VOYAGE IN AN UNKNOWN LAND
I advise the majority of people born in the North to skip the present
chapter. It is an obscure dissertation upon certain phenomena
relative to the orange-tree, a plant which does not grow or reach its
full height except in Italy and Spain. In order to be intelligible
elsewhere, I should have had to cut down the facts.
I should have had no hesitation about this, if for a single moment
I had intended to write a book to be generally appreciated. But
Heaven having refused me the writer's gift, I have thought solely of
describing with all the ill-grace of science, but also with all its
exactitude, certain facts, of which I became involuntarily the witness
through a prolonged sojourn in the land of the orange-tree. Frederick
the Great, or some such other distinguished man from the North, who
never had the opportunity of seeing the orange-tree growing in the
open, would doubtless have denied the facts which follow--and denied in
good faith. I have an infinite respect for such good faith and can see
its _wherefore_.
As this sincere declaration may seem presumption, I append the
following reflexion:--
We write haphazard, each one of us what we think true, and each gives
the lie to his neighbour. I see in our books so many tickets in a
lottery and in reality they have no more value. Posterity, forgetting
some and reprinting others, declares the lucky numbers. And in so far,
each one of us having written as best he can, what he thinks true, has
no right to laugh at his neighbour--except
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where the satire is amusing. In that case he is always right,
especially if he writes like M. Courrier to Del Furia(12).
After this preamble, I am going bravely to enter into the examination
of facts which, I am convinced, have rarely been observed at Paris. But
after all at Paris, superior as of course it is to all other towns,
orange-trees are not seen growing out in the open, as at Sorrento,
and it is there that Lisio Visconti observed and noted the following
facts--at Sorrento, the country of Tasso, on the Bay of Naples in a
position half-way down to the sea, still more picturesque than that of
Naples itself, but where no one reads the _Miroir_.
When we are to see in the evening the woman we love, the suspense, the
expectation of so great a happiness makes every moment, which separates
us from it, unbearable.
A devouring fever makes us take up and lay aside twenty different
occupations. We look every moment at our watch--overjoyed when we see
that we have managed to pass ten minutes without looking at the time.
The hour so longed-for strikes at last, and when we are at her door
ready to knock--we would be glad not to find her in. It is only on
reflexion that we would be sorry for it. In a word, the suspense before
seeing her produces an unpleasant effect.
There you have one of the things which make good folk say that love
drives men silly.
The reason is that the imagination, violently withdrawn from dreams of
delight in which every step forward brings happiness, is brought back
face to face with severe reality.
The gentle soul knows well that in the combat which is to begin the
moment he sees her, the least inadvertency, the least lack of attention
or of courage will be paid for by a defeat, poisoning, for a long time
to come, the dreams of fancy and of passion, and humiliating to a man's
pride, if he try to find consolation outside the
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sphere of passion. He says to himself: "I hadn't the wit, I hadn't
the pluck"; but the only way to have pluck before the loved one is by
loving her a little less.
It is a fragment of attention, torn by force with so much trouble
from the dreams of crystallisation, which allows the crowd of things
to escape us during our first words with the woman we love--things
which have no sense or which have a sense contrary to what we mean--or
else, what is still more heartrending, we exaggerate our feelings and
they become ridiculous in our own eyes. We feel vaguely that we are
not paying enough attention to our words and mechanically set about
polishing and loading our oratory. And, also, it is impossible to hold
one's tongue--silence would be embarrassing and make it still less
possible to give one's thoughts to her. So we say in a feeling way a
host of things that we do not feel, and would be quite embarrassed to
repeat, obstinately keeping our distance from the woman before us, in
order more really to be with her. In the early hours of my acquaintance
with love, this oddity which I felt within me, made me believe that I
did not love.
I understand cowardice and how recruits, to be delivered of their fear,
throw themselves recklessly into the midst of the fire. The number of
silly things I have said in the last two years, in order not to hold my
tongue, makes me mad when I think of them.
And that is what should easily mark in a woman's eyes the difference
between passion-love and gallantry, between the gentle soul and the
prosaic.[1]
In these decisive moments the one gains as much as the other loses: the
prosaic soul gets just the degree of warmth which he ordinarily wants,
while excess of feeling drives mad the poor gentle heart, who, to crown
his troubles, really means to hide his madness. Completely taken up
with keeping his own transports in check, he is miles away from the
self-possession necessary in order to seize opportunities,
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and leaves in a muddle after a visit, in which the prosaic soul would
have made a great step forward. Directly it is a question of advancing
his too violent passion, a gentle being with pride cannot be eloquent
under the eye of the woman whom he loves: the pain of ill-success is
too much for him. The vulgar being, on the contrary, calculates nicely
the chances of success: he is stopped by no foretastes of the suffering
of defeat, and, proud of that which makes him vulgar, laughs at the
gentle soul, who, with all the cleverness he may have, is never quite
enough at ease to say the simplest things and those most certain to
succeed. The gentle soul, far from being able to grasp anything by
force, must resign himself to obtaining nothing except through the
_charity_ of her whom he loves. If the woman one loves really has
feelings, one always has reason to regret having wished to put pressure
on oneself in order to make love to her. One looks shame-faced, looks
chilly, would look deceitful, did not passion betray itself by other
and surer signs. To express what we feel so keenly, and in such detail,
at every moment of the day, is a task we take upon our shoulders
because we have read novels; for if we were natural, we would never
undertake anything so irksome. Instead of wanting to speak of what we
felt a quarter of an hour ago, and of trying to make of it a general
and interesting topic, we would express simply the passing fragment of
our feelings at the moment. But no! we put the most violent pressure
upon ourselves for a worthless success, and, as there is no evidence of
actual sensation to back our words, and as our memory cannot be working
freely, we approve at the time of things to say--and say them--comical
to a degree that is more than humiliating.
When at last, after an hour's trouble, this extremely painful effort
has resulted in getting away from the enchanted gardens of the
imagination, in order to enjoy quite simply the presence of what you
love, it often happens--that you've got to take your leave.
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All this looks like extravagance, but I have seen better still. A
woman, whom one of my friends loved to idolatry, pretending to take
offence at some or other want of delicacy, which I was never allowed
to learn, condemned him all of a sudden to see her only twice a month.
These visits, so rare and so intensely desired, meant an attack of
madness, and it wanted all Salviati's strength of character to keep it
from being seen by outward signs.
From the very first, the idea of the visit's end is too insistent for
one to be able to take pleasure in the visit. One speaks a great deal,
deaf to one's own thoughts, saying often the contrary of what one
thinks. One embarks upon discourses which have got suddenly to be cut
short, because of their absurdity--if one manage to rouse oneself and
listen to one's thoughts within. The effort we make is so violent that
we seem chilly. Love hides itself in its excess.
Away from her, the imagination was lulled by the most charming
dialogues: there were transports the most tender and the most touching.
And thus for ten days or so you think you have the courage to speak;
but two days before what should have been our day of happiness, the
fever begins, and, as the terrible instant draws near, its force
redoubles.
Just as you come into her _salon_, in order not to do or say some
incredible piece of nonsense, you clutch in despair at the resolution
of keeping your mouth shut and your eyes on her--in order at least to
be able to remember her face. Scarcely before her, something like a
kind of drunkenness comes over your eyes; you feel driven like a maniac
to do strange actions; it is as if you had two souls--one to act and
the other to blame your actions. You feel, in a confused way, that to
turn your strained attention to folly would temporarily refresh the
blood, and make you lose from sight the end of the visit and the misery
of parting for a fortnight.
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If some bore be there, who tells a pointless story, the poor lover, in
his inexplicable madness, as if he were nervous of losing moments so
rare, becomes all attention. That hour, of which he drew himself so
sweet a picture, passes like a flash of lightning and yet he feels,
with unspeakable bitterness, all the little circumstances which show
how much a stranger he has become to her whom he loves. There he is in
the midst of indifferent visitors and sees himself the only one who
does not know her life of these past days, in all its details. At last
he goes: and as he coldly says good-bye, he has the agonising feeling
of two whole weeks before another meeting. Without a doubt he would
suffer less never to see the object of his love again. It is in the
style, only far blacker, of the Duc de Policastro, who every six months
travelled a hundred leagues to see for a quarter of an hour at Lecce a
beloved mistress guarded by a jealous husband.
Here you can see clearly Will without influence upon Love.
Out of all patience with one's mistress and oneself, how furious the
desire to bury oneself in indifference! The only good of such visits is
to replenish the treasure of crystallisation.
Life for Salviati was divided into periods of two weeks, which took
their colour from the last evening he had been allowed to see Madame
----. For example, he was in the seventh heaven of delight the 21st of
May, and the 2nd of June he kept away from home, for fear of yielding
to the temptation of blowing out his brains.
I saw that evening how badly novelists have drawn the moment of
suicide. Salviati simply said to me: "I'm thirsty, I must take this
glass of water." I did not oppose his resolution, but said good-bye:
then he broke down.
Seeing the obscurity which envelops the discourse of lovers, it would
not be prudent to push too far conclusions drawn from an isolated
detail of their conversation.
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They give a fair glimpse of their feelings only in sudden
expressions--then it is the cry of the heart. Otherwise it is from the
complexion of the bulk of what is said that inductions are to be drawn.
And we must remember that quite often a man, who is very moved, has no
time to notice the emotion of the person who is the cause of his own.
[1] The word was one of Léonore's.
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