I have said nothing of books. Yet I am sure that, if Madame de Sablé
lived now, they would be seen in her salon as part of its natural
indispensable furniture; not brought out, and strewed here and there when
“company was coming,” but as habitual presences in her room, wanting
which, she would want a sense of warmth and comfort and companionship.
Putting out books as a sort of preparation for an evening, as a means
for making it pass agreeably, is running a great risk. In the first
place, books are by such people, and on such occasions, chosen more for
their outside than their inside. And in the next, they are the “mere
material with which wisdom (or wit) builds”; and if persons don’t know
how to use the material, they will suggest nothing. I imagine Madame de
Sablé would have the volumes she herself was reading, or those which,
being new, contained any matter of present interest, left about, as they
would naturally be. I could also fancy that her guests would not feel
bound to talk continually, whether they had anything to say or not, but
that there might be pauses of not unpleasant silence—a quiet darkness
out of which they might be certain that the little stars would glimmer
soon. I can believe that in such pauses of repose, some one might open
a book, and catch on a suggestive sentence, might dash off again into
a full flow of conversation. But I cannot fancy any grand preparations
for what was to be said among people, each of whom brought the best dish
in bringing himself; and whose own store of living, individual thought
and feeling, and mother-wit, would be indefinitely better than any
cut-and-dry determination to devote the evening to mutual improvement.
If people are really good and wise, their goodness and their wisdom flow
out unconsciously, and benefit like sunlight. So, books for reference,
books for impromptu suggestion, but never books to serve for texts to
a lecture. Engravings fall under something like the same rules. To
some they say everything; to ignorant and unprepared minds, nothing. I
remember noticing this in watching how people looked at a very valuable
portfolio belonging to an acquaintance of mine, which contained engraved
and authentic portraits of almost every possible person; from king
and kaiser down to notorious beggars and criminals; including all the
celebrated men, women, and actors, whose likenesses could be obtained.
To some, this portfolio gave food for observation, meditation, and
conversation. It brought before them every kind of human tragedy—every
variety of scenery and costume and grouping in the background, thronged
with figures called up by their imagination. Others took them up and laid
them down, simply saying, “This is a pretty face!” “Oh, what a pair of
eyebrows!” “Look at this queer dress!”
Yet, after all, having something to take up and to look at is a relief,
and of use to persons who, without being self-conscious, are nervous
from not being accustomed to society, O Cassandra! Remember when you,
with your rich gold coins of thought, with your noble power of choice
expression, were set down, and were thankful to be set down, to look at
some paltry engravings, just because people did not know how to get at
your ore, and you did not care a button whether they did or not, and were
rather bored by their attempts, the end of which you never found out.
While I, with my rattling tinselly rubbish, was thought “agreeable and an
acquisition!” You would have been valued at Madame de Sablé’s, where the
sympathetic and intellectual stream of conversation would have borne you
and your golden fragments away with it by its soft, resistless, gentle
force.