alike included in its grip, and no part of life is left sound and
whole. Never afterwards can we think the same thoughts as before.
Anguish engraves itself in ineffaceable characters on mouth and brow;
it passes through us, destroying or relaxing the springs that vibrate
to enjoyment, leaving behind in the soul the seeds of a disgust for
all things in this world.

Yet, again, to be measureless, to weigh like this upon body and soul,
the trouble should befall when soul and body have just come to their
full strength, and smite down a heart that beats high with life. Then
it is that great scars are made. Terrible is the anguish. None, it may
be, can issue from this soul-sickness without undergoing some dramatic
change. Those who survive it, those who remain on earth, return to the
world to wear an actor's countenance and to play an actor's part. They
know the side-scenes where actors may retire to calculate chances,
shed their tears, or pass their jests. Life holds no inscrutable dark
places for those who have passed through this ordeal; their judgments
are Rhadamanthine.

For young women of the Marquise d'Aiglemont's age, this first, this
most poignant pain of all, is always referable to the same cause. A
woman, especially if she is a young woman, greatly beautiful, and by
nature great, never fails to stake her whole life as instinct and
sentiment and society all unite to bid her. Suppose that that life
fails her, suppose that she still lives on, she cannot but endure the
most cruel pangs, inasmuch as a first love is the loveliest of all.
How comes it that this catastrophe has found no painter, no poet? And
yet, can it be painted? Can it be sung? No; for the anguish arising
from it eludes analysis and defies the colors of art. And more than
this, such pain is never confessed. To console the sufferer, you must