[Illustration]
A JOURNEY ROUND MY ROOM.
[Illustration]
A JOURNEY
ROUND MY ROOM
BY XAVIER DE MAISTRE
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH WITH A NOTICE
OF THE AUTHOR’S LIFE
BY H. A.
[Illustration]
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, READER, AND DYER.
1871
H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO., PRINTERS, RIVERSIDE PRESS,
CAMBRIDGE.
TO
S. A.
H. A.
PREFACE.
The author of the “Voyage autour de ma Chambre” was the younger brother
of Count Joseph de Maistre, a well-known writer upon political and
philosophical subjects. Chambéry was the place of their birth, but their
family was of French origin. Both brothers were officers in the
Sardinian army; and when Savoy was conquered by the French, Xavier de
Maistre sought an asylum in Saint Petersburg, where his brother resided
in the capacity of envoy from the court of Sardinia. Xavier entered the
Russian army, distinguished himself in the war against Persia, and
attained the rank of major-general.
Our interest in the “Voyage” is heightened by our knowledge that it was
actually written during De Maistre’s forty-two days’ arrest at Turin,
referred to in the third chapter. He sent the manuscript, which he
regarded as a mere playful effort of his imagination, for his brother’s
perusal. Joseph was pleased with the book; and Xavier, who had an almost
filial affection for his brother, was soon afterwards agreeably
surprised by receiving, in place of his manuscript, the “Voyage” in
print.
This success encouraged him to begin a sequel to the “Voyage.” Joseph,
however, disapproved of this new attempt. The “Expédition Nocturne” was,
notwithstanding, finished, and was published some years later.
Xavier de Maistre’s next production (1811) was “Le Lépreux de la Cité
d’Aoste,” a very touching and gracefully written narrative. It occupies
but a few pages; and, as it is to be found in almost every good
anthology of French literature, is perhaps the best known of our
author’s works.
His other books are “Les Prisonniers du Caucase” (1815) and “La Jeune
Sibérienne,” both of them charming works, containing faithful pictures
of domestic scenes with which we are little familiar through other
sources.
From his childhood Xavier de Maistre was devoted to painting. He
deservedly gained considerable reputation as a painter of miniature
portraits and landscapes.
Nor did he neglect science while devoting himself to art and
literature. He applied himself so successfully to the study of chemistry
that he was able to communicate several valuable “Mémoires” to the
Academy of Turin, of which he was a member.
Xavier de Maistre died (1852) at an advanced age in his adopted country,
where he had married, and which he only quitted once, for a brief
season.
* * * * *
Some apology for publishing this translation is perhaps necessary.
Although in France the “Voyage” retains the high esteem in which it has
been held for half a century, it is hardly known in England, except by
those who are familiar with the French language and literature.
During the last twenty years the proportion of educated persons in this
country who are unable to enjoy a French book in the original has
greatly decreased. Still, there are some to whom a translation of this
delightful work may be acceptable.
To them I offer the pleasant labor of a few leisure hours; but not
without assuring them that, in endeavoring to reproduce faithfully the
author’s ideas, I have felt at every paragraph how true it is that “_le
style ne se traduit pas_,”--“style is untranslatable.”
* * * * *
The _headings_ of the chapters are not De Maistre’s. They appear in
Tardieu’s pretty little edition of the “Voyage.” The miniatures, by M.
Veyssier, are from the same source.
H. A.
Barnes, Surrey.
_Autumn, 1871._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE iii
I. A BOOK OF DISCOVERIES (_Vignette._) 1
II. EULOGY OF THE JOURNEY 4
III. LAWS AND CUSTOMS 7
IV. LATITUDE AND TOPOGRAPHY 11
V. THE BED 14
VI. FOR METAPHYSICIANS 17
VII. THE SOUL 21
VIII. THE ANIMAL 24
IX. PHILOSOPHY 26
X. THE PORTRAIT 29
XI. ROSE AND WHITE 33
XII. THE HILLOCK (_Vignette_.) 36
XIII. A HALT 37
XIV. JOANNETTI 38
XV. A DIFFICULTY 42
XVI. SOLUTION (_Vignette_) 45
XVII. ROSE 49
XVIII. RESERVE 52
XIX. A TEAR 54
XX. ALBERT AND CHARLOTTE 57
XXI. A FRIEND (_Vignette_) 59
XXII. JENNY 64
XXIII. THE PICTURE GALLERY 66
XXIV. PAINTING AND MUSIC 69
XXV. AN OBJECTION 72
XXVI. RAPHAEL 75
XXVII. A PERFECT PICTURE 78
XXVIII. THE UPSET CARRIAGE 81
XXIX. MISFORTUNE 87
XXX. CHARITY 91
XXXI. INVENTORY 93
XXXII. MISANTHROPY 95
XXXIII. CONSOLATION 98
XXXIV. CORRESPONDENCE 99
XXXV. THE WITHERED ROSE (_Vignette_) 104
XXXVI. THE LIBRARY 109
XXXVII. ANOTHER WORLD 113
XXXVIII. THE BUST 118
XXXIX. A DIALOGUE 121
XL. IMAGINATION 129
XLI. THE TRAVELLING-COAT 132
XLII. ASPASIA’S BUSKIN (_Vignette_) 137
LIBERTY 150
Circumstances beyond my control prevented my seeing any proof of these
pages. Such Latinized forms as _behavior_ and _favor_; the misplaced
hyphen on the first line of page 25; the double _l_ in _skilful_ (p.
138, last line but one); and the frequent suppression of the former of
two parenthetical commas (as before I, p. 19, l. 18),--these are the few
deviations from my manuscript for which the printer is responsible.
The reader will oblige by substituting _comfortable_ for _agreeable_ on
page 38 line 3, _sweet_ for _lovely_ on page 68 line 4, and
_ignoramuses_ for _ignorant_ on page 78 line 12.
H. A.
[Illustration:
WEYSSIER D. GUILLAUME, S.
]
I.
_A Book of Discoveries._
What more glorious than to open for one’s self a new career,--to appear
suddenly before the learned world with a book of discoveries in one’s
hand, like an unlooked-for comet blazing in the empyrean!
No longer will I keep my book in obscurity. Behold it, gentlemen; read
it! I have undertaken and performed a forty-two days’ journey round my
room. The interesting observations I have made, and the constant
pleasure I have experienced all along the road, made me wish to publish
my travels; the certainty of being useful decided the matter. And when
I think of the number of unhappy ones to whom I offer a never failing
resource for weary moments, and a balm for the ills they suffer, my
heart is filled with inexpressible satisfaction. The pleasure to be
found in travelling round one’s room is sheltered from the restless
jealousy of men, and is independent of Fortune.
Surely there is no being so miserable as to be without a retreat to
which he can withdraw and hide himself from the world. Such a
hiding-place will contain all the preparations our journey requires.
Every man of sense will, I am sure, adopt my system, whatever may be his
peculiar character or temperament. Be he miserly or prodigal, rich or
poor, young or old, born beneath the torrid zone or near the poles, he
may travel with me. Among the immense family of men who throng the
earth, there is not one, no, not one (I mean of those who inhabit
rooms), who, after reading this book can refuse his approbation of the
new mode of travelling I introduce into the world.
II.
_Eulogy of the Journey._
I might fairly begin the eulogium of my journey by saying it has cost me
nothing. This point merits attention. It will gain for it the praise and
welcome of people of moderate means. And not of these only: there is
another class with whom its success will, on this account, be even more
certain. “And who are they?” you ask. Why, the rich, to be sure. And
then, again, what a comfort the new mode of travelling will be to the
sick; they need not fear bleak winds or change of weather. And what a
thing, too, it will be for cowards; they will be safe from pitfalls or
quagmires. Thousands who hitherto did not dare, others who were not
able, and others to whom it never occurred to think of such a thing as
going on a journey, will make up their minds to follow my example.
Surely, the idlest person will not hesitate to set out with me on a
pleasure jaunt which will cost him neither trouble nor money. Come then,
let us start! Follow me, all ye whom the “pangs of despised love” or the
slights of friends keep within doors,--follow me far from the meannesses
and unkindnesses of men. Be ye unhappy, sick, or weary, follow me. Ye
idle ones, arouse ye, one and all. And ye who brood over gloomy projects
of reform and retreat, on account of some infidelity,--amiable
anchorites of an evening’s duration, who renounce the world for your
boudoir,--come, and be led by me to banish these dark thoughts; you lose
a moment’s pleasure without gaining a moment’s wisdom! Deign to
accompany me on my journey. We will jog cheerfully and by easy stages
along the road of travellers who have seen both Rome and Paris. No
obstacle shall hinder our way; and giving ourselves up gaily to
Imagination, we will follow her whithersoever it may be her good
pleasure to lead us.
III.
_Laws and Customs._
How many inquisitive people there are in the world! I am sure my reader
wants to know why the journey round my room has lasted forty-two days
rather than forty-three, or any other number. But how am I to tell him
what I do not know myself? All I can say is, that if the work is too
long for him, it is not my fault that it was not shorter. I dismiss all
the pride a traveller may fairly indulge in, and candidly declare I
should have been well contented, for my part, with a single chapter. It
is quite true that I made myself as comfortable as possible in my room;
but still, alas, I was not my own master in the matter of leaving it.
Nay, more, I even think that had it not been for the intervention of
certain powerful persons who interested themselves in me, and towards
whom I entertain a lively sense of gratitude, I should have had ample
time for producing a folio volume; so prejudiced in my favor were the
guardians who made me travel round my room.
And yet, intelligent reader, see how wrong these men were; and
understand clearly, if you can, the argument I am about to put before
you.
Can there be anything more natural or more just than to draw your sword
upon a man who happens to tread on your toe, who lets slip a bitter word
during a moment’s vexation caused by your own thoughtlessness, or who
has had the misfortune to gain favor in the sight of your lady-love?
Under such or like circumstances, you betake yourself to a meadow, and
there, like Nicole and the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” you try to give the
fourth cut while your adversary parries tierce; and, that vengeance may
be fully satisfied, you present your naked breast to him, thus running
the risk of being killed by your enemy, in order to be avenged.
It is evident that such a custom is most reasonable. And yet, we
sometimes meet with people who disapprove of so praiseworthy a course.
But what is about of a piece with the rest of the business is, that the
very persons who condemn the course we have described, and who would
have it regarded as a grave error, would judge still more harshly any
one who refused to commit it. More than one unlucky wight has, by
endeavoring to conform to their opinion, lost his reputation and his
livelihood. So that, when people are so unfortunate as to have an affair
of honor to settle, it would not be a bad plan to cast lots to see
whether it shall be arranged according to law, or according to fashion.
And as law and fashion are at variance, the judges might decide upon
their sentence by the aid of dice,--and probably it is to some such
decision as this that we should have to refer in order to explain how it
came about that my journey lasted just two and forty days.
IV.
_Latitude and Topography._
My room is situated in latitude 48° east, according to the measurement
of Father Beccaria. It lies east and west, and, if you keep very close
to the wall, forms a parallelogram of thirty-six steps round. My journey
will, however, be longer than this; for I shall traverse my room up and
down and across, without rule or plan. I shall even zig-zag about,
following, if needs be, every possible geometrical line. I am no admirer
of people who are such masters of their every step and every idea that
they can say: “To-morrow I shall make three calls, write four letters,
and finish this or that work.” So open is my soul to all sorts of ideas,
tastes, and feelings; so greedily does it absorb whatever comes first,
that ... but why should it deny itself the delights that are scattered
along life’s hard path? So few and far between are they, that it would
indeed be senseless not to stop, and even turn aside, to gather such as
are placed within our reach. Of these joys, none, to my thinking, is
more attractive than following the course of one’s fancies as a hunter
follows his game, without pretending to keep to any set route. Hence,
when I travel in my room, I seldom keep to a straight line. From my
table I go towards a picture which is placed in a corner; thence I set
out in an oblique direction for the door; and then, although on starting
I had intended to return to my table, yet, if I chance to fall in with
my arm-chair on the way, I at once, and most unceremoniously, take up my
quarters therein. By the by, what a capital article of furniture an
arm-chair is, and, above all, how convenient to a thoughtful man. In
long winter evenings it is ofttimes sweet, and always prudent, to
stretch yourself therein, far from the bustle of crowded assemblies. A
good fire, some books and pens; what safeguards these against _ennui_!
And how pleasant, again, to forget books and pens in order to stir the
fire, while giving one’s self up to some agreeable meditation, or
stringing together a few rhymes for the amusement of friends, as the
hours glide by and fall into eternity, without making their sad passage
felt.
V.
_The Bed._
Next to my arm-chair, as we go northward, my bed comes into sight. It is
placed at the end of my room, and forms the most agreeable perspective.
It is very pleasantly situated, and the earliest rays of the sun play
upon my curtains. On fine summer days I see them come creeping, as the
sun rises, all along the whitened wall. The elm-trees opposite my
windows divide them into a thousand patterns as they dance upon my bed,
and, reflecting its rose-and-white color, shed a charming tint around. I
hear the confused twitter of the swallows that have taken possession of
my roof, and the warbling of the birds that people the elms. Then do a
thousand smiling fancies fill my soul; and in the whole universe no
being enjoys an awakening so delightful, so peaceful, as mine.
I confess that I do indeed revel in these sweet moments, and prolong as
far as I can the pleasure it gives me to meditate in the comfortable
warmth of my bed. What scene can adapt itself so well to the
imagination, and awaken such delicious ideas, as the couch on which my
fancy floats me into the forgetfulness of self! Here it is that the
mother, intoxicated with joy at the birth of a son, forgets her pangs.
Hither it is that fantastic pleasures, the fruit of fancy or of hope,
come to agitate us. In a word, it is here that during one half of a
life-time we forget the annoyances of the other half.
But what a host of thoughts, some agreeable, some sad, throng my brain
at once,--strange minglings of terrible and delicious pictures!
A bed sees us born, and sees us die. It is the ever changing scene upon
which the human race play by turns interesting dramas, laughable farces,
and fearful tragedies. It is a cradle decked with flowers. A throne of
love. A sepulchre.
VI.
_For Metaphysicians._
This chapter is for metaphysicians, and for metaphysicians only. It will
throw a great light upon man’s nature. It is the prism with which to
analyze and decompose the human faculties, by separating the animal
force from the pure rays of intellect.
It would be impossible for me to explain how I came to burn my fingers
at the very onset of my journey without expounding to my reader my
system of the _Soul and the Animal_.[1] And besides, this metaphysical
discovery has so great an influence on my thoughts and actions, that it
would be very difficult to understand this book if I did not begin by
giving the key to its meaning.
Various observations have enabled me to perceive that man is made up of
a soul and an animal. These two beings are quite distinct, but they are
so dovetailed one into the other, or upon the other, that the soul must,
if we would make the distinction between them, possess a certain
superiority over the animal.
I have it from an old professor (and this is as long ago as I can
remember), that Plato used to call matter the OTHER. This is all very
well; but I prefer giving this name _par excellence_ to the animal which
is joined to our soul. This substance it is which is really the OTHER,
and which plays such strange tricks upon us. It is easy enough to see,
in a sort of general way, that man is twofold. But this, they say, is
because he is made up of soul and body; and they accuse the body of I
don’t know how many things, and very inconsistently, seeing that it can
neither feel nor think. It is upon the animal that the blame should
fall; upon that sensitive being, which, while it is perfectly distinct
from the soul, is a real individual, enjoying a separate existence, with
its own tastes, inclinations, and will, and which only ranks higher than
other animals, because it is better educated than they, and is provided
with more perfect organs.
Ladies and gentlemen! Be as proud of your intellect as you please, but
be very suspicious of the OTHER, especially when you are together.
I have experimented I know not how oft, upon the union of these two
heterogeneous creatures. I have, for instance, clearly ascertained that
the soul can make herself obeyed by the animal, and that, by way of
retaliation, the animal makes the soul act contrary to its own
inclination. The one, as a rule, has the legislative, the other the
executive power, but these two are often at variance. The great business
of a man of genius is to train his animal well, in order that it may go
alone, while the soul, delivered from this troublesome companion, can
raise herself to the skies.
But this requires illustration. When, sir, you are reading a book, and
an agreeable idea suddenly enters your imagination, your soul attaches
herself to the new idea at once, and forgets the book, while your eyes
follow mechanically the words and lines. You get through the page
without understanding it, and without remembering what you have read.
Now this is because your soul, having ordered her companion to read to
her, gave no warning of the short absence she contemplated, so that the
OTHER went on reading what the soul no longer attended to.
VII.
_The Soul._
Is not this clear to you? Let us illustrate it still farther.
One day last summer at an appointed hour, I was wending my way to court.
I had been sketching all day, and my soul, choosing to meditate upon
painting, left the duty of taking me to the king’s palace to the animal.
How sublime, thought my soul, is the painter’s art! Happy is he who is
touched by the aspect of nature, and does not depend upon his pictures
for a livelihood; who does not paint solely as a pastime, but struck
with the majesty of a beautiful form, and the wonderful way in which the
light with its thousand tints plays upon the human face, strives to
imitate in his works the wonderful effects of nature! Happy, too, is the
painter who is led by love of landscape into solitary paths, and who can
make his canvas breathe the feeling of sadness with which he is inspired
by a gloomy wood or a desert plain. His productions imitate and
reproduce nature. He creates new seas and dark caverns into which the
sun has never peered. At his command, coppices of evergreens spring into
life, and the blue of heaven is reflected on his pictures. He darkens
the air, and we hear the roar of the storm. At another time he presents
to the eye of the wondering beholder the delightful plains of ancient
Sicily: startled nymphs flee the pursuit of a satyr through the bending
reeds; temples of stately architecture raise their grand fronts above
the sacred forest that surrounds them. Imagination loses itself among
the still paths of this ideal country. Bluish backgrounds blend with
the sky, and the whole landscape, reproduced in the waters of a tranquil
river, forms a scene that no tongue can describe.
While my soul was thus reflecting, the _other_ went its way, Heaven
knows whither! Instead of going to court, according to orders, it took
such a turn to the left, that my soul just caught it up at Madame de
Hautcastel’s door, full half a mile from the Palais Royal!
Now I leave the reader to fancy what might have been the consequence had
the truant visited so beautiful a lady alone.
VIII.
_The Animal._
If it is both useful and agreeable to have a soul so disengaged from
matter that we can let it travel alone whenever we please, this has also
its disadvantages. Through this, for instance, I got the burn I spoke of
a few chapters back.
I generally leave my animal to prepare my breakfast. Its care it is to
slice and toast my bread. My coffee it makes admirably, and helps itself
thereto without my soul’s concerning herself in the transaction. But
this is a very rare and nice performance to execute; for though it is
easy enough while busied in a mechanical operation, to think of
something quite different, it is extremely difficult, so to speak, to
watch one’s self-work, or, if I express myself systematically, to employ
one’s soul to examine the animal’s progress, and to watch its work
without taking part in it. This is the most extraordinary metaphysical
feat a man can execute.
I had rested my tongs on the embers to toast my bread, and some little
time afterwards, while my soul was travelling, a burning stick fell on
the hearth: my poor animal seized the tongs, and I burnt my fingers.
IX.
_Philosophy_.
I hope I have sufficiently developed my ideas in the foregoing chapters
to furnish you, good reader, with matter for thought, and to enable you
to make discoveries along the brilliant career before you. You cannot be
other than highly satisfied with yourself if you succeed in the long run
in making your soul travel alone. The pleasure afforded by this power
will amply counterbalance any inconvenience that may arise from it. What
more flattering delight is there than the being able thus to expand
one’s existence, to occupy at once earth and heaven, to double, so to
speak, one’s being? Is it not man’s eternal, insatiable desire to
augment his strength and his faculties, to be where he is not, to
recall the past, and live in the future? He would fain command armies,
preside over learned societies, and be the idol of the fair. And, if he
attain to all this, then he regrets the tranquillity of a rural life,
and envies the shepherd’s cot. His plans, his hopes, are constantly
foiled by the ills that flesh is heir to. He can find happiness nowhere.
A quarter of an hour’s journey with me will show him the way to it.
Ah, why does he not leave to the OTHER those carking cares and that
tormenting ambition. Come, my poor friend! Make but an effort to burst
from thy prison, and from the height of heaven, whither I am about to
lead thee, from the midst of the celestial shades, from the empyrean
itself, behold thy _animal_ run along the road to fortune and honor. See
with what gravity it walks among men. The crowd falls back with respect,
and believe me, none will remark that it is alone. The people among
whom it walks care very little whether it has a soul or not, whether it
thinks or not. A thousand sentimental women will fall desperately in
love with it without discovering the defect. It may even raise itself
without thy soul’s help to the highest favor and fortune. Nay, I should
not be astonished if, on thy return from the empyrean, thy soul, on
getting home, were to find itself in the _animal_ of a noble lord.
X.
_The Portrait._
But you must not let yourself think that instead of keeping my promise
to describe my journey round my room, I am beating the bush to see how I
can evade the difficulty. This would be a great mistake on your part.
For our journey is really going on; and while my soul, falling back on
her own resources, was in the last chapter threading the mazy paths of
metaphysics, I had so placed myself in my arm-chair, that its front legs
being raised about two inches from the floor, I was able, by balancing
myself from left to right, to make way by degrees, and at last, almost
without knowing it, to get close to the wall, for this is how I travel
when not pressed for time. When there, my hand possessed itself by a
mere mechanical effort, of the portrait of Madame de Hautcastel; and the
OTHER amused itself with removing the dust which covered it. This
occupation produced a feeling of quiet pleasure, and the pleasure was
conveyed to my soul, lost though it was in the vast plains of heaven.
For it is well to observe that when the mind is thus travelling in
space, it still keeps linked to the senses by a secret and subtle chain;
so that, without being distracted from its occupations, it can
participate in the peaceful joys of the OTHER. But should this pleasure
reach a certain pitch, or should the soul be struck by some unexpected
vision, it forthwith descends swift as lightning, and resumes its place.
And that is just what happened to me while dusting the picture. Whilst
the cloth removed the dust, and brought to light those flaxen curls and
the wreaths of roses that crowned them, my soul, from the sun, whither
she had transported herself, felt a slight thrill of pleasure, and
partook sympathetically of the joy of my heart. This joy became less
indistinct and more lively, when, by a single sweep, the beautiful
forehead of that charming face was revealed. My soul was on the point of
leaving the skies in order to enjoy the spectacle. But had she been in
the Elysian Fields, had she been engaged in a seraphic concert, she
could not have stayed a single second longer when her companion, glowing
with the work, seized a proffered sponge, and passed it at once over the
eyebrows and the eyes, over the nose, over that mouth, ah heavens!--my
heart beats at the thought--over the chin and neck! It was the work of
an instant. The whole face seemed suddenly recalled into existence. My
soul precipitated herself like a falling star from the sky. She found
the OTHER in a state of ecstasy, which she herself increased by sharing
it. This strange and unexpected position caused all thought of time and
space to vanish from my mind. I lived for a moment in the past, and,
contrary to the order of nature, I grew young again. Yes, before me
stands that adored one; ’tis she, her very self! She smiles on me, she
will speak and own her love. That glance!... come, let me press thee to
my heart, O, my loved one, my other self! Partake with me this
intoxicating bliss! The moment was short, but ravishing. Cool reason
soon reasserted her sway, and in the twinkling of an eye I had grown a
whole year older. My heart grew icy cold, and I found myself on a level
with the crowd of heedless ones who throng the earth.
XI.
_Rose and White._
But we must not anticipate events. My hurry to communicate to the reader
my system of the soul and animal caused me to abandon the description of
my bed earlier than I ought to have done. When I have completed this
description, I will continue my journey where I interrupted it in the
last chapter. But let me pray you to bear in mind that we left one half
of my _ego_ four steps from my bureau, close to the wall, and holding
the portrait of Madame de Hautcastel.
In speaking of my bed, I forgot to recommend every man to have, if
possible, a bed with rose and white furniture. There can be no doubt
that colors so far affect us as to make us cheerful or sad, according
to their hues. Now, rose and white are two colors that are consecrated
to pleasure. Nature in bestowing them upon the rose has given her the
crown of Flora’s realm. And when the sky would announce to the world a
fine day, it paints the clouds at sunrise with this charming tint.
One day we were with some difficulty climbing a steep pathway. The
amiable Rosalie, whose agility had given her wings, was far in front. We
could not overtake her. All on a sudden, having reached the top of a
hillock, she turned toward us to take breath, and smiled at our
slowness. Never, perhaps, did the two colors whose praise I proclaim so
triumph. Her burning cheeks, her coral lips, her alabaster neck, were
thrown into relief by the verdure around, and entranced us all. We could
not but pause and gaze upon her. I will not speak of her blue eyes, or
of the glance she cast upon us, because this would be going from the
subject, and because I dwell upon these memories as little as possible.
Let it suffice that I have given the best illustration conceivable of
the superiority of these two colors over all others, and of their
influence upon the happiness of man.
Here will I stop for to-day. Of what subject can I treat which would not
now be insipid? What idea is not effaced by _this_ idea? I do not even
know when I shall be able to resume my work. If I go on with it at all,
and if the reader desire to see its termination, let him betake himself
to the angel who distributes thoughts, and beg him to cease to mingle
with the disconnected thoughts he showers upon me at every moment the
image of that hillock.
If this precaution is not taken, my journey will be a failure.
XII.
_The Hillock._
[Illustration]
XIII.
_A Halt._
My efforts are useless. I must sojourn here awhile, whether I will or
not. The “Halt!” is irresistible.
XIV.
_Joannetti._
I remarked that I was singularly fond of meditating when influenced by
the agreeable warmth of my bed; and that its agreeable color added not a
little to the pleasure I experienced.
That I may be provided with this enjoyment, my servant is directed to
enter my room half an hour before my time for rising. I hear him moving
about my room with a light step, and stealthily managing his
preparations. This noise just suffices to convey to me the pleasant
knowledge that I am slumbering,--a delicate pleasure this, unknown to
most men. You are just awake enough to know you are not entirely so, and
to make a dreamy calculation that the hour for business and worry is
still in the sand-glass of time. Gradually my man grows noisier; it is
so hard for him to restrain himself, and he knows too that the fatal
hour draws near. He looks at my watch, and jingles the seals as a
warning. But I turn a deaf ear to him. There is no imaginable cheat I do
not put upon the poor fellow to lengthen the blissful moment. I give him
a hundred preliminary orders. He knows that these orders, given somewhat
peevishly, are mere excuses for my staying in bed without seeming to
wish to do so. But this he affects not to see through, and I am truly
thankful to him.
At last, when I have exhausted all my resources, he advances to the
middle of the room, and with folded arms, plants himself there in a
perfectly immovable position. It must be admitted that it would be
impossible to show disapproval of my idleness with greater judgment and
address. I never resist this tacit invitation, but, stretching out my
arms to show I understand him, get up at once.
If the reader will reflect upon the behavior of my servant, he will
convince himself that in certain delicate matters of this kind,
simplicity and good sense are much better than the sharpest wit. I dare
assert that the most studied discourse on the impropriety of sloth would
not make me spring so readily from my bed as the silent reproach of
Monsieur Joannetti.
This Monsieur Joannetti is a thoroughly honest fellow, and at the same
time just the man for such a traveller as I. He is accustomed to the
frequent journeys of my soul, and never laughs at the inconsistencies of
the OTHER. He even directs it occasionally when it is alone, so that one
might say it is then conducted by two souls. When it is dressing, for
instance, he will warn it by a gesture that it is on the point of
putting on its stockings the wrong way, or its coat before its
waistcoat.
Many a time has my soul been amused at seeing poor Joannetti running
after this foolish creature under the arches of the citadel, to remind
it of a forgotten hat or handkerchief. One day, I must confess, had it
not been for this faithful servant, who caught it up just at the bottom
of the staircase, the silly creature would have presented itself at
court without a sword, as boldly as if it had been the chief
gentleman-usher, bearing the august rod.
XV.
_A Difficulty._
“Come, Joannetti,” I said, “hang up this picture.” He had helped to
clean it, and had no more notion than the man in the moon what had
produced our chapter on the portrait. He it was, who, of his own accord,
held out the wet sponge, and who, through that seemingly unimportant
act, caused my soul to travel a hundred millions of leagues in a moment
of time. Instead of restoring it to its place, he held it to examine it
in his turn. A difficulty, a problem, gave him an inquisitive air, which
I did not fail to observe.
“Well, and what fault do you find with that portrait?” said I.
“O, none at all, sir.”
“But come now, you have some remark to make, I know.”
He placed it upright on one of the wings of my bureau, and then drawing
back a little, “I wish, sir,” he said, “that you would explain how it is
that in whatever part of the room one may be, this portrait always
watches you. In the morning, when I am making your bed, the face turns
towards me; and if I move toward the window, it still looks at me, and
follows me with its eyes as I go about.”
“So that, Joannetti,” said I, “if my room were full of people, that
beautiful lady would eye every one, on all sides, at once.”
“Just so, sir.”
“She would smile on every comer and goer, just as she would on me?”
Joannetti gave no further answer. I stretched myself in my easy-chair,
and, hanging down my head, gave myself up to the most serious
meditations. What a ray of light fell upon me! Alack, poor lover! While
thou pinest away, far from thy mistress, at whose side another perhaps,
has already replaced thee; whilst thou fixest thy longing eyes on her
portrait, imagining that at least in picture, thou art the sole being
she deigns to regard,--the perfidious image, as faithless as the
original, bestows its glances on all around, and smiles on every one
alike!
And in this behold a moral resemblance between certain portraits and
their originals, which no philosopher, no painter, no observer, had
before remarked.
I go on from discovery to discovery.
[Illustration: VESSIER GUILLAUME]
XVI.
_Solution._
Joannetti remained in the attitude I have described, awaiting the
explanation he had asked of me. I withdrew my head from the folds of my
travelling dress, into which I had thrust it that I might meditate more
at my ease; and after a moment’s silence, to enable me to collect my
thoughts after the reflections I had just made, I said, turning my
arm-chair toward him,--
“Do you not see that as a picture is a plane surface, the rays of light
proceeding from each point on that surface ...?”
At that explanation, Joannetti stretched his eyes to their very widest,
while he kept his mouth half open. These two movements of the human face
express, according to the famous Le Brun, the highest pitch of
astonishment. It was, without doubt, my _animal_, that had undertaken
this dissertation, while my soul was well aware that Joannetti knew
nothing whatever about plane surfaces and rays of light. The prodigious
dilatation of his eyelids caused me to draw back. I ensconced my head in
the collar of my travelling coat, and this so effectively that I
well-nigh succeeded in altogether hiding it. I determined to dine where
I was. The morning was far advanced, and another step in my room would
have delayed my dinner until night-fall. I let myself slip to the edge
of my chair, and putting both feet on the mantel-piece, patiently
awaited my meal. This was a most comfortable attitude; indeed, it would
be difficult to find another possessing so many advantages, and so well
adapted to the inevitable sojourns of a long voyage.
At such moments, Rose, my faithful dog, never fails to come and pull at
the skirts of my travelling dress that I may take her up. She finds a
very convenient ready-made bed at the angle formed by the two parts of
my body. A V admirably represents my position. Rose jumps to her post if
I do not take her up quickly enough to please her, and I often find her
there without knowing how she has come. My hands fall into a position
which minister to her well-being, and this, either through a sympathy
existing between this good-natured creature and myself, or through the
merest chance. But no, I do not believe in that miserable doctrine of
_chance_,--in that unmeaning word! I would rather believe in animal
magnetism.
There is such reality in the relations which exist between these two
animals, that when out of sheer distraction, I put my two feet on the
mantel-piece and have no thought at all about a _halt_, dinner-time not
being near, Rose, observing this movement, shows by a slight wag of her
tail the pleasure she enjoys. Reserve keeps her in her place. The
_other_ perceives this and is gratified by it, though quite unable to
reason upon its cause. And thus a mute dialogue is established between
them, a pleasing interchange of sensations which could not be attributed
to simple chance.
XVII.
_Rose._
Do not reproach me for the prolixity with which I narrate the details of
my journey. This is the wont of travellers. When one sets out for the
ascent of Mont Blanc, or to visit the yawning tomb of Empedocles, the
minutest particulars are carefully described. The number of persons who
formed the party, the number of mules, the quality of the food, the
excellent appetite of the travellers,--everything, to the very stumbling
of the quadrupeds, is carefully noted down for the instruction of the
sedentary world.
Upon this principle, I resolved to speak of my dog Rose,--an amiable
creature for whom I entertain sincere regard,--and to devote a whole
chapter to her.
We have lived together for six years, and there has never been any
coolness between us, and if ever any little disputes have arisen, the
fault has been chiefly on my side, and Rose has always made the first
advances towards reconciliation.
In the evening, if she has been scolded she withdraws sadly and without
a murmur. The next morning at daybreak, she stands near my bed in a
respectful attitude, and at her master’s slightest movement, at the
first sign of his being awake, she makes her presence known by rapidly
tapping my little table with her tail.
And why should I refuse my affection to this good-natured creature that
has never ceased to love me ever since we have lived together? My memory
would not enable me to enumerate all the people who have interested
themselves in me but to forget me. I have had some few friends, several
lady-loves, a host of acquaintances; and now I am to all these people as
if I had never lived; they have forgotten my very name.
And yet what protestations they made, what offers of assistance! Their
purse was at my disposal, and they begged me to depend upon their
eternal and entire friendship!
Poor Rose, who has made me no promises, renders me the greatest service
that can be bestowed upon humanity, for she has always loved her master,
and loves him still. And this is why I do not hesitate to say that she
shares with my other friends the affection I feel towards them.
XVIII.
_Reserve._
We left Joannetti standing motionless before me, in an attitude of
astonishment, awaiting the conclusion of the sublime explanation I had
begun.
When he saw me bury my head in my dressing-gown, and thus end my
dissertation, he did not doubt for a moment that I had stopped short for
lack of resources, and that he had fairly overcome me by the knotty
question he had plied me with.
Notwithstanding the superiority he had hereby gained over me, he felt no
movement of pride, and did not seek to profit by his advantage. After a
moment’s silence, he took the picture, put it back in its place, and
withdrew softly on tip-toe. He felt that his presence was a sort of
humiliation to me, and his delicacy of feeling led him thus to retire
unobserved. His behavior on this occasion interested me greatly, and
gave him a higher place than ever in my affections. And he will have
too, without doubt, a place in the heart of my readers. If there be one
among them who will refuse it him after reading the next chapter, such a
one must surely have a heart of stone.
XIX.
_A Tear._
“Good Heavens!” said I to him one day, “three times have I told you to
buy me a brush. What a head the fellow has!” He answered not a word; nor
had he the evening before made any reply to a like expostulation. “This
is very odd,” I thought to myself, “he is generally so very particular.”
“Well, go and get a duster to wipe my shoes with,” I said angrily. While
he was on his way, I regretted that I had spoken so sharply, and my
anger entirely subsided when I saw how carefully he tried to remove the
dust from my shoes without touching my stockings. “What,” I said to
myself, “are there then men who brush others’ shoes for _money_!” This
word _money_ came upon me like a flash of lightning. I suddenly
remembered that for a long time my servant had not had any money from
me.
“Joannetti,” said I, drawing away my foot, “have you any change?”
A smile of justification lit up his face at the question.
“No, sir; for the last week I have not possessed a penny. I have spent
all I had for your little purchases.”
“And the brush? I suppose that is why ...?”
He still smiled. Now, he might very well have said, “No, sir; I am not
the empty-headed ass you would make out your faithful servant to be. Pay
me the one pound two shillings and sixpence halfpenny you owe me, and
then I’ll buy you your brush.” But no, he bore this ill treatment rather
than cause his master to blush at his unjust anger. And may Heaven
bless him! Philosophers, Christians! have you read this?
“Come, Joannetti,” said I, “buy me the brush.”
“But, sir, will you go like that, with one shoe clean, and the other
dirty?”
“Go, go!” I replied, “never mind about the dust, never mind that.”
He went out. I took the duster, and daintily wiped my left shoe, on
which a tear of repentance had fallen.
XX.
_Albert and Charlotte._
The walls of my room are hung with engravings and pictures, which adorn
it greatly. I should much like to submit them to the reader’s
inspection, that they might amuse him along the road we have to traverse
before we reach my bureau. But it is as impossible to describe a picture
well, as to paint one from a description.
What an emotion he would feel in contemplating the first drawing that
presents itself! He would see the unhappy Charlotte,[2] slowly, and with
a trembling hand, wiping Albert’s pistols. Dark forebodings, and all the
agony of hopeless, inconsolable love, are imprinted on her features,
while the cold-hearted Albert, surrounded by bags of law papers and
various old documents, turns with an air of indifference towards his
friend to bid him good-by. Many a time have I been tempted to break the
glass that covers this engraving, that I might tear Albert away from the
table, rend him to pieces, and trample him under foot. But this would
not do away with the Alberts. There will always be sadly too many of
them in the world. What sensitive man is there who has not such a one
near him, who receives the overflowings of his soul, the gentle emotions
of his heart, and the flights of his imagination just as the rock
receives the waves of the sea? Happy is he who finds a friend whose
heart and mind harmonize with his own; a friend who adheres to him by
likeness of tastes, feeling, and knowledge; a friend who is not the prey
of ambition or greediness, who prefers the shade of a tree to the pomp
of a court! Happy is he who has a friend!
[Illustration]
XXI.
_A Friend._
I had a friend. Death took him from me. He was snatched away at the
beginning of his career, at the moment when his friendship had become a
pressing need to my heart. We supported one another in the hard toil of
war. We had but one pipe between us. We drank out of the same cup. We
slept beneath the same tent. And, amid our sad trials, the spot where we
lived together became to us a new father-land. I had seen him exposed to
all the perils of a disastrous war. Death seemed to spare us to each
other. His deadly missives were exhausted around my friend a thousand
times over without reaching him; but this was but to make his loss more
painful to me. The tumult of war, and the enthusiasm which possesses the
soul at the sight of danger might have prevented his sighs from piercing
my heart, while his death would have been useful to his country, and
damaging to the enemy. Had he died thus, I should have mourned him less.
But to lose him amid the joys of our winter-quarters; to see him die at
the moment when he seemed full of health, and when our intimacy was
rendered closer by rest and tranquillity,--ah, this was a blow from
which I can never recover!
But his memory lives in my heart, and there alone. He is forgotten by
those who surrounded him, and who have replaced him. And this makes his
loss the more sad to me.
Nature, in like manner indifferent to the fate of individuals, dons her
green spring robe, and decks herself in all her beauty near the cemetery
where he rests. The trees cover themselves with foliage, and intertwine
their branches; the birds warble under the leafy sprays; the insects hum
among the blossoms: everything breathes joy in this abode of death.
And in the evening, when the moon shines in the sky, and I am meditating
in this sad place, I hear the grasshopper, hidden in the grass that
covers the silent grave of my friend, merrily pursuing his unwearied
song. The unobserved destruction of human beings, as well as all their
misfortunes, are counted for nothing in the grand total of events.
The death of an affectionate man who breathes his last surrounded by his
afflicted friends, and that of a butterfly killed in a flower’s cup by
the chill air of morning, are but two similar epochs in the course of
nature. Man is but a phantom, a shadow, a mere vapor that melts into
the air.
But day-break begins to whiten the sky. The gloomy thoughts that
troubled me vanish with the darkness, and hope awakens again in my
heart. No! He who thus suffuses the east with light, has not made it to
shine upon my eyes only to plunge me into the night of annihilation. He
who has spread out that vast horizon, who raised those lofty mountains
whose icy tops the sun is even now gilding, is also He who made my heart
to beat, and my mind to think.
No! My friend is not annihilated. Whatever may be the barrier that
separates us, I shall see him again. My hopes are based on no mere
syllogism. The flight of an insect suffices to persuade me. And often
the prospect of the surrounding country, the perfume of the air, and an
indescribable charm which is spread around me, so raise my thoughts,
that an invincible proof of immortality forces itself upon my soul, and
fills it to the full.
XXII.
_Jenny._
The chapter I have just written had often presented itself to my pen,
but I had as often rejected it. I had promised myself that I would only
allow the cheerful phase of my soul to show itself in this book. But
this project, like many others, I was forced to abandon. I hope the
sensitive reader will pardon me for having asked his tears; and if any
one thinks I should have omitted this chapter, he can tear it from his
copy, or even throw the whole book on the fire.
Enough for me, dear Jenny, that thy heart approves it, thou best and
best-beloved of women, best and best-beloved of sisters. To thee I
dedicate my work. If it please thee, it will please all gentle and
delicate hearts. And if thou wilt pardon the follies into which, albeit
against my will, I sometimes fall, I will brave all the critics of the
universe.
XXIII.
_The Picture Gallery._
One word only upon our next engraving.
It represents the family of the unfortunate Ugolino, dying of hunger.
Around him are his sons. One of them lies motionless at his feet. The
rest stretch their enfeebled arms towards him, asking for bread; while
the wretched father, leaning against a pillar of his prison, his eyes
fixed and haggard, his countenance immovable, dies a double death, and
suffers all that human nature can endure.
And there is the brave Chevalier d’Assas, dying, by an effort of courage
and heroism unknown in our days, under a hundred bayonets.