, and they are often related to the hope or fear caused by Hillbert. This refers to Hilbert on me. I should have warned myself that another Hilbert, the real Hilbert, may be quite different from this Hilbert. She has no regret at all. She probably seldom thinks of me, not only much less than I miss her, but also much less than I imagine her to miss me (I imagine). Meet Hilbert, explore her true feelings for me, fantasize that she misses me and has always loved me.
In this period, although sadness is weakening day by day, it still exists. One kind of sadness comes from the yearning for someone day and night, the other from some memories, a malicious word, a verb in a letter. Other forms of sadness are left to be described in the following love. In this statement, the second is many times more cruel than the first. This is because our concept of the loved one always lives in our hearts. It wears the aura of our immediate return and is not more beautiful. It is full of frequent occurrences. The sweet hope, or (at least) the perpetual tranquility and sadness (it should also be pointed out that the image of someone who makes us miserable is very disproportionate to the growing, expanding and incurable sadness of love it causes, just as in some diseases, the cause is disproportionate to the continuous fever and slow recovery). If we are often optimistic about the concept of loved ones, then memories of specific details, bad words, and hostile letters (I only received one from Hillbert) are another matter. It can be said that the people we love are living in these fragments, and that the people we love are living in these fragments. And it has more power than in our overall concept of her. This is because when we read a letter, we read it with a glance of ten lines and a terrible anxiety about unexpected misfortune, not with the tranquil and melancholy regret of gazing at the people we love. This sadness is formed in another way. It comes from the outside and goes deep into our hearts along the path of the deepest pain. We think that the image of our girlfriend is old and real. In fact, this image has been renewed by us again and again, and the cruel memories are earlier than this renewed image. It belongs to another period and is an extremely terrible witness of the past (a rare witness). The past still exists, but except for us, because we like to erase it and replace it with a good golden age and return to a good heaven, and these memories, these letters bring us back to reality, attack us head-on, and make us feel that the baseless hope we wait for day and night is far from reality. Far away. This is not to say that this reality should never change (although sometimes it does). There are many women in our lives who we never want to meet, and who, of course, answer us with silence, which is by no means hostile. Since we don't love them, we don't count how many years we've been separated from them. It's a counterexample, but when we argue about the effect of separation, we ignore it, just as people who believe in it ignore the example of its failure.
However, separation can work after all. The desire to meet again | Hope and interest will eventually rekindle in the contempt of our hearts at this moment. But it takes time, and our demands for time are as harsh as our demands for change. First of all, time is something we are extremely unwilling to give, because we are anxious to put an end to such heavy suffering. Secondly, another heart needs time to complete change, but at the same time, our heart also uses time to change, so that when our original goal is about to be achieved, it is no longer a goal. Goals are achievable, happiness is ultimately achievable (when it is no longer happiness), and the idea itself contains only part of the truth. When we become indifferent to happiness, it comes to us. It is this indifference that makes us less demanding and makes us think that if it appeared in the past, it would satisfy us (in fact, at that time, we would feel that this happiness was not satisfactory). People are not too demanding or judgmental about things they don't care about. The courtesy shown to us by those we no longer love seems more than enough than our indifference, but it is far from enough for our love. Sweet words and trysts make us think only of the pleasures that they may bring. We forget that we would have hoped for a series of other couples'trysts at the beginning, but because of this greedy desire we would have failed to achieve them. Therefore, when happiness comes late, we can no longer enjoy it, we no longer love, whether this late happiness is the happiness that we had painstakingly expected before? Only one person knows that I was then, but it no longer exists, and as long as it reappears, happiness --- whether the same or different --- vanishes.
I waited for my dream to come true, and I imagined her words and letters as I did when I didn't know Hilbert very well. She asked me to forgive her. She admitted that she had never loved anyone except me and asked to marry me. Because of these imaginations, a series of tender images were renewed in my mind. It occupies a large area and overwhelms the illusion of Hilbert and the young man because the illusion lacks supplies. If it hadn't been for a dream, I would visit Mrs. Swan again at this moment. I dreamed of a friend who was uncertain, who had betrayed me and who thought I was cruel to him. The dream made me wake up with sudden pain, and the pain did not abate. So I reconsidered the friend and tried to recall who he was. His Spanish name was obscure. I began. The interpretation of dreams seems to be both Joseph and Pharaoh of ancient Egypt. I know that in many dreams, people's appearance is untrustworthy, because they can disguise and exchange faces, just as ignorant archaeologists put their heads on the body of the image while restoring the damaged icon in the cathedral, and confuse the identity* with the name. Therefore, the characteristics of the people in the dream are different.* We may be fooled by names. We can only recognize our loved ones according to the intensity of the pain, and my pain tells me that the ungrateful young man in my dream who made me miserable was Hilbert. So I recalled the last time I met. Her mother forbade her to go dancing that day. She smiled curiously and said that she didn't believe my sincerity to her. Maybe it came from her heart, maybe it was a fabrication. This memory reminds me of another memory. Long before that, Swan did not believe that I was a sincere man and that I could be a good friend of Hilbert. It was no use writing to him. Hilbert handed it back to me with the same elusive smile on his face. She did not give me the letter immediately. I still remember the whole scene behind the laurel bushes. A person has a sense of morality when he is in pain. Hilbert's aversion to me now seems to be life's punishment for my behaviour that day. Punishment, people think that when crossing the road carefully vehicles, avoid danger, can escape punishment. In fact, there are internal penalties. Accidents come from unexpected aspects, from the inside, from the soul. I hate Hilbert's words, "If you like, let's keep fighting." I imagine her alone in the underwear room with the young man who accompanied her on the Champs Elysees Street. It was equally absurd to think that I had lived in happiness in peace and stability for a while, but now I give up happiness and think that I have at least achieved peace and can keep it, because as long as there is another person's image in our hearts forever, happiness is not the only thing that will be destroyed at any time. When happiness fades, when our suffering is calmed down, the peace of the moment is as deceptive and fragile as the happiness of the past. I finally recovered my tranquility, and the things that changed our spirits and desires by dreaming into us must gradually disappear, because nothing, even pain, can last and last forever. In addition, those who suffer for love, like some patients, are their own doctors. Since they can only get comfort from the person who makes them suffer, and the pain is the volatile of that person, then they can only get relief from the pain in the end. When the time comes, the pain itself will reveal the good recipe to them, because as their hearts move the pain back and forth, the pain will show another side of the missing person, which is sometimes so abhorrent that people do not even want to see her again, because it has to make her suffer before they get together with her happily; this side is so abhorrent that people don't even want to see her again, because it has to make her suffer before they get together with her happily. Sometimes it's so cute that people turn imaginary tenderness into her strength and use it as the basis of hope. The pain of regaining consciousness in me finally subsided, but I would like to visit Mrs. Swan as little as possible. This is primarily because, in people who are still in love but abandoned, waiting as a pillar of life - even in the dark - naturally changes their feelings. Although everything seems to be the same on the surface, the first emotion has been replaced by the second opposite one. The first emotion is the consequence or reflection of a painful event that confuses us. At this point, we wait in fear for what may happen, especially when there is no new information from our loved ones. We are more eager to do something, but we don't know what the success rate of a certain method is, and we can't do anything after that method. However, as we have just said, while waiting continues, it soon ceases to be dominated by the memories of the past we have experienced, but is full of hope for the future in our imagination. From now on, waiting has almost become a pleasure. Besides, the first kind of waiting, which lasts a little longer, makes us accustomed to living in expectation. The pain I felt in the last couple of trysts still exists in us, but we are drowsy. We are not anxious to relive the pain, and we are not very clear what we are asking for at the moment. The more territory we occupy with the women we love (even a little more), the more important we feel that the unoccupied part is to us, and it will always be unavailable, because new satisfaction creates new needs.
It refers to the story of Pharaoh's two dreams and St. Joseph's dream interpretation in Genesis.
Later, in addition to the above reasons, there was another reason why I completely stopped visiting Mrs. Swan. This was not because I forgot Hilbert, but because I tried to forget her as soon as possible. My great pain was over, but I was still sad, when the visit to Mrs Swan became as precious a tranquilizer and pastime as ever. But since the memory of Hilbert was closely linked to these visits, the sedative effect did not help to distract me. To be distracted, I must inspire my thoughts, interests and passions that have nothing to do with Hilbert to compete with my feelings (which are no longer growing because of the separation from Hilbert). This thought, which has nothing to do with the people we love, will occupy the territory. It is small at first, but it is also taken from the love that once occupied our whole soul. We must develop these thoughts and make them stronger. At the same time, our emotions continue to decline and become memories. In this way, new factors entering our spirit compete with our emotions, gaining more and more territory, and finally the whole soul is seized. I realize that this is the only way to eradicate love. I am young, courageous to do so, courageous to endure the most cruel pain. I believe that no matter how much time it takes, I will succeed in the end. In my letter, I said to Hilbert that the reason why I did not see her was a mysterious misunderstanding between us, a pure and unnecessary misunderstanding. I said this in the hope that Hilbert would ask me to explain it clearly. However, even in very general communication, when the reader knows that the other party intentionally uses an obscure, false and accusatory remark as a test, he is glad to feel that he has control over - and retains - action and initiative, and he will never ask the other party to explain. This is especially true in intimate relationships, where love is eloquent and indifference lacks curiosity. Since Hillbert did not doubt the misunderstanding and asked what it was, the misunderstanding became real to me, and I mentioned it in every letter. This false situation and pretentious indifference have a magic that makes you unable to extricate yourself. I wrote, "Since our hearts have been separated," so that Hillbert could reply, "But they are not separated. Let's talk about it." But I repeat it over and over again, and finally I believe that our hearts are really separated. I wrote, "Life has changed for us, but it can't erase the feelings we once had." In order to let her say, "Nothing has changed. This feeling is stronger than ever." However, over and over again, I also think that life has changed. The emotions we recall no longer exist. It's just like a nervous person pretending to be sick. Over time, he really became a patient. Now every time I write to Hilbert, I must mention this change of imagination. In her reply, she says nothing about it. By default, change exists between us. Later, Hillbert ceased to be silent, and adopted my point of view, just as in a formal message, the head of the host country and the head of the host country almost said the same thing. Every time I write, "Life separates us, but our memories of the time we spent together remain in our hearts." She must have said in her reply, "Life, even if it separates us, cannot make us forget that wonderful time. It will always be precious." (It's hard to explain why "life" separated us and what happened.) My pain was much less painful. One day, however, I wrote about the death of the old maltose saleswoman we know on Champs Elysees Street, and I wrote, "I think it will make you sad, it will awaken many memories of me." As soon as I finished, I was in tears, because I found that I talked about love in the past tense, as if it was a nearly forgotten dead person. In fact, I unconsciously always thought that love was still alive, or at least could be revived. Letters between unwilling friends are the most tender and moving. Hilbert's letter is as gentle and elegant as my letter to strangers, full of superficial enthusiasm, but for me, it's extremely sweet to get this expression from her.
In addition, gradually, refusing to meet her no longer made me sad. Since she was no longer as precious as she used to be, my painful memories lost their power in the constant reappearance, unable to destroy the growing charm of Florence and Venice in front of my eyes. Now I regret giving up my diplomatic career and choosing to settle down for a girl, but I will never see her again and almost forget her. We design our life for someone, but when we finally receive her in it, she doesn't come, and then she disappears from our sight, and we become prisoners of the life we built for her. My parents seem to think that Venice is too far away and the climate is too hot (for me). Going to Balbeck avoids the fatigue of the journey, so it's practicable. Nevertheless, it was necessary to leave Paris and give up visiting Mrs. Swan. These visits are not frequent, but I can occasionally hear Mrs Swan talk about her daughter. I began to enjoy it, and it had nothing to do with Hillbert. Unbearable Lightness in Life
As spring approached, the weather suddenly turned cold. During the frozen Lent and the week before Easter, Mrs. Swan was afraid of the cold and often huddled in fur to receive guests. Her hands and shoulders shuddered under the huge rectangular cage and shiny white fur shawl. The cages and shawls were made of ferret skins, and she did not take them off when she came back from the outside. Therefore, they seemed to be more persistent remnants of winter snow than other snow, and neither the hot stove nor the seasonal change could melt them. However, in this living room, which I no longer visited later, the whole truth of these cold but blooming weeks has been revealed to me, and it passes through another intoxicating white*, such as Snowball, whose tall, naked stems resemble the straight lines in the works of the pre-Raphaelian painters. A small shrub of small size, with globular flowers that are both segmented and closed at the top of its stem. It is as white as a messenger angel and emits the fragrance of lemon around it. When the hostess of Songville Castle knew that there could be no flowers in April, even if it was cold, she knew that spring, summer, autumn and winter were not as distinct as the city people imagined. I'm not sure if Mrs. Swan was satisfied with the flowers from Gombre's gardeners, instead of buying the early spring flowers from the "special" florist to make up for the still insufficient call of spring. What's more, I didn't care at that time. By the crystal ice of Mrs. Swan's cage, there were snowballs (in the hostess's mind, they might just follow Bergott's advice to form a symphony in White Major, which was in harmony with the furnishings and costumes), which was enough to make me miss the countryside, because they reminded me of Jesus in Pasifar. The music of "The Magic of Good Friday" is actually a symbol of the miracle of nature (and if we are a little more rational, we can witness the miracle every year), because they are mixed with the sour and intoxicating fragrance of another flower. I don't know the name of that flower, but I often stop when I walk in Gombre. Appreciation, therefore, Mrs. Swan's living room is as pure as the little slopes of Dansonville, so full of branches (though not a single green leaf), so full of rich and pure fragrance.
(1) This School of painting flouted the conventional rules, and its landscape paintings often contained bushes with white flowers.
(2) A poem by the French poet Gautier (1811-1872).
Wagner's opera, here refers to the last part.
However, I shouldn't recall the past. It probably made my remaining love for Hilbert last forever. Therefore, although these visits no longer pained me, I continued to reduce the number of visits to Mrs. Swan as rarely as possible. Before I left Paris, I promised to walk with her at most a few times. The sunny day finally arrived and the weather turned warm. I knew Mrs. Swan had to go out for an hour before lunch. She was walking around Linyuan Avenue, Star Square and what was then called the Poor People's Club (because they always gathered there to watch the rich people they had heard of), so I asked my parents to allow me to have lunch later on Sunday because I was busy at ordinary times. Go for a walk until a quarter past one before eating. Hilbert went to his country friends in May, so I went for a walk every Sunday. Towards noon, I came to the Arc de Triomphe. I waited at the entrance to the Linyuan Road, staring at Mrs. Swan's upcoming street, whose home was only a few meters away. At this hour, most of the walkers went home, leaving few and mostly in fashionable clothes. Suddenly, Mrs. Swan appeared on the sandy path. She came late, not in a hurry, full of vitality, as if she were the most beautiful flower that only opened at noon. Her clothes were sprinkled all around. They were always different colours, but I remember that the main colour was lavender. Her whole body was shining. Then she raised the long handle of the umbrella and opened the silk umbrella of a big umbrella. The colour of the silk was the same as the falling flowers on her clothes. She was surrounded by a whole group of people, including Swan, and five or six men who visited her or the club she met in the morning. Their bunch of grey * or black * people obediently do almost mechanical * movements, like inanimate frameworks that surround Audret in the center. You think that the only woman with bright eyes is looking ahead, across the crowd of men and looking ahead. She seems to stand at the window and gaze out. She looks delicate and fearless in her soft bare color. She seems to belong to another race, a strange race, and has the power of war. Therefore, she is one of them. Man is enough to cope with the many followers. She smiled, was satisfied with the beautiful weather, with the sunshine that had not yet hindered her, as serene and confident as the creator who had no worries after finishing her work. She was convinced that her dress, even if not appreciated by some passing mediocre people, was the most elegant of elegance, for her own sake and for her friends. Of course, she did not attach too much importance to it, but she was not indifferent. She let the knots of bras and skirts float lightly in front of her, as if they were little creatures, who generously allowed them to play at their own pace as long as they could keep up with her. When she appeared, her umbrella was often not open. She threw a happy and gentle look at the lavender umbrella, as if it were a bunch of Palma violets. It was so gentle that even when it was not for a friend, but for an inanimate object, it seemed to be smiling. In this way, she reserved or occupied an elegant space for her clothes, and the men who spoke to her intimately had to respect this space. Of course, they showed a certain degree of awe and shame like laymen, admitting that the girlfriend had the ability and right to decide their own clothes, just as Cheng did. Recognizing that patients have the ability and right to decide what specific drugs to take, mothers have the same ability and right to decide how to educate their children. When Mrs Swan appeared at such a late hour and was surrounded by flatterers (who turned a blind eye to pedestrians), people could not help thinking of her residence, where she had just spent a long morning and was about to go back for dinner. She walked calmly, as if walking in her garden, which seemed to indicate that her home was close to her, or that she carried the cool-shadows-shadows of the interior of her residence. It was because of all this that her arrival made me feel the air and heat of the outdoors. Moreover, I am convinced that her dress, according to the etiquette she is good at, is closely connected with the seasons and hours through an inevitable and unique link. Therefore, the flowers on her soft straw hat, the knots on her skirt, are naturally born in May, like flowers in the garden and the fields. In order to feel the new changes brought about by the season, I just need to raise my eyes to the height of her umbrella, which is stretched out as if it were another nearer sky, round, benevolent, active and blue. If these etiquettes are supreme, they are proud of them in the morning, spring and sunshine (Mrs. Swan is proud of them too), but the morning, spring and sunshine are not thankful for being favored by such elegant women. She dressed them in a bright light skirt, loose collar and sleeves reminded me of slightly wet necks and wrists. In short, she dressed herself for them like a noble lady who happily promised to visit a country family. Although everyone knew her, even the most vulgar people knew her, she insisted on this. Tianzuo village aunt dressed up. I said hello to Mrs. Swan as soon as she arrived. She stopped me, smiled and said, "Good morning." We took a few steps together. So I realized that she obeyed the dress code for herself, as if she were the highest wisdom (and she was the high priest who mastered it), because when she felt too hot, she would open her buttoned coat or simply take it off and give it to me. So I found the details of making thousands of buttons on her shirt. Fortunately, they have not been noticed, just like the orchestra music that the composer carefully conceives and never reaches the public's ears. Her coat on my arm also revealed some fine ornaments in the sleeves. I gazed at it for a long time out of pleasure or courtesy. It was as fine as the front of the dress, but it was often invisible. It was either a colorful ribbon or a lilac satin, which looked like a metropolis. Gothic sculptures hidden inside the railings eighty feet above the ground in the hall were as beautiful as reliefs on the big porch, but they were never seen until an artist accidentally swam here and climbed to the top of the church to overlook the village. They were found in mid-air between the towers.
Mrs. Swan's walk on Linyuan Avenue was like a walk on her garden path. People - they didn't know she had the habit of "footing" - had the impression that she was walking, and there was no carriage behind her. Since May, people have often seen her as a goddess, weak and graceful, sitting in a large open carriage with eight springs, passing in the warm air. Her horse is the strongest in Paris, and her servant's uniform is the most exquisite in Paris. At the moment, Mrs. Swan is walking instead of the car, and because of the slow pace of the hot weather, it seems that out of curiosity, she wants to defy etiquette gracefully, just as the monarch who attends a grand evening party suddenly comes from the box to the rest room of the ordinary audience on his own initiative, and the followers are both amazed and shocked, but dare not raise anything. Objection. The same is true of Mrs Swan's relationship with the masses. The masses felt that there was a barrier between them, built by some kind of wealth, which seemed insurmountable. Of course, St. Germain has its own barriers, but the eyes and imagination of the poor are not very stimulating. The noble ladies there are simple and unadorned, like ordinary citizens. They are approachable. They don't make "poor people" look so dirty as Mrs. Swan, or even feel worthless. Of course, a woman like Mrs. Swan would not be surprised by her jewelry-filled life. They would not even be aware of it, because they were used to it. That is to say, they took it for granted and reasonably, and used this luxury habit as a criterion for judging others. So, if we say such a woman (Since the nobleness they show in themselves and find in others is purely material, and therefore easy to be seen, but it takes a long time to be acquired, and it is difficult to compensate in case of disappearance.) Put the passer-by in the lowest position, then in turn, she appears immediately before the passer-by's eyes. It is irrefutable to appear supreme. This particular social class at that time included Mrs. Israel, who was associating with aristocratic women, and Mrs. Swan, who was going to associate with aristocratic women. This middle class was lower than the Saint Germanic district it flattered, but higher than everything except the Saint Germanic district. The characteristic of this class is that it has been separated from the rich society, but it is a symbol of wealth, and this wealth becomes soft, subordinate to an artistic purpose, artistic thought, like a plastic, carved with poetry intent, and smiling gold coin. This class may no longer exist today, at least losing its original character and charm. What's more, the women who formed this class at that time had lost the preconditions of the old rule. Back to the point, Mrs. Swan was walking down the Linyuan Avenue, graceful, smiling and amiable, as if stepping down from the top of her noble wealth, the glorious peak of her fragrant mature summer, and seeing the heavenly bodies spinning slowly as Ipatia did. The young passers-by also looked at her anxiously, wondering if they could say hello to her on the basis of general acquaintances (besides, they only had one acquaintance with Swan, so they were afraid that he would not recognize them). They decided to give it a try with fear of the consequences. Who knows if this provocative * and blasphemous * reckless action would damage the supreme authority of that class and lead to catastrophic disaster or punishment from the gods? However, it was like winding up the clock, causing a consistent response from the little people around Audrey. First of all, Swan, who raised his big green hat with a grin that he had learned from St. Germain, had lost the indifference he might have had in the past and replaced it (perhaps because of him). To some extent, it's full of Odette's prejudice.) It's both boredom --- he has to salute the disheveled, and satisfaction --- that his wife has such a wide range of contacts. This complex feeling made him say to his well-dressed friend, "Another one!" I swear I don't know where Audrey got so many people!" She nodded to the nervous pedestrian, and now he was far away, but his heart was still pounding. Then she turned to me and said, "So, it's over? Will you never see Hilbert again? I'm glad you look at me differently. You don't drop me completely. I like to see you very much. I used to like your influence on my daughter. I think she'll be sorry, too. In a word, I don't want to make it difficult for others, otherwise you won't meet me again. Odette, Sagan is saying hello to you." Swan reminded his wife. Sure enough, the prince (as in the high tide of a drama or circus, or in an ancient painting) was turning his horse's head and taking off his hat to pay a deep tribute to Audrey. This act was dramatic, or symbolic, and it expressed the noble man's chivalrous demeanour in front of a woman, even the woman. * Representatives are women whose mothers and sisters disdain to associate. Mrs Swan was immersed in the fluid transparency and bright shadows cast by her umbrella. The last horsemen who returned late recognized her and saluted her. They flew by in the bright sunshine of the avenue, as if in front of a camera. This is a member of the horse racing club, a well-known figure - Antoine de Castrand, Adabel de Montmoranci and many others - and a familiar friend of Mrs. Swan. Since memories of poetic feelings live longer (relatively longer) than those of painful souls, the sadness I felt for Hilbert has long passed away. But whenever I see the period from 12:15 to 1:00 noon in May on the sundial, I am still in a good mood. Mrs. Swan is standing under an umbrella like a Wisteria green corridor and talking to me in the mottled light and shadow.
Ipatia, a Greek philosopher and mathematician in the fourth century A.D., is famous for her beauty and erudition. This refers to a French poet's poem about her: "... The celestial body is still spinning under her white feet.