Chapter 40

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Self-Compassion
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“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Who are you?”

“I’m Arina. I help my papa deliver water here. Are you a maid who works at this mansion, miss?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because the young ladies aren't awake at this hour. They're sleepyheads, so they wake up late and go to bed early. A hardworking person like you couldn't possibly be a noble lady.”

“That's an interesting thought. So, are you done with your water delivery?”

“Yes. I even got a small piece of bread today. They said it was a reward for me. Since you work at this mansion, you must get to eat this kind of white bread a lot, right? I've only had it a few times. But I don't think there's anything in the world as delicious as this white bread. Don't you think so too?”

“Oh, yes. I think so too. When I first tried white bread, I marveled that something so delicious could exist in this world.”

The child beamed and nodded. Her smile was as fresh as the flower she held in her hand.

“That’s right. I felt the same way.”

“So you were looking at the flowers here.”

“Yes. The flowers here are so pretty. I wish I could see them every day.”

“Don't you deliver water every day? Then you should be able to see them all the time.”

“Yes, I do, but my papa doesn't know I come in here. He'd probably be very angry if he found out.”

“Why?”

The child brought a finger to her lips as if sharing a great secret and whispered, “Shh.” Her voice dropped to a hush.

“The young lady of this mansion... they say she's very fierce and scary. She hits the maids, and she screams every day and acts wickedly, like a witch.”

“I see.”

“A witch is someone who eats children like me. So imagine how bad someone who acts like a witch must be. That's why he said I shouldn't be here.”

“What if I were that wicked young lady? Why would you say such a thing to me?”

The child's eyes widened as if she had heard something she shouldn't have. She shook her head fiercely, denying my words.

“No way. That scary lady couldn't possibly be someone as pretty as you. She must be very fat and mean-looking, and, umm, yes! Her teeth probably stick out like a witch's, too. But you... you look like a fairy.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You look just like a princess from a storybook.”

“Even a princess can be mean and wicked. Besides, what would you do if I ran to the young lady and told her what you said?”

“You wouldn't.”

The child's voice was filled with conviction. I found her positive view of me, a complete stranger, rather amusing and curious, so I asked again.

“And why do you think that?”

“Because you're listening to me. You're not yelling at me for being dirty; you're paying attention to what I say. And more than anything, your eyes look very sad right now.”

“Is that how I look to you?”

“Yes. I have eyes like that after I cry. You do too. You know, my papa says that there are no bad people among those who know how to cry sadly.”

I murmured in a faint voice.

“No bad people? Could that be true? Is that even possible?”

“Of course. People cry when they're hurt or when they've done something wrong. Bad people don't ask for forgiveness. Only good people do that.”

The child added in a whisper.

“But Bill, who lives next door, never asks me for forgiveness even when he does something wrong. So he's a bad boy.”

“What did he do wrong?”

“He lifted my skirt and teased me a lot. Called me ugly. And he kissed me on the cheek even when I said no. I hate it. I'm never playing with him again.”

Her cute pouting made me smile. I stroked the child's cheek and asked in a gentle voice.

“You're really not going to play with him? Are you sure?”

At my question, the child closed her eyes for a moment, pretending to think. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she quietly opened her mouth.

“...I'll play with him after ten nights.”

I bent my knees and crouched down. Meeting the child's gaze, I spoke in a playful tone.

“Why? I thought you said you were never playing with him again.”

“But it's lonely. Being lonely is sad. When you're sad, your heart hurts, and when your heart hurts, you get sick. They say medicine can't fix a sick heart.”

As she spoke, the child's eyes shone with innocence. It was a purity akin to flawless white.

Was that why? Without realizing it, I found myself confiding in the child.

“Can a wicked person who torments others have a hurting heart too?”

“Bill is a bad boy, but he cries just like I do. He comes and apologizes later, and... umm... Does your heart hurt, miss?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

I hesitated at the child's question. Strangely, saying anything more felt like a sin. A self-deprecating laugh threatened to escape.

Good heavens, seeking advice from a child not even half my age... How pathetic.

Just then, the child reached out and stroked the back of my hand. Her eyes curved into crescents as she cried out in a cheerful voice.

“Pain, pain, disappear, hiyah! If you don't, I'll give you a good whack!”

Then she laughed brightly and said to me.

“I think you'd be even prettier if you smiled. Because you look like a fairy.”

I couldn't say a word. Something was surging up from within my chest. A hot emotion was swallowing me whole, like a typhoon.

So I just bit my lip like a fool, staring at the child. If I didn't, I felt I would burst into tears. This continued until I heard the voice of a man I presumed to be her father.

“Miss, can we meet again?”

“...Yes, I'm sure we can someday.”

“See you next time, then. I think Papa's going to scold me if I stay any longer. Goodbye. You have to smile for me next time, okay?”

The child practically ran out of the garden. I watched her go, dazed, and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. Nothing came off, but it felt as if something invisible had been wiped clean, and my heart surged once more. The corners of my eyes grew warm.

I raised my hand again and rubbed my cheek. This time, I felt moisture. The tears I had desperately held back, trying to hide them from everyone, were finally flowing.

Yet I felt no shame or embarrassment. So I wiped them away not with a handkerchief, but with the back of my hand, as if to let them seep into my blood and race to my heart.

Dawn was breaking, and the sun was rising. Without letting a single tear fall to the ground, I held them all in my heart and returned to my room.

Then I waited for Marie to come and wake me. Poor Marie entered my room a little later than usual.

“Hello. Am I up early, or are you late?”

My voice, carried on the morning air, was quite sharp. I watched Marie's face pale at my words as she bowed her head, and the corners of my lips curled into a smile. It was as if I had never been shut away in my room.

***

To get anything done, one needs a catalyst. It provides an excuse in case of failure and allows one to downplay success as if it were only natural. People call this humility.

But that only applies to people like me. For someone in Madame de La Vallière's position, what's needed is not a catalyst for humility, but one for saving face.

She simply needed a suitable pretext to uphold her pride while steering the situation according to her own will.

Unfortunately, I was the only person in this mansion who could provide such a catalyst. It was my duty to give La Vallière a proper reason to save face and to apologize on behalf of my mother's rudeness.

So, enduring the stares of those around me, I lingered in front of La Vallière's door for days, waiting for her impenetrable fortress to fall. It took three full days.

La Vallière greeted me with a frosty expression, her tone cool as she spoke, as if making an excuse.

“How audacious of you. You are not the one who should be standing at my door... If your mother had half your wisdom, I would not have been so angered.”

“Love is blind by nature and often causes trouble for others. My mother was simply thinking of me. If there is any fault, it lies in my own shortcomings.”

“Hmph. There's no need to defend her. I never expected anything in the first place... But this is the end of it.”

From her words, I realized the Madame would soon be leaving the mansion. She had only stayed with the Vischwartz family to attend the exhibition, so there was no reason to devote any more time here.

My education was merely a little diversion for La Vallière, a way to pass the tedious hours meaningfully. It was clear she believed that even if her reputation suffered slightly because of me, it was a problem of my character, not her own.

In fact, she seemed to think that simply erasing the defiance in my eyes was enough to fulfill her duty to the Vischwartz family.

“As long as you do not follow in your mother's footsteps, you will become quite a respectable lady. However, you need to understand the meaning of 'compassion.'”

“Do you mean the act of pitying those beneath me and treating them with generosity?”

“No, compassion for yourself. To be honest, I cannot understand why you blame your mother's faults on your own shortcomings. It is your mother's problem, not yours, is it not? That comes from a lack of compassion for yourself.”

“Compassion for myself...”

My relationship with the Madame was not so warm or intimate that we would exchange letters; it would surely be severed the moment she left this mansion. Unless I caused some incident or we met in high society.

Was that why? She was giving me one last lesson. This was likely the greatest kindness La Vallière was capable of showing.

“People in high society are so full of compassion for others that they forget to look at themselves. They don't know how to love themselves. That is a very painful thing. So do not feign incomprehensible humility. Do not lower yourself so much. It will only lead to others looking down on you.”

In truth, there was probably no one in the world who had more compassion for themselves than I did. Was I not the kind of person who cared little for the affairs of others if it was for my own happiness?

However, there was a vast difference between the compassion she spoke of and the compassion I pursued. La Vallière told me to love myself, but I pitied myself while constantly doubting and worrying.

I constantly project my past self onto my present, so I find my current situation pitiful, but I cannot be sure if it is true sympathy or merely a misunderstanding.

This kind of compassion is nothing more than cheap pity or a mournful self-love. So, would it be wrong for others to pity me before I can be certain myself?