Chapter X　Madame Curie

PIERRE and Marie set out for an unusual honeymoon. They had no tickets to get and no rooms to reserve, because they were going off on bicycles just wherever their fancy led. They strapped a few clothes to the bicycles and, as the summer had been wet, two long rubber mackintoshes. Their tyres glided silently over the wet roads; bright, fitful sunshine flecked the tall trunks of the trees that make an avenue of all Frenck roads; overhead, the heavy summer leaves dappled the road with shade like a snakeskin and shook raindrops on the travellers from the last shower.

Upon what an adventure they were setting out, the two alone together! They couldn't see the end of it or imagine how exciting it was going to be, any more than they could see the end of the long avenue or know where they would sleep the night.

Pierre had always loved to wander in lonely woods. He liked them cool and wet, and, when he came out on to the rocky hillsides, he liked the smell of rosemary and marjoram and eglantine that made a wild jungle there. It was all one to him whether he walked by day or by night, by dawn or gloaming; whether he ate at eleven or three, seven or ten. Now all the things he cared for were lovelier still, because Marie was with him and she didn't bother him about time or punctuality.

They were not going to be extravagant; there should be no hotels for them. When they came to a village at evening, they found a simple inn, a place with one large tap-room, with a few tables and many chairs. The “Patron” spread a clean white cloth for them and brought them thick, hot soup. After dinner, they went up the creaking wooden stairs, along a rambling passage to a room where the light of one candle was not likely to show up the faded paper. French village inns are often like that; the supper is good, the bed is clean and delicious, and the charge small.

Next day after breakfast on coffee and rolls, they pedalled on along another highway under the trees with the forest on either hand. A long green ride that led into mysterious depths of trees tempted them; they dismounted and left their bicycles at a roadside cottage; saw that they had their compass safe, because it is easy to be lost in those great French forests; put apples in their pockets and found their feet sinking through soft moss into squelching mud. Lovely! For them, there was no such thing as direction, no such thing as time, and nobody to wonder when they would be back.

Pierre went in front, striding along absent-mindedly. Marie followed with shorter steps, but keeping up all the same. She was hatless, though at that time other women never walked without a hat. It wasn't the only fashion she was to set. Her skirt, which was meant to trail on the ground and plaster her shoes with caked mud, was gathered quite shockingly high into an elastic band, so that her ankles showed! Her shoes were thick and sensible and her leather belt had pockets for a knife, money and a watch. She could hear well enough what Pierre said, covering the ground there in front as if he had a train to catch. He was evidently talking to her, though, as he never turned his head, it might have been the tree she was addressing on the quaint customs of crystals. There is no conversation more learned or more difficult to follow than a conversation on crystals, or to put it more scientifically, on crystallography. Marie listened with joy, and her answers and remarks and suggestions were as clever as Pierre's, so that it seemed as if the two voices were the expression of one thought.

Marie was beginning to grow tired, when suddenly they came to an opening in the forest; and in the opening was a reedy pool. Marie threw herself down on the bank to bask in the sun, and Pierre went hunting like a small boy for what the pool might contain: dragonflies, tritons, salamanders. Far out in the water there were waterlilies; nearer at hand, yellow irises in bloom. He wanted them to decorate Marie, but there was no boat. A little way away a tree had fallen over the water—the very thing, a little slippery, perhaps, but what did a wetting matter to a lover? Luck was with him, however, and he was soon back arranging a crown of rather damp lilies and irises in his wife's hair.

Then, as if he had suddenly seen something to hunt, he crept on all-fours quietly close to the water again. Marie was not attending; it was so delicious to sit and do nothing in the August heat. Suddenly she screamed and looked with horror at her hand. A cold, wet frog was sitting in it!

“Don't you like frogs?” asked Pierre surprised; he had always liked them himself.

“Yes, but not in my hand.”

“What a mistake! They are such jolly things to watch. Look at him; isn't he handsome?”

But he relieved her of the handsome clamminess and let it go back to its pool to the joy of two of the party.

So they went on with the walk and the talk, Marie wearing her startling crown, till they reached the road again and their bicycles.

In mid-August, having gone round Paris by far woodland ways, they came to Chantilly in the north, a town buried in immense forests, where nowadays racehorses always peep at passers-by from their lordly stables. Marie and Pierre were due to join the family at a farm in the woods called “La Biche,” or The Hind. There they found Bronia, Casimir and baby Hélène, whom everyone called Lou; Grannie Dluska, Professor Sklodovski and Hela.

A farm in those woods has a charm of its own; never a sound comes near except the barking of a dog, the snapping of a branch, a woodman's distant axe against a tree-trunk, a hasty flutter of a startled pheasant or the skurry of a hare. Everywhere, as far as a man can walk or an eye can see, is an invitation to come in May, for the earth is hidden under the yellow, withering leaves of lilies-of-thevalley.

Inside the farm they talked apace, and often with Lou, who was beautiful, comic and gay and three years old. Sometimes they talked of solemn science with Professor Sklodovski and sometimes of the mysteries of bringing up children. Sometimes they discussed medicine and politics with Pierre's father and mother, who came from Sceaux on visits. France is the land for great talk, and often Marie was surprised to hear with what terrible vigour her French father-in-law and his friends talked politics. Politics were their very life; they cared intensely how their country was governed, and in free France they could say what they liked, which made their talk interesting. But Pierre was different. He disliked politics, because he said he was not clever at getting angry. But when a policy was unjust or cruel, he took sides—the side of the oppressed and persecuted.

So the honeymoon came to an end and Pierre and Marie settled to housekeeping in a Paris flat, and a strange, uncommon housekeeping it was! There were to be no visitors, so there were only two chairs. If a mistaken stranger toiled up the four storey's to pay a formal call and found the couple at home working, he had only to look round for a seat to see, without being told, that there was no place for him. The most pushing would beat a retreat in humbler mood. The Curies did not intend to have time to entertain. Marie, at any rate, would have, as it was, to do the work of two women: the work of a wife, which most wives find enough, and that of a scientist, which most scientists find more than enough.

She determined to make her home as simple and as little time-wasting as possible. There were to be no rugs to shake, no armchair or sofa to brush, nothing on the walls to dust, nothing to polish. The table, the two chairs and the bookshelf were of unpolished deal, which is a pleasant, untroublesome wood. The room depended on simplicity and a vase of fresh flowers for its beauty, while books, a lamp and piles of papers on physics showed it to be a scholar's den. Two people who loved one another, who loved Nature and learning, could desire nothing more. Yet they had to be fed. Doubtless that seemed a pity to them both, but Marie would not again neglect facts.

The first thing she bought to help her with her housekeeping was a black notebook with Accounts printed in letters of gold on the cover. She knew that faultless household arithmetic was a most important foundation of a happy home, especially of a home that had to be run on ￡240 a year exactly.

Her cooking would have to be faultless, too, or Pierre's digestion would go wrong. In addition, she had to find some scheme by which the dinner would cook itself while she spent most of the day at the laboratory doing science. Facts are fierce, strong things, but brains can use them against themselves. The first point was to make the day long. She got up early to go to market; she came home to make the bed and sweep the floor and prepare the evening dinner. Oh, that cooking! She had taken cooking lessons from Bronia and Madame Dluska before her marriage, but one doesn't learn much from lessons; mistakes are far better teachers. It was all very well that Pierre didn't know what he ate, and was as pleased when the dinner was wrong as when it was right, but Marie couldn't bear the idea that her French mother-in-law, a member of that famous cooking nation, might think that Polish girls couldn't cook. She read over and over again her book of recipes, she learned them as if they were science; she wrote notes in the margin and kept a record of her successes and failures. But there are things that printed recipes forget to tell you. Does one put beef to boil in hot or cold water? How long do beans take to boil? What keeps a stick of macaroni from sticking fast to the next piece? Those were mysteries needing a scientific experiment. Little by little, Marie grew clever; she invented dishes that could be left on the gas to cook while she was out; she calculated exactly the height of the gas flame that this or that stew would need for such and such hours; and, having set her burner exactly, she left the house and spent eight hours at the laboratory. Let no one say that a knowledge of science is no use for cooking.

When she walked home with Pierre in the evening, she bought the groceries or the fruit. Then at home, dinner over, her household work finished and expenditure entered in the notebook, she took out her books to study for another degree, and went on with it till two in the morning. It was a long day that stretched from 6.0 a.m. to 2.0 a.m. But still she was able to write to her brother: “All is well with us—health good and life kind. I am getting the flat gradually as I want it, but I intend that it shall be so simple it won't give us any worries or need any looking after, because I have very little help. A woman comes for an hour a day to wash-up and do the hardest part of the work.”

They had no excitements. They went frequently to see Pierre's parents at Sceaux, but they took their work with them and had two rooms set apart for them so that they might be just as if they were at home, just as hard-working. They scarcely ever went to the theatre and they went to nothing else. They could not even afford to go to Hela's wedding in Warsaw. They worked the year round with only a few days' holiday at Easter, till it was August again and Marie's examination in full swing.

Again she passed first on the list. Pierre threw an arm proudly round her neck and marched her home. No sooner had they arrived there than they pumped their bicycles, filled their bags, and set off for the mountains of Auvergne.

Marie wrote of that holiday: “What a radiant memory we have of a certain sunny day, when after a long, painful climb, we found ourselves crossing a fresh green Aubracian meadow in the clear air of those high tablelands. Another vivid memory is of an evening when we were caught by twilight in the gorge of the Truyère, and up the valley came, as by enchantment, a far-away melody from a boat disappearing down the stream. We had miscalculated our distances and couldn't get back to our beds before dawn. Then we met a string of carts whose horses took fright at our bicycles and obliged us to cut across ploughed fields. When we got back to the road high tableland was bathed in the moon's unreal light and the cows, in the paddock for the night, came gravely across one by one to gaze at us with their big, calm eyes.”

After holiday came work again, and life went on teaching Marie Curie as it had taught Manya Sklodovski, with great blows of hardship, that the best things in the world have to be paid for dearly.

Marie wanted a baby as much as she wanted Science, and as much as she wanted to be able to share everything with Pierre.

But she found that this time she just couldn't do everything. She could not stand eight hours studying the magnetization of steel, and she could not bicycle all day with Pierre among the blue bays of Brittany. She was surprised and disgusted to find that she had to yield to some things. When her father came from Poland on purpose to give her an early holiday, Pierre wrote her charming letters in simple Polish, because he was finding the language difficult, but was proud of his progress.

“My little girl, so dear, so sweet, whom I love so much. I got your letter to-day and I am very happy. Here, there is nothing new, except that I miss you; my very soul has fled with you.” And Marie answered, making her Polish easy for him: “It is fine. The sun is shining. It is hot. I am very sad without you. Come quickly. I sit watching from morn till eve and still you do not come. I am well. I work as much as I can, but Poincaré's book is harder than I expected. I must talk to you about it and we must go over together what I have found so hard.”

Then Irène came to add to Marie's work and joy. She called her her little queen; fed her herself; washed and dressed her, and would have done without a nurse had not the doctor ordered her to have one.

So now Marie had four things to take all her time instead of three: the laboratory, her husband, her house and her daughter. When she wanted to work, Irène was cutting her teeth and crying the house down; or Irène had a cold, or she had knocked her head, or she was a little feverish. Then both the great scientists, who happened to be her father and mother, had to sit up all night to watch a blue-eyed scrap. Sometimes, even when Irène was quite well, Marie, busy with science at the laboratory, would be seized with panic, leave her reports and rush off to the park to see if Nurse had mislaid her baby. No! There was Nurse pushing the pram with Irène safely inside. When Nurse left, Irène found a devoted slave in her grandfather, with whom Marie could leave her whenever the laboratory was having its turn.

But no one can wonder that Irène's mother grew thin. She was lucky, however, and thinness made her more beautiful than ever, with a sort of noble, ghostly beauty. She was almost unreal, as if the wind might have blown her away, except for her great brow and intense dreamy eyes.

第十章　居里夫人

皮埃尔和玛丽开始了一场不同寻常的蜜月之旅。他们没买票也没订房间，打算随心所欲地骑着自行车到处走。两个人在自行车上绑了几件衣服，由于夏天潮热，他们还带了两件长长的防水橡皮雨衣。自行车的轮胎在湿润的道路上静静滚动；所有的法国乡间小道都郁郁葱葱，明亮斑驳的阳光在粗壮的树干上留下点点光影；头顶上方浓密的绿叶在路上留下蛇皮般的阴影，摇曳着上次降雨时的雨滴，洒落在行人身上。

两个人单独在一起的旅程多么美妙！他们不去想何时结束，也不知旅程中还有多少惊喜，也不知道路的尽头在哪里，更不去忧愁今晚要寄宿何处。

皮埃尔一直喜欢在寂静的森林里漫步。他喜欢树林凉爽湿润的感觉，来到岩石遍布的山坡时，他也喜欢丛生的迷迭香、小叶薄荷和野蔷薇。无论漫步在白天黑夜，还是清晨黄昏；不管是十一点或三点，还是七点或十点吃饭，对他来说都无所谓。而现在，一切变得更加美好，因为玛丽陪伴着他，也绝不催促和打扰。

两个人一点都不铺张浪费，所以也不住酒店。晚上到了村庄，找到一间简陋的小旅馆，里面有一个大大的酒吧，摆着几张桌子、很多把椅子。店家给他们铺上一张洁白的桌布，端上稠稠的热汤。吃过晚饭，两个人爬上吱吱作响的木楼梯，穿过杂乱的走廊，来到一间烛光微弱、昏暗不清的房间。法国的乡间旅馆一般都是这样，晚餐丰盛，床褥整洁舒适，而且花费不高。

第二天吃过面包卷，喝过咖啡，他们骑着自行车穿过另一条树荫密布、两旁树木丛生的小路。两个人满怀期待，沿着绿荫小道，经过长长的骑行来到了神秘的树林深处；将车停放在路边的村舍里；一定要检查好指南针，因为在法国广阔的森林里很容易迷失方向；口袋里揣满苹果，双脚踩着柔软的苔藓，陷在泥泞的土里。多有意思！他们早把方向、时间抛在脑后，没人知道他们什么时候会返回。

皮埃尔走在前面，随心所欲地大步向前。玛丽跟在后面，步伐较慢，但步调一致。玛丽没戴帽子，在当时的社会，女性散步一般都会戴帽子。这不是她有意要制造的潮流。她本应着拖地的长裙，因为裙摆上沾着的小泥块弄脏了鞋子，于是便将裙子高高挽起，露出了优美的脚踝。她的鞋子虽厚实但灵巧，皮带上的口袋里装着小刀、钱和手表。尽管皮埃尔在前面走得很快，就像要去赶火车，但他说的话玛丽听得一清二楚。虽然他在同玛丽说话，但他没回过头，他可能是对着树木在高谈自己的晶体研究。没什么比晶体研究的话题，或者专业来说是结晶学研究，更高深难懂但令人受益匪浅。玛丽欢快地倾听着，她的回答、评论和建议的精彩程度丝毫不亚于皮埃尔，两个人简直就是英雄所见略同。

玛丽开始感到疲倦，忽然就走到了森林深处一处开阔的空地，空地上有一湾芦苇丛生的湖泊。玛丽躺在岸边享受阳光浴，皮埃尔像孩子般前去打猎，看看湖泊里有什么好玩儿的：蜻蜓、蝾螈和火蜥蜴。湖水深处还漂浮着睡莲；湖水近处，盛开着黄色的鸢尾花。他想采点花打扮玛丽，但苦于没船。远处一棵树倒在湖面上——可能有点滑，不过面对爱人，滑点又算什么？皮埃尔运气很好，他很快就采回鲜花，用沾着水滴的莲花和鸢尾花编了一个花环戴在新婚妻子的头上。

突然，他四肢匍匐静悄悄地趴在近水处，好似看到了猎物。玛丽并没在意，在烈日炎炎的八月，能静静地坐着，什么都不做，别提多舒服了。突然她尖叫一声，恐惧地望着自己的手掌。一只凉冰冰、湿漉漉的青蛙正蹲在那里。

“你不喜欢青蛙吗？”皮埃尔吃惊地问道。他很喜欢青蛙。

“不讨厌，但不能在我手里呀。”

“好可惜！它们这么可爱。快看，它长得多帅气。”

不过他还是把帅气的青蛙先生送回了湖中，不让它破坏了两个人的欢乐休憩。

两个人继续边走边聊，玛丽一直戴着那顶别致的花环，直到重新回到公路上，骑上自行车。

八月中旬，他们已经骑车沿着林间道路环游了巴黎，随后来到了巴黎以北的尚蒂伊，一座掩映在丛林里的小镇，如今各家的马厩里都圈养着赛马。玛丽和皮埃尔要在森林里的一座名为拉比什或称为雌鹿的农场和家人碰面。在那里，他们顺利见到了布朗尼娅、卡西米尔和小依莲，大家也叫她露，另外还有祖母杜鲁斯卡、斯克沃多夫斯基先生和海拉。

森林深处的农场有自己独特的美。四周静悄悄的，只能听到几声狗吠，树干折断的嘎吱声，远处伐木工锯木的吱吱声，受惊了的野鸡扇动翅膀的簇簇声，还有野兔在草丛中穿梭的窸窣声。在人们足迹可达或目光可至的地方，到处都闪耀着五月的明媚，整个大地都覆盖了一层山谷百合泛黄飘落的叶子。

他们在农场里畅谈，经常还带着只有三岁的露。小孩长得漂亮可爱，天真而充满童趣。有时他们会同斯克沃多夫斯基先生探讨神圣的科学，分享抚养孩子的心得。有时他们还会同皮埃尔的父母聊一聊医学和政治，老人家专门从索城赶来度假。法国是片言论自由的土地，玛丽经常听到她的法国公公同朋友们大谈政治，情绪激昂，言论自由得让她吃惊。政治就是他们的生活；他们密切关注国家治理，在自由的法国随性地表达自己的想法，这也让谈话充满乐趣。但皮埃尔不同。他不喜欢政治，因为愤怒会让人失去理智。不过当政治出现不公或残忍的一面，他也会表达自己的立场——站在受压迫、被迫害的人的一边。

蜜月结束，皮埃尔和玛丽在巴黎找了一间公寓开始了自己的小生活，不过他们的家居生活可不同寻常！没有来客，于是家里就只放了两把椅子。如果有不请自来的客人不辞辛劳爬上四层楼，也只能看到这对小夫妻在埋头工作，环顾四周想找个地方落脚，都不用别人开口，自己就会发现根本无处可坐。不过最难做的还是要以委婉的方式拒绝来客。皮埃尔夫妇根本没有时间享受娱乐。任何时候，玛丽都要一人分饰两角：妻子的工作，相信天下大多的贤妻都深有体会；科学家的事业，相信大部分科学家都感触颇深。

玛丽决心将家布置得很简单，越不费时打理越好。没有毯子需要掸，没有扶手椅或沙发需要刷，墙上什么也没挂不需要掸灰，也没什么摆设需要擦亮。一张桌子、两把椅子、书架，木质坚实，打理不费事。房间布置简单，花瓶中插着一束鲜花，为室内增添了些许芬芳，而书籍、油灯和一摞关于物理的文件显示出这是一间学者的卧房。两个相爱的人，同时崇尚自然和求知，心无旁骛。不过他们还要养家糊口。这无疑占用了科研时间，令人遗憾，不过玛丽这次无法再忽视生活的现实。

为了好好打理家务，她首先买了一本黑色封皮、印着记账本三个金字的笔记本。她深知准确无误的精打细算是幸福家庭的重要基础，对一个每年只有240镑生活费的家庭来说更显得尤为重要。

她的厨艺也容不得些许差错，否则皮埃尔就会出现消化问题。此外，玛丽还要找些小窍门，这样晚餐就能简单易做，她可以把更多的时间花在科学实验上。现实残酷、不容改变，但聪明的大脑可以反其道而行。第一点就是延长工作时间。她一大早就起床去菜市场，回到家再整理床铺、扫地、准备晚餐。哎，又是做饭！结婚前，布朗尼娅和杜鲁斯卡夫人都给她培训过厨艺，不过人从课堂上总学不到什么东西，犯错其实是最好的老师。好在皮埃尔并不知道他吃的是什么，无论饭做得好坏他都吃得一样开心，但玛丽不能忍受她的法国婆婆——一个来自著名美食国度的女人——认为波兰女孩根本不懂厨艺。于是，玛丽一遍遍地研究菜谱，像研究科学一样认真；在食谱的空白处记笔记，并详细记录每一次的失败与成功。不过还有一些是菜谱上学不到的东西。煮牛肉是要用热水还是凉水？怎样把一根根粘在一起的通心粉分离开来？这些都需要科学实验一一解答。一点一点，玛丽的厨艺愈加精湛，她研究的菜肴可以在她外出时留在炉火上慢炖；她精确地研究出了不同菜肴熬炖的时间和相应的火苗高度，设置好燃炉，她便可以离开家去实验室工作八小时。谁说科学知识对厨艺毫无帮助！

晚上在和皮埃尔回家的路上，玛丽就买好了蔬菜或水果。回到家吃过晚饭，收拾完家务，记好账单，她拿出学位学习的书籍，一直学到深夜两点。从早六点到深夜两点，这真是漫长的一天。不过她还能抽出点时间给哥哥写信：“我们一切安好——身体健康，生活愉快。家里慢慢布置得和我理想中的一样，但我一直坚持简约风格，不用费时费力维护，因为我真是没什么帮手。小时工每天来一小时帮忙做些清洗工作，解决家务活儿中最麻烦的部分。”

夫妻二人没有任何娱乐活动。他们经常去索城看望皮埃尔的父母，同时也带着自己的工作，家里专门腾出两间房让他们专心搞科研。夫妻俩几乎没怎么去过剧院，别的活动那就更不用说了。两个人甚至都没钱去参加海拉在华沙举办的婚礼。他们一年到头都全心工作，只在复活节放几天假，就这样持续到八月份，而玛丽又迎来了期末大考。

她又一次稳居榜首。皮埃尔骄傲地搂着她的脖子一同回家。一回到家，就给自行车打好气，将背包塞满，骑车前往奥弗涅山脉。

玛丽记录下了那个美妙的假期：“阳光明媚的假期，多么美好的回忆。经过一段漫长艰难的爬行，我们穿过了奥布拉森嫩绿的草原，尽情呼吸高原上的新鲜空气。另一段鲜活的回忆就是在特吕耶尔峡谷欣赏黄昏的美景，爬上峡谷好似人在画中游，从溪流下方的船上远远传来了吟唱的曲调。我们计算错了路程，无法在黎明前返回旅店。随后遇到了一队马车，马匹因为我们的自行车受到了惊吓，迫使我们不得不横穿农田。回到大路上时，整个高原沐浴在朦胧的月光中，夜晚被赶进棚的牛一只只从暗处缓缓踱出来，目光温和的大眼睛望向我们。”

假期结束又回到工作当中，生活继续用它的艰辛不易磨砺着玛丽·居里，就像曾经调教玛丽·斯克沃多夫斯卡那样，唯有辛苦付出才能收获世间最美好的事物。

玛丽像渴求科学一样渴望孩子，更愿意与皮埃尔分享一切。但这次她发现自己根本无法做完所有事。她不能再一站就是八小时地来研究钢的磁性，她不能和皮埃尔骑着自行车在布列塔尼的蓝色海湾畅玩。她惊讶地发现自己竟然要向某些事情做出妥协。玛丽的父亲特意从波兰赶来看望她，好让她早点儿休假。皮埃尔用简单的波兰语给她写信，虽然他觉得波兰语很难，但还是为自己的进步感到骄傲。

“我的宝贝，亲爱的小甜心，我人生的挚爱。今天收到你的来信，我很开心。没什么特别的，除了我还是一如既往地想你；我的心早已飞去与你同在。”玛丽用尽可能简单的语言回信说道：“天气很好。阳光明媚。温度较高。没有你在身边，我很忧伤。快回来吧。我从早坐到晚等你回来，但却不见你的踪影。我很好。我尽力工作，但庞加莱的书比我想象的要难。我必须和你谈谈，我们要一起探讨一下难点。”

艾琳的到来增添了玛丽的欢乐以及工作量。这是她的小公主，要喂她吃饭，给她洗澡、穿衣服，如果不是医生强烈要求，她肯定不会让保姆帮忙。

如今，玛丽的时间被四件事情占据：实验室、丈夫、家和女儿。她想工作时，艾琳就咬紧牙，哭得撕心裂肺；或者艾琳得了感冒，磕到了头。两位伟大的科学家，已经为人父母，整夜照看着这个蓝眼睛的小家伙。有时，即便艾琳一切安好，玛丽在实验室忙于科学研究，也会突然心里一惊，留下手旁的报告，冲到花园里看看保姆有没有照顾好孩子。没事！保姆推着婴儿车，艾琳稳稳地坐在车里。保姆不在的时候，艾琳有外公这个忠诚的护卫，玛丽把孩子交给父亲就十分放心，可以转身去忙实验室里的事儿。

但没人注意到艾琳的妈妈越来越瘦了。不过玛丽很幸运，消瘦的身材让她愈发美丽，有一种高贵轻盈的美。她简直像纸片人，弱不禁风，不过额头仍然高挺，眼神还是柔和而深邃。