“Still another vandal chastised by Venus!” I thought. “May all the
destroyers of our ancient monuments have their heads broken thus!”
And with that charitable prayer, I fell asleep.
It was broad daylight when I woke. Beside my bed were, on one side, M.
de Peyrehorade in his _robe-de-chambre_; on the other a servant, sent
by his wife, with a cup of chocolate in his hand.
“Come, up with you, Parisian! This is just like you sluggards from the
capital!” said my host, while I hastily dressed myself. “It is eight
o’clock, and you are still in bed! I have been up since six. This is
the third time I have come upstairs; I came to your door on tiptoe; not
a sound, not a sign of life. It will injure you to sleep too much at
your age. And you haven’t seen my Venus yet! Come, drink this cup of
Barcelona chocolate quickly. Genuine contraband, such chocolate as you
don’t get in Paris. You must lay up some strength, for, when you once
stand in front of my Venus, I shall not be able to tear you away from
her.”
In five minutes I was ready--that is to say, half shaved, my clothes
half buttoned, and my throat scalded by the chocolate, which I had
swallowed boiling hot. I went down into the garden and found myself
before a really beautiful statue.
It was, in truth, a Venus, and wonderfully lovely. The upper part of
the body was nude, as the ancients ordinarily represented the great
divinities; the right hand, raised as high as the breast, was turned
with the palm inward, the thumb and first two fingers extended, the
other two slightly bent. The other hand was near the hip and held the
drapery that covered the lower part of the body. The pose of the statue
recalled that of the Morra Player, usually known, I know not why, by
the name of Germanicus. Perhaps the sculptor intended to represent the
goddess playing the game of morra.
However that may be, it is impossible to imagine anything more perfect
than the body of that Venus; anything more harmonious, more voluptuous
than her outlines, anything more graceful and more dignified than her
drapery. I expected to see some work of the later Empire; I saw a
_chef-d’œuvre_ of the best period of statuary. What especially struck
me was the exquisite verisimilitude of the forms, which one might have
believed to have been moulded from nature, if nature ever produced such
flawless models.
The hair, which was brushed back from the forehead, seemed to have
been gilded formerly. The head, which was small, like those of almost
all Greek statues, was bent slightly forward. As for the face, I
shall never succeed in describing its peculiar character; it was of
a type which in no wise resembled that of any antique statue that I
can remember. It was not the tranquil, severe beauty of the Greek
sculptors, who systematically imparted a majestic immobility to all the
features. Here, on the contrary, I observed with surprise a clearly
marked intention on the part of the artist to express mischievousness
amounting almost to deviltry. All the features were slightly
contracted; the eyes were a little oblique, the corners of the mouth
raised, the nostrils a little dilated. Disdain, irony, cruelty could
be read upon that face, which none the less was inconceivably lovely.
In truth, the more one looked at that marvellous statue, the more
distressed one felt at the thought that such wonderful beauty could be
conjoined to utter absence of sensibility.
“If the model ever existed,” I said to M. de Peyrehorade,--“and I doubt
whether Heaven ever produced such a woman--how I pity her lovers! She
must have delighted in driving them to death from despair. There is
something downright savage in her expression, and yet I never have seen
anything so beautiful!”
“’T is Venus all intent upon her prey!” quoted M. de Peyrehorade,
delighted with my enthusiasm.
That expression of infernal irony was heightened perhaps by the
contrast between the very brilliant silver eyes and the coating of
blackish green with which time had overlaid the whole statue. Those
gleaming eyes created a certain illusion which suggested reality, life.
I remembered what my guide had said, that she made those who looked
at her lower their eyes. That was almost true, and I could not help
feeling angry with myself as I realised that I was perceptibly ill at
ease before that bronze figure.
“Now that you have admired her in every detail, my dear colleague
in antiquarian research,” said my host, “let us open a scientific
conference, if you please. What do you say to this inscription, which
you have not noticed as yet?”
He pointed to the base of the statue, and I read there these words: