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My Wife
Two years of service in the Zouaves had wrought a change in AnastaseGouache, the painter. He was still a light man, nervously built, withsmall hands and feet, and a delicate face; but constant exposure to theweather had browned his skin, and a life of unceasing activity hadstrengthened his sinews and hardened his compact frame. The clusteringblack curls were closely cropped, too, while the delicate darkmoustache had slightly thickened. He had grown to be a very soldierlyyoung fellow, straight and alert, quick of hand and eye, inured to thatperpetual readiness which is the first characteristic of the goodsoldier, whether in peace or war. The dreamy look that was so often inhis face in the days when he sat upon a high stool painting theportrait of Donna Tullia Mayer, had given place to an expression ofwide-awake curiosity in the world's doings.
Anastase was an artist by nature and no amount of military servicecould crush the chief aspirations of his intelligence. He had notabandoned work since he had joined the Zouaves, for his hours ofleisure from duty were passed in his studio. But the change in hisoutward appearance was connected with a similar development in hischaracter. He himself sometimes wondered how he could have ever takenany interest in the half-hearted political fumbling which Donna Tullia,Ugo Del Ferice, and others of their set used to dignify by the name ofconspiracy. It seemed to him that his ideas must at that time have beendeplorably confused and lamentably unsettled. He sometimes took out theold sketch of Madame Mayer's portrait, and setting it upon his easel,tried to realise and bring back those times when she had sat for him.He could recall Del Ferice's mock heroics, Donna Tullia's ill-expressedinvectives, and his own half-sarcastic sympathy in the liberalmovement; but the young fellow in an old velveteen jacket who used totalk glibly about the guillotine, about stringing-up the clericals tostreet-lamps and turning the churches into popular theatres, was surelynot the energetic, sunburnt Zouave who had been hunting down brigandsin the Samnite hills last summer, who spent three-fourths of his timeamong soldiers like himself, and who had pledged his honour to followthe gallant Charette and defend the Pope as long as he could carry amusket.
There is a sharp dividing line between youth and manhood. Sometimes wecross it early, and sometimes late, but we do not know that we arepassing from one life to another as we step across the boundary. Theworld seems to us the same for a while, as we knew it yesterday andshall know it to-morrow. Suddenly, we look back and start withastonishment when we see the past, which we thought so near, alreadyvanishing in the distance, shapeless, confused, and estranged from ourpresent selves. Then, we know that we are men, and acknowledge, withsomething like a sigh, that we have put away childish things.
When Gouache put on the gray jacket, the red sash and the yellowgaiters, he became a man and speedily forgot Donna Tullia and hererrors, and for some time afterwards he did not care to recall them.When he tried to remember the scenes at the studio in the Via SanBasilio, they seemed very far away. One thing alo