ON WHAT THE WORLD SAID AND ON COQUETRY
There is nothing more difficult, not to say impossible, than to
successfully defend in society a poor young woman, who is so unfortunate
as not only to occupy a prominent position both as to name and fortune,
but who is beautiful both in face and figure, has a remarkable mind, is
talented and extremely well informed.
When once she has unchained the world's wrath, on account of this
insolent reunion of advantages, her every action, the best as well as
the most unimportant, her virtues, her graces, all are criticised with
the most artistic perfidy, and people are only lenient in regard to her
defects.
There is nothing more saddening than to observe the contrary effect of
this persistent belittling. If the woman against whom such unanimous
hatred is shown is the mistress of a splendid home, every one is eager
to go there, no effort is too great to gain admittance to her circle of
friends. Is she considered too fast? What does it matter? All the
mothers take their daughters to call on her, no doubt in order to return
good for the evil that they themselves have done, and to show that they
pay no attention to the scandals they themselves have spread abroad.
These remarks are spoken apropos of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I began
to see quite frequently, and very soon saw every day.
As it usually happens, I found her totally different from the
descriptions that had been given me. She had been described as haughty
and imperious, I had found her only dignified; ironical and scornful, I
had never seen her so except towards low-lived persons, who well
deserved such treatment; unkind and hateful, she had seemed to me kind
and pitiful; fantastic, capricious, and morose, I had seen her sad, but
very rarely.
Now this marked dissimilarity between what I heard and what I saw, ought
it to be credited to the deep dissimulation with which Madame de
Pënâfiel was accused? I do not know.
I do not know even if I was in love with Madame de Pënâfiel, but I
felt for her, as I became more and more intimate, a very lively
interest, caused as much by her fascination, her mind, by the simplicity
with which she admitted certain defects, as by the persistent way that
she was continually attacked, a persistence that had cost me many
violent discussions.
It is not without a certain amount of vainglory that I recall this
circumstance, for nothing is more frequent than the cowardly way that we
join the backbiters, when they tear our absent friends to pieces.
Besides, I had begun to discover the falseness of the many absurdities
that at first I had given credence to.
Thus when I knew her well enough to speak confidentially, I told her
frankly that her presence at that fatal race, where M. de Merteuil had
been killed, had appeared strange to every one.
With a surprised look she asked me why?
I told her that, as M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre were both her
intimate friends, her devoted admirers indeed--
But without giving me time to finish, she exclaimed that it was an
outrageous falsehood, that she received M. de Merteuil and M. de
Senneterre only on her days of reception; that she hardly ever saw them
in the morning; that she was ignorant of the danger they ran. Knowing
nothing of their wager, she went to the race as she had gone to many
another, and only was prevented remaining until the finish because she
was cold.
In reply, I told her of the rumour and the public opinion in consequence
of it, which was as follows: "She had known both Messieurs de Merteuil
and de Senneterre to be in love with her, having inexcusably encouraged
their rival attentions; she was thus responsible for this murderous
challenge, and her careless departure from the ground before the end of
the race had given as much offence as her presence on the race-course;
finally, her appearing that night in a conspicuous box at the Opéra was
the height of disdainful heartlessness."
Madame de Pënâfiel could not at first believe these miserable stories;
when I had convinced her she was greatly distressed, and asked me how it
was that well-bred persons could be so stupid or so blind as to think
that a woman of her position and breeding could play such a part.
To this I answered that good society resigned itself with most Christian
humility, and, forgetting all the experience that the world had taught
it, was willing to descend to the most stupid and commonplace credulity,
the moment there was any question of believing a slander.
I then told her the story of Ismaël. She said that she had in fact
noticed and admired, as an artist might have done, his characteristic
costume, and that for an instant she had been afraid of seeing the
unfortunate man thrown from his horse. But when it came to the rest of
the tale, and the conviction of the public that she had asked to have
Ismaël presented to her, she burst out laughing and told me how she had
said at the Opéra to M. de Cernay, who it seems was quite provoked,
"Nothing nowadays is more vulgar than these Chasseurs and Heiduques;
when you have shown off your lion sufficiently, and have had all the
benefit you care for in parading him as a contrast to yourself, you can
send him to me, and I will have him sit behind my carriage with a _valet
de pied_; it will be very original and something new."
"Very well, madame," said I, laughing too, "here is the rest of the
story: While Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre were risking their
lives to please you, with perfect indifference to their rash struggle,
whose object you knew, you had no eyes for anything but the Turk, your
admiration was expressed in a thousand signs and transports that were
almost frenzied. When that evening you appeared at the Opéra, after the
death of one of your devoted admirers, your first thought was to beg M.
de Cernay to present Ismaël to you. Finally, taking the advice of your
friends and wishing to escape the deep impression that this savage
foreigner had made, you had the resolution to leave town suddenly, and
take refuge way off in Brittany."
Madame de Pënâfiel asked me if it were not M. de Cernay who had
started these false and slanderous reports. As I attempted to elude this
question, though there was no reason why I should protect the count, she
said, after an instant's reflection:
"Confession for confession. M. de Cernay, after having paid me some
attention, ended by making me an offer of marriage, which was not
accepted any more than a declaration of love would have been. For as I
had no desire to do a foolish thing, I could not think seriously of
committing such an irreparable mistake. As M. de Cernay had no more
reason to be vain of my refusal than I had to be vain of his offer, the
secret was scrupulously kept between us; now that he calumniates me it
shall be a secret no longer; use it as you see fit and 'give your
authority,' as my venerable friend, Arthur Young, would say. Now as to
this hurried journey to Brittany, you may have noticed at the Opéra
that night that I spoke rather sharply to that poor Cornelia, my lady
companion. I had told her the day before that I meant to start for the
country. She began to make a thousand objections, on the weather, the
cold, etc., and ended by making me angry, because if the weather was
good enough for me it was good enough for her. Now, it was not
absolutely to escape the terrible Turk that I was going away, but simply
to pay a last visit to the woman who had nursed me. She was ill and
believed herself dying unless I would come to see her, which she thought
was the only thing that would restore her to health. As I am very much
attached to this excellent creature, I started off, and what is very
strange is that now she is perfectly well again, so I am not at all
sorry that I was courageous enough to undertake such a tiresome journey
in midwinter."
I made Madame de Pënâfiel laugh when I told her how deeply I had
pitied her companion for having to submit to such tyrannical treatment,
etc., the night I saw the poor young girl's annoyance at the Opéra.
I only cite these particulars, as I believe them to be specimens of the
absurd rumours which are often absolutely credited in the social world,
and which are capable of doing so much injury.
I could not understand this perpetual resentment against a young woman
who, the more intimately I became acquainted with her, the less I
understood her character; for, although she was always agreeable, and
possessed a singularly cultivated mind, she was frequently paradoxical,
and had some pretensions to scientific knowledge (this was considered
one of her failings). Moreover, she very rarely showed any genial
cordiality or real enthusiasm.
As to her innermost sentiments, she appeared to be constrained or
oppressed, as though weighed down by some sad secret; then, again, she
would evince traits of deep-felt commiseration and kindness, which did
not seem spontaneous or natural, but, rather, the result of comparison
or the recollection of some great misfortune, as though she said, "I
have suffered so much that I am worthy of compassion."
At other times she gave way to the most violent explosions of contempt
for all these spiteful and envious persons, and would break forth with
the most cutting sarcasms, sparing no one. This was one of the reasons
of her having so many bitter enemies.
A circumstance that I thought strange was that, in spite of all that was
said about her levity, I had never seen a single man who appeared to be
on terms of intimacy with her, or any one in whom she could be supposed
to take any affectionate interest.
If, then, I loved Madame de Pënâfiel, it was not with that fresh,
pure, passionate love I had felt for Hélène, it was a sentiment in
which love and curiosity were strangely allied to distrust; for,
although I condemned the absurd calumnies of the world, I was often
quite as foolish and quite as unjust as other people.
Although I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel constantly for nearly three
months, I had never breathed a word of gallantry. This was as much
through calculation as distrust. I had found her to be so essentially
different from the portrait the world had drawn of her, that I could not
help thinking at times of what I had heard, and wondering if she were as
false as she was accused of being. Therefore, I wished to study her more
fully, before allowing myself to be carried away on the current of a
declaration, whose refusal I did not wish to risk, for I am ready to
declare that Madame de Pënâfiel was very seductive.
Among her other delightful faults, what charmed me most was her
coquetry, which was quite peculiar.
It was not shown by any pretended demonstrations of solicitude, or by a
flattering way of receiving a friend, flattery which is usually as
deceptive as it is encouraging. No; her nature was too proud and
independent to permit her to stoop to such means of winning admirers.
Her coquetry was entirely in the perfect gracefulness that she wished,
and knew how, to impart to her every motion, to those poses that were
apparently the least studied. No doubt all that grace was calculated,
reasoned out, if I may say so, but habit had so harmonised the
enchanting art with the native elegance of her manners that it was
impossible to gaze on anything more charming. Besides, when it is a
question of exquisite manners, naturalness can never bear a comparison
with studied politeness, any more than the pale wild flower of the
eglantine can compare in size, colour, and perfume with the cultivated
hothouse rose.
Madame de Pënâfiel admitted, with delightful sincerity, that she took
the greatest pleasure in dressing beautifully and tastefully, so that
she might look pretty; that she loved to see her graceful attitudes
reflected in a mirror; and that she did not see why a woman should be
ashamed any more of adorning her body than cultivating her mind,--that
people should study how to take an elegant and proper pose as well as to
speak properly and wittily.
She declared that she practised these graces more to please herself than
others, who, she said, never knew how to flatter her properly, while she
herself knew exactly how much she was entitled to; so she preferred her
own admiration, and always craved it.
One would scarcely believe to what a point Madame de Pënâfiel carried
this art of making pictures.
Thus, as she was very fond of painting, she had a sort of parlour, which
was at the same time a salon, library, and studio. It was arranged with
perfect taste, and here she preferred to receive. According to the way
she felt, her toilet, or the events of the day, by means of shades and a
clever combination of old stained glass windows, the room would be more
or less lighted, and with the most admirable and poetical knowledge of
light and shade and the many intelligent resources of artistically
opposed colourings.
For example, if she were nervous and pale, and all clothed in white, her
beautiful brown hair with its golden gloss arranged in bandeaux, if she
happened to be seated in a half light, which fell from above, and threw
great shadows in the apartment, you should have seen how this dim light,
falling on her fair forehead, her pale pink cheeks, and her ivory
throat, left all the rest of her face in a marvellous half-tone. Nothing
could be lovelier to look at than such a white and vapoury figure,
shining in soft light upon a very dark background.
Then, besides this, carefully arranged light would glitter here and
there like sparks of fire, on the gilded carving of an armchair, on the
glossy folds of some piece of satin, on the tortoise-shell and
mother-of-pearl of a piece of furniture, or on the polished surface of
the porcelain vases that were filled with flowers. The light thus
distributed not only gave the appearance of a charming picture to this
elegant figure, but to all its surrounding accessories. This manner of
lighting an apartment pleased me very much, because it coincided with my
own ideas, for, if there is anything shocking, it is the complete
ignorance, or the deplorable neglect architects show in this matter.
Thus, without taking into consideration the style or the epoch, or, if a
woman is concerned, her appearance or the type of her beauty, an
architect thinks he has done everything, and has done it to perfection,
when, by means of two or three enormous windows, ten feet high, he has
thrown a dazzling sheet of light from every side of a room, enough to
blind one. Now in this prodigal and unskilful way light is neutralised,
and loses its effect; it neither shows off pictures, materials, nor
sculptures, because, shining indifferently on all, it gives value to
none.
In a word, as résumé, it seems to me that an apartment--not a place of
reception, but of intimacy--should be lighted with as careful study, as
much art, as though it were a picture.
Therefore, a great many things must be sacrificed in the shadow and the
half-tone, in order to bring out the high lights. Then the eye and the
mind are refreshed and rested, as they gaze with pleasure, love, and a
sort of poetic contemplation, on such an interior.
It is a real picture, a living picture, that we admire as though it were
painted on canvas.
But it needs a certain elevation of the mind, a certain instinctive
ideality, perhaps an exaggerated sense of the beautiful, to cultivate
this domestic art, and find in it the constant sources of meditative
enjoyment, which are incomprehensible to most people.
If I insist upon speaking of this peculiarity, it is because I was much
pleased with this similarity in Madame de Pënâfiel's tastes with my
own, and it showed her coquetry in such a way that I loved her to
adoration.
I remember that nothing angered me more than the rudeness of all the men
of her acquaintance, who were all perfectly furious on the subject of
what they called her intolerable and hateful coquetry. It was, they
said, with strange ill-nature, it was a ridiculous pretension on her
part, a sort of wager that she had made with herself, to be always
gracious and charming. Never was she to be seen unless she was
exquisitely dressed; all was prearranged and studied out, from the dim
light to the colouring of the curtains, which harmonised with her
complexion as though she expected to clothe herself with them. And then,
oh, horror! on her writing-table there were natural flowers in a vase,
and, could you believe it? they were chosen to match the colour of her
hair, as though she meant to wear a head-dress of natural flowers! But
that was not all. She had a foot as small as a child's, the finest arms
that ever were seen, and an exquisite hand. Well, was it not
intolerable? No one could help noticing and admiring her foot, her arm,
or her hand, for she was so clever that these charms were always in
evidence. It was odious, scandalous, not to be put up with.
Now, even if all this were true,--and in a certain way it was
true,--could there be anything in the world more absurd or idiotic than
to hear a lot of men, dressed in the careless and even untidy way that
is permissible nowadays for morning visits, and who went like
caterpillars--an old expression that might be revived--to pass an hour
at a lady's house, to hear them, I say, complaining bitterly because she
had received them surrounded by all that taste, art, and refinement
could add to her natural graces?
For my part, on the contrary, I took the greatest pleasure in these
delightful coquetries of Madame de Pënâfiel, in the contemplation,
even though it were simply as a work of art, of such a delicious living
picture, which was sometimes so animated, sometimes so sad and
languishing.
I forgot to say that among the most violent detractors of Madame de
Pënâfiel were several young Christians of her acquaintance. Since I
have written these words, they require some explanation; for the young
Christian of the salon, a pretentious and grotesque type, that will soon
be displaced by another equally ridiculous, deserves to be properly
described, so that his exhilarating personality may be handed down to
posterity.