Chapter 59

Chapter 59

FOR eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily eyes-though they had both been often before my fancy in the East-when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I laid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it so softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking his pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as strong as ever though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into the corner with Joe's leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking at the fire, was - I again!
`We giv' him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap,' said Joe, delighted when I took another stool by the child's side (but I did not rumple his hair), `and we hoped he might grow a little bit like you, and we think he do.'

I thought so too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we talked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took him down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there, and he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the memory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above.

`Biddy,' said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little girl lay sleeping in her lap, `you must give Pip to me, one of these days; or lend him, at all events.'

`No, no,' said Biddy, gently. `You must marry.'

`So Herbert and Clara say, but I don't think I shall, Biddy. I have so settled down in their home, that it's not at all likely. I am already quite an old bachelor.'

Biddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her lips, and then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it, into mine. There was something in the action and in the light pressure of Biddy's wedding-ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it.

`Dear Pip,' said Biddy, `you are sure you don't fret for her?'

`O no-I think not, Biddy.'

`Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?

`My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a foremost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But that poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all gone by!'

Nevertheless, I knew while I said those words, that I secretly intended to revisit the site of the house that evening, alone, for her sake. Yes even so. For Estella's sake.

I had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being separated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and who had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice, brutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband, from an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This release had befallen her some two years before; for anything I knew, she was married again.

The early dinner-hour at Joe's, left me abundance of time, without hurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark. But, what with loitering on the way, to look at old objects and to think of old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place.

There was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the wall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a rough fence, and, looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had struck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet mounds of ruin. A gate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it open, and went in.

A cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet up to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the moon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where every part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been, and where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was looking along the desolate gardenwalk, when I beheld a solitary figure in it.

The figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been moving towards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the figure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away, when it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it faltered as if much surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out:

`Estella!'

`I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me.'

The freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable majesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it, I had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the saddened softened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never felt before, was the friendly touch of the once insensible hand.

We sat down on a bench that was near, and I said, `After so many years, it is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our first meeting was! Do you often come back?'

`I have never been here since.'

`Nor I.'

The moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the white ceiling, which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought of the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had heard on earth.

Estella was the next to break the silence that ensued between us.

`I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been prevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place!'

The silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and the same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing that I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she said quietly:

`Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in this condition?'

`Yes, Estella.'

`The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not relinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I have kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I made in all the wretched years.'

`Is it to be built on?'

`At last it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And you,' she said, in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, `you live abroad still?'

`Still.'

`And do well, I am sure?'

`I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore - Yes, I do well.'

`I have often thought of you,' said Estella.

`Have you?'

`Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from me, the remembrance, of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth. But, since my duty has not been incompatible with the admission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart.'

`You have always held your place in my heart,' I answered.

And we were silent again, until she spoke.

`I little thought,' said Estella, `that I should take leave of you in taking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so.'

`Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful.'

`But you said to me,' returned Estella, very earnestly, `"God bless you, God forgive you!" And if you could say that to me then, you will not hesitate to say that to me now - now, when suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends.'

`We are friends,' said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from the bench.

`And will continue friends apart,' said Estella.

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.

Francesco Hayez, Accusa segreta, 1847-48
huile sur toile

Accusa segreta (1847-1848). Francesco Hayez (Italian, 1791-1882). Oil on canvas. Museums of the Visconti Castle. Louis Toccagni reported (1850): “I remember…a painting of a single figure of a young beautiful woman, except her pale and altered countenance, her eyes full of tears, her clothes messy, told me that unfortunate beauty was in the throes of double but opposite effect of love and fury…” Tous les matins, c'est le même rituel. Ils déjeunent sur la terrasse près du Grand Canal. Ils conversent paisiblement. En réalité, elle ne l'écoute que d'une oreille. Parfois, elle lui dit qu'elle a besoin d'argent comme aujourd'hui. Elle doit passer chez l'apothicaire. Il s'inquiète : "Seriez-vous souffrante, ma chère ?". Non, elle a simplement commandé une potion contre les piqûres de moustiques. Il frôle sa main qu'elle ôte pour arranger sa coiffe où il ne décèle aucun désordre. Le domestique fait son entrée habituelle. Il s'incline devant elle, une lettre posée sur le petit plateau d'argent.

Elle prend la missive et se lève. Face au Canal, le front baigné de lumière rose, elle lit. Puis elle jette un regard vague sur les palais voisins. Dans un soupir, elle se retourne les yeux rivés au sol et reste ainsi un court instant. C'est le moment qu'il préfère. Il le guette avec une impatience qu'il a du mal à contenir. Elle est si belle, le menton soucieux. Il faudrait inventer de nouveaux mots pour la décrire. Oh, oui, là elle est parfaite. Son adorable téton affleure, palpitant au grand jour dans l'éclat de sa fraîcheur nacrée. Suffoquant de honte, il ne peut s'empêcher de penser : "Dieu que le malheur lui sied". Sa peine et ses cris tus le plongent toujours dans une incommensurable extase. Devinant qu'il l'observe, elle laisse tomber la lettre dans les eaux troubles du Canal. A ce signal, il s'approche d'elle et murmure : "Mon amie, que puis-je faire pour vous aider ?". Alors, comme hier et les jours d'avant, elle s'effondre dans ses bras. Elle déverse son chagrin contre son cou mais elle ne lui explique rien.

A quoi bon ? Quelques amis bien intentionnés lui ont déjà tout révélé. Tendrement, il enlace l'infidèle, celle qui a l'âge d'être sa fille et qui aime un autre homme, plus jeune que lui. C'était inévitable... Enfin, de là à s'amouracher du comte Alessandro, ce vil séducteur, ce bandit sans vergogne ! Toutes les polices de Venise sont à ses trousses depuis plus d'un mois, sans succès. Personne ne sait où il se cache. Sauf elle. Il embrasse ses cheveux et ses tempes, glisse sur sa joue et presse ses lèvres contre le sel amer de ses larmes. Il est persuadé qu'elle a mis Alessandro à l'abri dans leur résidence d'hiver, en Toscane. Le secret découvert, on la menace de livrer son amant aux autorités. Angoissée, elle achète un silence dont le prix augmente sans cesse. Elle fait sortir des sommes faramineuses et pour la couvrir, il est obligé de mentir à leur comptable qui ne comprend pas où file cet argent.

Il effleure son dos, essayant d'apaiser les hoquets de ses sanglots. Sous ses doigts, il sent la soie verte de sa robe peu à peu tiédir à son contact. Privée de son amant, dévorée par la crainte, elle est devenue plus douce, malléable, presque docile. La nuit, elle cherche souvent le refuge de son épaule. Elle ne se raidit plus de dégoût quand il s'étend sur elle. Sans aller jusqu'à éprouver du plaisir, elle n'a cependant plus l'air de prier, les poings serrés, pour qu'il achève vite sa besogne. Non, désormais, elle l'accueille et tant que son amant ne lui sera pas rendu, elle continuera d'accepter les caresses qui l'éloignent un temps de ses tourments. Songeur, il s'écarte pour mieux la regarder. Elle relève la tête et le considère à son tour. Il vacille. La bouche entrouverte, elle semble sur le point de lui confesser ce qui la torture. Il frémit à cette idée. La sueur perle sur son front. Si elle se décide à parler, en échange, il devra bien lui avouer qu'il est l'auteur de ces lettres qui la font tant pleurer.

Quién era Caronte?

Caronte era el barquero del Hades

En la mitología griega, Caronte (en griego Χάρων Khárôn, ‘brillo intenso’) era el barquero del Hades, el encargado de guiar las sombras errantes de los difuntos recientes de un lado a otro del río Aqueronte si tenían un óbolo para pagar el viaje, razón por la cual en la Antigua Grecia los cadáveres se enterraban con una moneda bajo la lengua. Aquellos que no podían pagar tenían que vagar cien años por las riberas del Aqueronte, hasta que Caronte accedía a portearlos sin cobrar.

Stalingrado

La ofensiva fue impresionante, el avance de la derecha fue rápido, pero la izquierda logró frenarla y ahora se apresta a la lucha casa por casa. No es lo que esperábamos pero es lo que tenemos. Las crisis si no destruyen, fortalecen. Ojalá.