some barbarous fellow has betrayed and deserted, nay, worse, whom he has
had the brutality to sell as a vile slave, notwithstanding thy love and
devotion, notwithstanding the pledge of affection thou hast borne at thy
breast,--I will not pass before thine image without rendering to thee
the homage due to thy tenderness and thy sorrows.
Let us pause a moment before the other picture. It is a young
shepherdess tending her flock alone on the heights of the Alps. She sits
on an old willow trunk, bleached by many winters. Her feet are covered
by the broad leaves of a tuft of _cacalia_, whose lilac blossoms bloom
above her head. Lavender, wild thyme, the anemone, centaury, and flowers
which are cultivated with care in our hot-houses and gardens, and which
grow in all their native beauty on the Alps, form the gay carpet on
which her sheep wander.
Lovely shepherdess! tell me where is the lovely spot thou callest thy
home. From what far-off sheepfold didst thou set out at daybreak this
morning? Could I not go thither and live with thee?
But alas, the sweet tranquillity thou enjoyest will soon vanish! The
demon of war, not content with desolating cities, will ere long carry
anxiety and alarm to thy solitary retreat. Even now I see the soldiers
advancing: they climb height after height, as they march upward towards
the clouds. The cannons’ roar is heard high above the thunder-clap.
Fly, O shepherdess! Urge on thy flock! Hide thee in the farthest caves,
for no longer is repose to be found on this sad earth!
XXIV.
_Painting and Music._
I do not know how it is, but of late my chapters have always ended in a
mournful strain. In vain do I begin by fixing my eyes on some agreeable
object; in vain do I embark when all is calm: a sudden gale soon drifts
me away. To put an end to an agitation which deprives me of the mastery
of my ideas, and to quiet the beating of a heart too much disturbed by
so many touching images, I see no remedy but a dissertation. Yes, thus
will I steel my heart.
And the dissertation shall be about painting, for I cannot at this
moment expatiate upon any other subject. I cannot altogether descend
from the point I just now reached. Besides, painting is to me what
Uncle Toby’s hobby-horse was to him.[3]
I would say a few words, by the way, upon the question of preëminence
between the charming arts of painting and music. I would cast my grain
into the balance, were it but a grain of sand, a mere atom.
It is urged in favor of the painter, that he leaves his works behind
him; that his pictures outlive him, and immortalize his memory.
In reply to this we are reminded that musical composers also leave us
their operas and oratorios.
But music is subject to fashion, and painting is not. The musical
passages that deeply affected our forefathers seem simply ridiculous to
the amateurs of our own day; and they are placed in absurd farces to
furnish laughter for the nephews of those whom they once made to weep.
Raphael’s pictures will enchant our descendants as greatly as they did
our forefathers.
This is my grain of sand.
XXV.
_An Objection._
“But what,” said Madame de Hautcastel to me one day,--“what if the music
of Cherubini or Cimarosa differs from that of their predecessors? What
care I if the music of the past make me laugh, so long as that of the
present day touch me by its charms? Is it at all essential to my
happiness that my pleasures should resemble those of my
great-grandmother? Why talk to me of painting, an art which is only
enjoyed by a very small class of persons, while music enchants every
living creature?”
I hardly know at this moment how one could reply to this observation,
which I did not foresee when I began my chapter.
Had I foreseen it, perhaps I should not have undertaken that
dissertation. And pray do not imagine that you discover in this
_objection_ the artifice of a musician, for upon my honor I am none,
Heaven be my witness, and all those who have heard me play the violin!
But, even supposing the merits of the two arts to be equal, we must not
be too hasty in concluding that the merits of the _disciples_ of
Painting and Music are therefore balanced. We see children play the
harpsichord as if they were _maestri_, but no one has ever been a good
painter at twelve years old. Painting, besides taste and feeling,
requires an amount of thoughtfulness that musicians can dispense with.
Any day may you hear men who are well nigh destitute of head and heart,
bring out from a violin or harp the most ravishing sounds.
The human ANIMAL may be taught to play the harpsichord, and when it has
learned of a good master, the soul can travel at her ease while sounds
with which she does not concern herself are mechanically produced by the
fingers. But the simplest thing in the world cannot be painted without
the aid of all the faculties of the soul.
If, however, any one should take it into his head to ply me with a
distinction between the composition and the performance of music, I
confess that he would give me some little difficulty. Ah, well! were all
writers of essays quite candid they would all conclude as I am doing.
When one enters upon the examination of a question, a dogmatic tone is
generally assumed, because there has been a secret decision beforehand,
just as I, notwithstanding my hypocritical impartiality, had decided in
favor of painting. But discussion awakens objections, and everything
ends with doubt.
XXVI.
_Raphael._
Now that I am more tranquil, I will endeavor to speak calmly of the two
portraits that follow the picture of the shepherdess of the Alps.
Raphael! Who but thyself could paint thy portrait; who but thyself would
have dared attempt it? Thy open countenance, beaming with feeling and
intellect, proclaims thy character and thy genius.
To gratify thy shade, I have placed beside thee the portrait of thy
mistress, whom the men of all generations will hold answerable for the
loss of the sublime works of which art has been deprived by thy
premature death.
When I examine the portrait of Raphael, I feel myself penetrated by an
almost religious respect for that great man, who, in the flower of his
age, excelled the ancients, and whose pictures are at once the
admiration and the despair of modern artists. My soul, in admiring it,
is moved with indignation against that Italian who preferred her love to
her lover, and who extinguished at her bosom that heavenly flame, that
divine genius.
Unhappy one! Knewest thou not that Raphael had announced a picture
superior even to that of the _Transfiguration_? Didst thou not know that
thine arms encircled the favorite of nature, the father of enthusiasm, a
sublime genius ... a divinity?
While my soul makes these observations, her companion, whose eyes are
attentively fixed upon the lovely face of that fatal beauty, feels quite
ready to forgive her the death of Raphael.
In vain my soul upbraids this extravagant weakness; she is not listened
to at all. On such occasions a strange dialogue arises between the two,
which terminates too often in favor of the bad principles, and of which
I reserve a sample for another chapter.
And if, by the way, my soul had not at that moment abruptly closed the
inspection of the gallery, if she had given the OTHER time to
contemplate the rounded and graceful features of the beautiful Roman
lady, my intellect would have miserably lost its supremacy.
And if, at that critical moment I had suddenly obtained the favor
bestowed upon the fortunate Pygmalion, without having the least spark of
the genius which makes me pardon Raphael his errors, it is just possible
that I should have succumbed as he did.
XXVII.
_A Perfect Picture._
My engravings, and the paintings of which I have spoken, fade away into
nothing at the first glance bestowed upon the next picture. The immortal
works of Raphael and Correggio, and of the whole Italian school, are not
to be compared to it. Hence it is that when I accord to an amateur the
pleasure of travelling with me, I always keep this until the last as a
special luxury, and ever since I first exhibited this sublime picture to
connoisseurs and to ignorant, to men of the world, to artists, to women,
to children, to animals even, I have always found the spectators,
whoever they might be, show, each in his own way, signs of pleasure and
surprise, so admirably is nature rendered therein.
And what picture could be presented to you, gentlemen; what spectacle,
ladies, could be placed before your eyes more certain of gaining your
approval than the faithful portraiture of yourselves? The picture of
which I speak is a mirror, and no one has as yet ventured to criticise
it. It is to all who look on it a perfect picture, in depreciation of
which not a word can be said.
You will at once admit that it should be regarded as one of the wonders
of the world.
I will pass over in silence the pleasure felt by the natural philosopher
in meditating upon the strange phenomena presented by light as it
reproduces upon that polished surface all the objects of nature. A
mirror offers to the sedentary traveller a thousand interesting
reflections, a thousand observations which render it at once a useful
and precious article.
Ye whom Love has held or still holds under his sway, learn that it is
before a mirror that he sharpens his darts, and contemplates his
cruelties. There it is that he plans his manœuvres, studies his tactics,
and prepares himself for the war he wishes to declare. There he
practices his killing glances and little affectations, and sly poutings,
just as a player practices, with himself for spectator, before appearing
in public.
A mirror, being always impartial and true, brings before the eyes of the
beholder the roses of youth and the wrinkles of age, without calumny and
without flattery. It alone among the councilors of the great, invariably
tells them the truth.
It was this recommendation that made me desire the invention of a moral
mirror, in which all men might see themselves, with their virtues and
their vices. I even thought of offering a prize to some academy for this
discovery, when riper reflection proved to me that such an invention
would be useless.
Alas! how rare it is for ugliness to recognize itself and break the
mirror! In vain are looking-glasses multiplied around us which reflect
light and truth with geometrical exactness. As soon as the rays reach
our vision and paint us as we are, self-love slips its deceitful prism
between us and our image, and presents a divinity to us.
And of all the prisms that have existed since the first that came from
the hands of the immortal Newton, none has possessed so powerful a
refractive force, or produced such pleasing and lively colors, as the
prism of self-love.
Now, seeing that ordinary looking-glasses record the truth in vain, and
that they cannot make men see their own imperfections, every one being
satisfied with his face, what would a moral mirror avail? Few people
would look at it, and no one would recognize himself. None save
philosophers would spend their time in examining themselves,--I even
have my doubts about the philosophers.
Taking the mirror as we find it, I hope no one will blame me for ranking
it above all the pictures of the Italian school.
Ladies, whose taste cannot be faulty, and whose opinion should decide
the question, generally upon entering a room let their first glance fall
upon this picture.
A thousand times have I seen ladies, aye, and gallants, too, forget at a
ball their lovers and their mistresses, the dancing, and all the
pleasures of the fête, to contemplate with evident complaisance this
enchanting picture, and honoring it even, from time to time, in the
midst of the liveliest quadrille, with a look.
Who then can dispute the rank that I accord to it among the masterpieces
of the art of Apelles?
XXVIII.
_The Upset Carriage._
I had at last nearly reached my bureau. So close was I, that had I
stretched out my arm I could have touched the corner nearest to me. But
at this very moment I was on the verge of seeing the fruit of all my
labors destroyed, and of losing my life. I should pass over in silence
the accident that happened to me, for fear of discouraging other
travellers, were it not that it is so difficult to upset such a
post-chaise as I employ, that it must be allowed that one must be
uncommonly unlucky--as unlucky, indeed, as it is my lot to be--to be
exposed to a like danger.
There I was, stretched at full length upon the ground, completely upset,
and it was done so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I should have been
almost tempted to question the cause of my abject position, had not a
singing in my ears and a sharp pain in my left shoulder too plainly
demonstrated it.
This was again the OTHER, who had played a trick upon me.
Startled by the voice of a poor man who suddenly asked alms at my door,
and by the voice of Rose, my other half suddenly turned the arm-chair
sharply round, before my soul had time to warn it that a piece of brick,
which served as a drag, was gone. The jerk was so violent that my
post-chaise was quite thrown from its centre of gravity, and turned over
upon me.
This was, I must own, one of the occasions upon which I had most to
complain of my soul. For instead of being vexed at herself for having
been absent, and scolding her companion for its hurry, she so far
forgot herself as to give way to the most animal resentment, and to
insult the poor fellow cruelly.
“Idle rascal,” she said, “go and work.” (An execrable apostrophe this,
the invention of miserly, heartless Mammon.)
“Sir,” replied the man, hoping to soften my heart, “I come from
Chambéry.”
“So much the worse for you.”
“I am James. You saw me when you were in the country. I used to drive
the sheep into the fields.”
“And what do you do here?” My soul began to regret the harshness of my
first words; I almost think she regretted them a moment before they were
uttered. In like manner, when one meets in the road a rut or puddle, one
sees it, but has not time to avoid it.
Rose finished the work of bringing me to good sense and repentance. She
had recognized Jem, who had often shared his crust with her, and she
testified by her caresses, her remembrance and gratitude.
Meanwhile, Joannetti, who had gathered together what was left of my
dinner, his own share, gave it at once to Jem.
Poor Joannetti!
Thus it is that in my journey I get lessons of philosophy and humanity
from my servant and my dog.
XXIX.
_Misfortune._
Before proceeding farther, I wish to remove a suspicion which may have
crossed the minds of my readers.
I would not for all the world be suspected of having undertaken this
journey just because I did not know how to spend my time, and was in a
manner compelled thereto by circumstances. I here affirm, and swear by
all that is dear to me, that I projected it long before the event took
place which deprived me of my liberty for forty-two days. This forced
retirement only served as an opportunity for setting out sooner than I
had intended.
This gratuitous protestation will, I know, appear suspicious in the eyes
of some. But those who are so ready to suspect are just the persons who
will not read this book. They have enough to do at home and at their
friends’, plenty of other business to attend to. And good, honest folk
will believe me.
Still, I freely admit that I should have preferred another season for my
journey, and that I should have chosen for its execution Lent rather
than the Carnival. The philosophical reflections, however, that have
come to me from above have greatly aided me in supporting the loss of
those pleasures which Turin offers at this noisy and exciting time.
It is certain, I have thought to myself, that the walls of my chamber
are not so magnificently decorated as those of a ballroom. The silence
of my cottage is far less agreeable than the pleasing sounds of music
and dancing. But among the brilliant personages one meets in those
festive scenes, there are certainly some who are more sick at heart
than I am.
And why should I picture to myself those who are more happily
circumstanced than it is my lot to be, while the world swarms with those
who are worse off? Instead of transporting myself in fancy to that
sumptuous dancing-hall, where so many beauties are eclipsed by the young
Eugénie, I need only pause a moment in one of the streets, that lead
thither, if I would learn how happy is my fate.
For, under the porticos of those magnificent apartments, lie a crowd of
wretched people, half-naked, and ready to die from cold and misery. What
a spectacle is here! Would that this page of my book were known
throughout the universe! Would that every one knew that in this opulent
city a host of wretched beings sleep, without covering, in the coldest
winter nights, and with no pillow but the corner-stone of a street, or
the steps of a palace.
Here, again, is a group of children, crouching together for protection
from the deadly cold; and here a trembling woman, who has no voice left
to complain with. The passers-by come and go without being touched by a
spectacle with which they are so familiar. The noise of carriages, the
shouts of intemperance, the ravishing sounds of music, mingle not
unfrequently with the wails of those unhappy creatures, and fill the ear
with doleful discord.
XXX.
_Charity._
Were any one to pass a hasty judgment upon a city, taking my last
chapter as a criterion, he would err greatly. I have spoken of the poor
we meet with, of their pitiful lamentations, and of the indifference
with which many regard them. But I have said nothing of the multitude of
charitable persons who sleep while others seek amusement, and who rise
at dawn, unobserved and unostentatiously, to succor the unfortunate.
This aspect of city life must not be passed by in silence. I will write
it on the reverse of the page I was anxious everybody should read.
After having divided their good things with their brethren, after
having poured balm into hearts chafed by sorrow, you may see them enter
the churches, while wearied vice sleeps upon eider-down, to offer up
their prayers to God, and to thank Him for his mercies. The light of a
solitary lamp still struggles in the sanctuary with the daylight; but
they are already prostrate before the altar. And the Almighty, angered
by the hard-hearted selfishness of men, witholds his threatening hand.
XXXI.
_Inventory._
I could not help saying a word in my journey about those poor creatures,
for the thought of them has often come across me on my way, and turned
the current of my reflections. Sometimes, struck with the difference
between their case and my own, I have suddenly stopped my
travelling-carriage, and thought my chamber extravagantly embellished!
What superfluous luxury! Six chairs, two tables, a bureau, and a
looking-glass! What vain display! My bed above all things, my rose and
white bed, with its two mattresses, seemed to rival the magnificence and
effeminacy of Asiatic monarchs.
These meditations made me indifferent to the pleasures that had been
forbidden me. And, as I went on from one reflection to another, my fit
of philosophy became so serious that I could have seen a ball going on
in the next room, and heard the sound of violins and flutes without
stirring. I could have heard Marchesini’s melodious voice, that voice
which has so often transported me, yes, I could have listened to it
without being moved. Nay, more, I could have gazed upon the most
beauteous woman in Turin, upon Eugénie herself, adorned from head to
foot by the hands of Mademoiselle Rapoux,[4] without emotion. But, of
this last, I must confess myself not quite sure.
XXXII.
_Misanthropy._
But, gentlemen, allow me to ask a question. Do you enjoy balls and plays
as much as you used to do? As for me, I avow that for some time past
crowded assemblies have inspired me with a kind of terror. When in their
midst, I am assailed by an ominous dream. In vain I try to shake it off;
like the dream of _Athalie_, it constantly returns. Perhaps this is
because the soul, overwhelmed at the present moment by dark fancies and
painful pictures, sees nothing but sadness around it, just as a
disordered stomach turns the most wholesome food into poison. However
this may be, my dream is as follows. When I am at one of these fêtes,
among a crowd of kind, good-natured men, who dance and sing, who weep at
tragedies, and are full of frankness and cordiality, I say to myself:--
“If suddenly a white bear, a philosopher, a tiger, or some other animal
of this kind were to enter, and ascending to the orchestra, were to
shout out furiously: ‘Wretched beings! Listen to the truth that comes
from my lips! You are oppressed! You are the slaves of tyrants! You are
wretched and heart-sick! Awake from your lethargy!
“‘Musicians, break your instruments about your heads, and let each one
of you arm himself with a poniard. Think no more about holidays and
rejoicings. Climb into the boxes, and stab their occupants, one and all.
And let the women steep their timid hands in blood.
“‘Quit this room, for you are free! Tear your king from his throne, and
your God from his sanctuary.’
“Well, and how many of these charming men will obey this tiger’s voice.
How many of them thought, perhaps, of such deeds before they entered?
Who can tell? Was there no dancing in Paris five years ago?”
Joannetti! shut the door and windows! I do not wish to see the light!
Let no one enter my room. Put my sword within reach. Go out yourself,
and keep away from me.
XXXIII.
_Consolation._
No, no! Stay, Joannetti, my good fellow! And you too, Rose, you who
guess what are my sorrows, and soften them by your caresses, come!
V forms the resting-place.
XXXIV.
_Correspondence._
The upset of my post-chaise has rendered the reader the service of
shortening my journey by a good dozen chapters, for, upon getting up, I
found myself close to my bureau, and saw that I had no time left for any
observations upon a number of engravings and pictures which had yet to
be surveyed, and which might have lengthened my excursions into the
realm of painting.
Leaving to the right the portraits of Raphael and his mistress, the
Chevalier d’Assas and the Shepherdess of the Alps, and taking the left,
the side on which the window is situated, my bureau comes into view. It
is the first and the most prominent object the traveller’s eyes light
upon, taking the route I have indicated.
It is surmounted by a few shelves that serve as a book-case, and the
whole is terminated by a bust which completes the pyramid, and
contributes more than any other object to the adornment of this region.
Upon opening the first drawer to the left, we find an inkstand, paper of
all kinds, pens ready mended, and sealing-wax; all which set the most
indolent person longing to write.
I am sure, dear Jenny, that if you chanced to open this drawer, you
would reply to the letter I wrote you a year ago.
In the opposite drawer lies a confused heap of materials for a touching
history of the prisoner of Pignerol,[5] which, my dear friends, you will
ere long read.
Between these two drawers is a recess into which I throw whatever
letters I receive. All that have reached me during the last ten years
are there. The oldest of them are arranged according to date in several
packets; the new ones lie pell-mell. Besides these, I have several
dating from my early boyhood.
How great a pleasure it is to behold again through the medium of these
letters the interesting scenes of our early years, to be once again
transported into those happy days that we shall see no more!
How full is my heart, and how deeply tinged with sadness is its joy, as
my eyes wander over those words traced by one who is gone forever! That
handwriting is his, and it was his heart that guided his hand. It was to
me that he addressed this letter, and this letter is all that is left of
him!
When I put my hand into this recess, I seldom leave the spot for the
whole day. In like manner, a traveller will pass rapidly through whole
provinces of Italy, making a few hurried and trivial observations on the
way, and upon reaching Rome will take up his abode there for months.
This is the richest vein in the mine I am exploring. How changed I find
my ideas and sentiments, and how altered do my friends appear when I
examine them as they were in days gone by, and as they are now! In these
mirrors of the past I see them in mortal agitation about plans which no
longer disturb them.