misfortune; but the end of the letter is wanting, and the circumstance
is so entirely forgotten that I cannot now make out what the matter was
which so concerned us. We were possessed by a thousand prejudices. We
knew nothing of the world, and of men. But then, how warm was our
intercourse! How intimate our friendship! How unbounded our confidence!
In our ignorance there was bliss. But now,--ah! all is now changed. We
have been compelled, as others, to read the human heart; and truth,
falling like a bomb into the midst of us, has forever destroyed the
enchanted palace of illusion.
[Illustration]
XXXV.
_The Withered Rose._
If the subject were worth the trouble, I could readily write a chapter
upon that dry rose. It is a flower of last year’s carnival. I gathered
it myself in the Valentino.[6] And in the evening, an hour before the
ball was to begin, I bore it, full of hope, and agreeably excited, to
Madame Hautcastel, for her acceptance. She took it, and without looking
at it or me, placed it upon her toilette-table. And how could she have
given _me_ any of her attention? She was engaged in looking at herself.
There she stood before a large mirror; her hair was ornamented for a
fête, and the decorations of her dress were undergoing their final
arrangement. She was so fully occupied, her attention was so totally
absorbed by the ribbons, gauzes, and all sorts of finery that lay in
heaps before her, that I did not get a look or any sign of recognition.
There was nothing for me but resignation. I held out humbly in my hand a
number of pins arranged in order. But her pincushion being more within
reach, she took them from her pincushion, and when I brought my hand
nearer, she took them from my hand, quite indifferently, and in taking
them up she would feel about for them with the tips of her fingers,
without taking her eyes from the glass, lest she should lose sight of
herself.
For some time I held behind her a second mirror that she might judge the
better how her dress became her, and as her face reflected itself from
one glass to another, I saw a prospective of coquettes, no one of whom
paid me the least attention. In a word, I must confess that my rose and
I cut a very poor figure.
At last I lost all patience, and unable longer to control the vexation
that preyed upon me, I put down the looking-glass I had been holding,
and went out angrily without taking leave.
“O! you are going?” she said, turning so as to see her figure in
profile. I made no answer, but I listened some time at the door to see
what effect my abrupt departure would have.
“Do you not see,” she said to her maid, after a moment’s silence, “that
this caraco, particularly the lower part, is much too large at the
waist, and will want pinning?”
Why and wherefore that rose is upon my shelf, I shall certainly not
explain, for, as I said before, a withered rose does not deserve a
chapter.
And pray observe, ladies, that I make no reflection upon the adventure
with the rose. I do not say whether Madame de Hautcastel did well or
otherwise in preferring her dress to me, or whether I had any right to a
better reception.
I take special care to deduce therefrom no general conclusions about the
reality, the strength, and the duration of the affection of ladies for
their friends. I am content to cast this chapter (since it is one) into
the world with the rest of my journey, without addressing it to any one,
and without recommending it to any one.
I will only add, gentlemen, a word of counsel. Impress well upon your
minds this fact, that your mistress is no longer yours on the day of a
ball.
As soon as dressing begins, a lover is no more thought of than a husband
would be; and the ball takes the place of a lover.
Every one knows how little a husband gains by enforcing his love. Take
your trouble, then, patiently, cheerfully.
And, my dear sir, do not deceive yourself; if a lady welcome you at a
ball, it is not as a lover that you are received, for you are a
husband--but as a part of the ball; and you are therefore but a fraction
of her new conquest. You are the decimal of a lover. Or, it may be, you
dance well, and so give éclat to her graces. After all, perhaps, the
most flattering way in which you can regard her kind welcome is to
consider that she hopes by treating as her cavalier a man of parts like
yourself, to excite the jealousy of her companions. Were it not for that
she would not notice you at all.
It amounts then to this. You must resign yourself to your fate, and wait
until the husband’s _rôle_ is played. I know those who would be glad to
get off at so cheap a rate.
XXXVI.
_The Library._
I promised to give a dialogue between my soul and the OTHER. But there
are some chapters which elude me, as it were, or rather, there are
others which flow from my pen _nolens volens_, and derange my plans.
Among these is one about my library; and I will make it as short as I
can. Our forty-two days will soon be ended; and even were it not so, a
similar period would not suffice to complete the description of the rich
country in which I travel so pleasantly.
My library, then, is composed of novels, if I must make the confession;
of novels and a few choice poets.
As if I had not troubles enough of my own, I share those of a thousand
imaginary personages, and I feel them as acutely as my own. How many
tears have I shed for that poor Clarissa,[7] and for Charlotte’s[8]
lover!
But if I go out of my way in search of unreal afflictions, I find in
return, such virtue, kindness, and disinterestedness in this imaginary
world as I have never yet found united in the real world around me. I
meet with a woman after my heart’s desire, free from whim, lightness,
and affectation. I say nothing about beauty; this I can leave to my
imagination, and picture her faultlessly beautiful. And then, closing
the book, which no longer keeps pace with my ideas, I take the fair one
by the hand, and we travel together over a country a thousand times more
delightful than Eden itself. What painter could represent the fairy
land in which I have placed the goddess of my heart? What poet could
ever describe the lively and manifold sensations I experience in those
enchanted regions?
How often have I cursed that Cleveland,[9] who is always embarking upon
new troubles which he might very well avoid! I cannot endure that book
with its long list of calamities. But if I open it by way of
distraction, I cannot help devouring it to the end.
For how could I leave that poor man among the Abaquis? What would become
of him in the hands of those savages? Still less dare I leave him in his
attempt to escape from captivity.
Indeed, I so enter into his sorrows, I am so interested in him and in
his unfortunate family, that the sudden appearance of the ferocious
Ruintons makes my hair stand on end. When I read that passage a cold
perspiration covers me, and my fright is as lively and real as if I was
going to be roasted and eaten by the monsters myself.
When I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some poet, and set
out again for a new world.
XXXVII.
_Another World._
From the Argonautic expedition to the Assembly of Notables; from the
bottom of the nethermost pit to the furthest fixed star beyond the Milky
Way; to the confines of the Universe; to the gates of chaos; thus far
extends the vast field over the length and breadth of which I leisurely
roam. I lack nor time nor space. Thither, conducted by Homer, by Milton,
by Virgil, by Ossian, I transport my existence.
All the events that have taken place between these two epochs; all the
countries, all the worlds, all the beings that have existed between
these two boundaries,--all are mine, all as lawfully belong to me as
the ships that entered the Piræus belonged to a certain Athenian.
Above all the rest do I love the poets who carry me back to the remotest
antiquity. The death of the ambitious Agamemnon, the madness of Orestes,
and the tragical history of the heaven-persecuted family of the Atrides,
inspire me with a terror that all the events of modern times could not
excite in my breast.
Behold the fatal urn which contains the ashes of Orestes! Who would not
shudder at the sight? Electra, unhappy sister! be comforted, for it is
Orestes himself who bears the urn, and the ashes are those of his
enemies.
No longer are their banks like those of Xanthus or the Scamander. No
longer do we visit plains such as those of Hesperia or Arcadia. Where
are now the isles of Lemnos and Crete? Where the famous labyrinth? Where
is the rock that forlorn Ariadne washed with her tears? Theseus is seen
no more; Hercules is gone forever. The men, aye, and the heroes of our
day are but pigmies.
When I would visit a scene full of enthusiasm, and put forth all the
strength of my imagination, I cling boldly to the flowing robe of the
sublime blind poet of Albion at the moment when he soars heavenward, and
dares approach the throne of the Eternal. What muse was able to sustain
him in a flight so lofty that no man before him ever ventured to raise
his eyes so high? From heaven’s dazzling pavement which avaricious
Mammon looked down upon with envious eyes, I pass, horror-stricken, to
the vast caverns of Satan’s sojourn. I take my place at the infernal
council, mingle with the host of rebellious spirits, and listen to their
discourse.
But here I must confess a weakness for which I have often reproached
myself.
I cannot help taking a certain interest in Satan, thus hurled headlong
from heaven. (I am speaking, of course, of _Milton’s_ Satan.) While I
blame the obstinacy of the rebel angel, the firmness he shows in the
midst of his exceeding great misery, and the grandness of his courage,
inspire me, against my will, with admiration. Although not ignorant of
the woe resulting from the direful enterprise that led him to force the
gate of hell and to trouble the home of our first parents, I cannot for
a moment, do what I will, wish he may perish in the confusion of chaos
on his way. I even think I could willingly help him, did not shame
withhold me. I follow his every movement, and take as much pleasure in
travelling with him as if I were in very good company. In vain I
consider that after all he is a devil on his way to the ruin of the
human race, that he is a thorough democrat not after the manner of those
of Athens, but of Paris. All this does not cure me of my prejudice in
his favor.
How vast was his project! How great the boldness displayed in its
execution!
When the thrice-threefold gates of hell fly open before him, and the
dark, boundless ocean discloses itself in all its horror at his feet,
with undaunted eye he surveys the realm of chaos, and then, opening his
sail-broad wings, precipitates himself into the abyss.[10]
To me this passage is one of the noblest efforts of imagination, and one
of the most splendid journeys ever made, next to _the journey round my
room_.
XXXVIII.
_The Bust._
I should never end if I tried to describe a thousandth part of the
strange events I meet with when I travel in my library. The voyages of
Cook and the observations of his fellow-travellers Banks and Solander
are nothing compared with my adventures in this one district. Indeed, I
think I could spend my life there in a kind of rapture, were it not for
the bust I have already mentioned, upon which my eyes and thoughts
always fix themselves at last, whatever may be the position of my soul.
And when my soul is violently agitated, or a prey to despair, a glance
at this bust suffices to restore the troubled being to its natural
state. It sounds the chord upon which I keep in tune the harmonies, and
correct the discords of the sensations and perceptions of which my being
is made up. How striking the likeness! Those are the features nature
gave to the best of men. O, that the sculptor had been able to bring to
view his noble soul, his genius, his character! But what am I
attempting! Is it here that his praise should be recorded? Do I address
myself to the men that surround me? Ah! what concern is it of theirs?
I am contented to bend before thy image, O best of fathers! Alas, that
this should be all that is left me of thee and of my father-land! Thou
quittedst the earth when crime was about to invade it; and so heavy are
the ills that oppress thy family, that we are constrained to regard thy
loss as a blessing. Many would have been the evils a longer life would
have brought upon thee! And dost thou, O my father, dost thou, in thine
abode of bliss, know the lot of thy family! Knowest thou that thy
children are exiled from the country thou hast served with so much zeal
and integrity for sixty years?
Dost thou know that they are forbidden to visit thy grave? But tyranny
has not been able to deprive them of the most precious part of thy
heritage, the record of thy virtues, and the force of thine example. In
the midst of the torrent of crime which has borne their father-land and
their patrimony to ruin, they have steadfastly remained united in the
path marked out for them by thee. And when it shall be given them to
prostrate themselves once more beside thy tomb, thou shalt see in them
thine obedient children.
XXXIX.
_A Dialogue._
I promised a dialogue, and I will keep my word.
It was daybreak. The rays of the sun were gilding the summit of Mount
Viso, and the tops of the highest hills on the island beneath our feet.
My soul was already awake. This early awakening may have been the effect
of those night visions which often excite in her a fatiguing and useless
agitation: or perhaps the carnival, then drawing to a close, was the
secret cause; for this season of pleasure and folly influences the human
organization much as do the phases of the moon and the conjunction of
certain planets. However this may be, my soul was awake, and wide awake,
when she shook off the bands of sleep.
For some time she had shared, though confusedly, the sensations of the
OTHER: but she was still encumbered by the swathes of night and sleep;
and these swathes seemed to her transformed into gauze and fine linen
and Indian lawn. My poor soul was, as it were, enwrapped in all this
paraphernalia, and the god of sleep, that he might hold her still more
firmly under his sway, added to these bonds disheveled tresses of flaxen
hair, ribbon bows, and pearl necklaces. Really it was pitiful to see her
struggle in these toils.
The agitation of the nobler part of myself communicated itself to the
OTHER; and the latter, in its turn, reacted powerfully upon my soul.
I worked myself, at last, into a state which it would be hard to
describe, while my soul, either sagaciously or by chance, hit upon a way
of escaping from the gauzes by which it was being suffocated. I know
not whether she discovered an outlet, or whether, which is a more
natural conclusion, it occurred to her to raise them: at all events, she
found a means of egress from the labyrinth. The tresses of disheveled
hair were still there; but they were now rather help than hindrance; my
soul seized them, as a drowning man clutches the sedge on a river’s
bank, but the pearl necklace broke in the act, and the unstrung pearls
rolled on the sofa, and from the sofa to Madame Hautcastel’s floor (for
my soul, by an eccentricity for which it would be difficult to give a
reason, fancied she was at that lady’s house); then a great bunch of
violets fell to the ground, and my soul, which then awoke, returned
home, bringing with her common sense and reality. She strongly
disapproved, as you will readily imagine, of all that had passed in her
absence; and here it is that the dialogue begins which forms the subject
of this chapter.
Never had my soul been so ungraciously received. The complaints she
thought fit to make at this critical moment fully sufficed to stir up
domestic strife; a revolt, a formal insurrection followed.
“What!” said my soul, “is it thus that during my absence, instead of
restoring your strength by quiet sleep that you may be better able to do
my bidding, you have the insolence (the expressing was rather strong) to
give yourself up to transports which my authority has not sanctioned!”
Little accustomed to this haughty tone, the OTHER angrily answered:--
“Really, madame” (this madame was meant to remove from the discussion
anything like familiarity), “really, this affectation of virtuous
decorum is highly becoming to you! Is it not to the sallies of your
imagination, and to your extravagant ideas, that I owe what in me
displeases you? What right have you to go on those pleasant excursions
so often, without taking me with you? Have I ever complained about your
attending the meetings in the Empyrean or in the Elysian fields, your
conversations with the celestial intelligences, your profound
speculations (a little raillery here, you see), your castles in the air,
and your transcendental systems? And have I not a right, when you leave
me in this way, to enjoy the blessings bestowed upon me by Nature, and
the pleasures she places before me?”
My soul, surprised at so much vivacity and eloquence, did not know how
to reply. In order to settle the dispute amicably, she endeavored to
veil with the semblance of good-nature the reproaches that had escaped
her. But, that she might not seem to take the first steps towards
reconciliation, she affected a formal tone. “_Madame_,” she said, with
assumed cordiality.... If the reader thought the word misplaced when
addressed to my soul, what will he say of it now, if he call to mind the
cause of the quarrel? But my soul did not feel the extreme absurdity of
this mode of expression, so much does passion obscure the intellect!
“Madame,” she said, “nothing, be assured, would give me so much pleasure
as to see you enjoy those pleasures of which your nature is susceptible,
if even I did not participate in them, were it not that such pleasures
are harmful to you, injuriously affecting the harmony which....” Here my
soul was rudely interrupted, “No, no, I am not the dupe of your
pretended kindness. The sojourn we are compelled to make together in
this room in which we travel; the wound which I received, which still
bleeds, and which nearly destroyed me,--is not all this the fruit of
your overweening conceit and your barbarous prejudices? My comfort, my
very existence, is counted as nothing when your passions sway you: and
then, forsooth, you pretend that you take an interest in my welfare, and
that your insults spring from friendship.”
My soul saw very well that the part she was playing on this occasion was
no flattering one. She began, too, to perceive that the warmth of the
dispute had put the cause of it out of sight. Profiting from this
circumstance, she caused a further distraction by saying to Joannetti,
who at that moment entered the room, “Make some coffee!” The noise of
the cups attracted all the rebel’s attention, who forthwith forgot
everything else. In like manner we show children a toy to make them
forget the unwholesome fruit for which they beg and stamp.
While the water was being heated, I insensibly fell asleep. I enjoyed
that delightful sensation about which I have already entertained my
readers, and which you experience when you feel yourself to be dozing.
The agreeable rattling Joannetti made with the coffee-pot reëchoed in my
brain, and set all my sensitive nerves vibrating, just as a single
harp-string when struck will make the octaves resound.
At last I saw as it were, a shadow pass before me. I opened my eyes, and
there stood Joannetti. Ah, what an aroma! How agreeable a surprise!
Coffee! Cream! A pyramid of dry toast! Good reader, come, breakfast with
me!
XL.
_Imagination._
What a wealth of delights has kind Nature given to those who can enjoy
them. Who can count the innumerable phases they assume in different
individuals, and at different periods of life! The confused remembrance
of the pleasures of my boyhood sends a thrill through my heart. Shall I
attempt to paint the joys of the youth whose soul glows with all the
warmth of love, at an age when interest, ambition, hatred, and all the
base passions that degrade and torment humanity are unknown to him, even
by name?
During this age, too short, alas! the sun shines with a brightness it
never displays in after-life; the air is then purer, the streams
clearer and fresher, and nature has aspects, and the woods have paths,
which in our riper age we never find again. O, what perfumes those
flowers breathe! How delicious are those fruits! With what colors is the
morning sky adorned! Men are all good, generous, kind-hearted; and women
all lovely and faithful. On all sides we meet with cordiality,
frankness, and unselfishness. Nature presents to us nothing but flowers,
virtues, and pleasures.
The excitement of love, and the anticipation of happiness, do they not
fill our hearts to the brim with emotions no less lively and various?
The sight of nature and its contemplation, whether we regard it as a
whole, or examine its details, opens to our reason an immense field of
enjoyments. Soon the imagination, brooding over this sea of pleasures,
increases their number and intensity. The various sensations so unite
and blend as to form new ones. Dreams of glory mingle with the
palpitations of love. Benevolence moves hand in hand with self-esteem.
Melancholy, from time to time, throws over us her solemn livery, and
changes our tears to joy. Thus the perceptions of the mind, the feelings
of the heart, the very remembrance of sensations, are inexhaustible
sources of pleasure and comfort to man. No wonder, then, that the noise
Joannetti made with the coffee-pot, and the unexpected appearance of a
cup of cream, should have impressed me so vividly and so agreeably.
XLI.
_The Travelling-coat._
I put on my travelling-coat, after having examined it with a complacent
eye; and forthwith resolved to write a chapter _ad hoc_, that I might
make it known to the reader.
The form and usefulness of these garments being pretty generally known,
I will treat specially of their influence upon the minds of travellers.
My winter travelling-coat is made of the warmest and softest stuff I
could meet with. It envelops me entirely from head to foot, and when I
am in my arm-chair, with my hands in my pockets, I am very like the
statue of Vishnu one sees in the pagodas of India.
You may, if you will, tax me with prejudice when I assert the influence
a traveller’s costume exercises upon its wearer. At any rate I can
confidently affirm with regard to this matter, that it would appear to
me as ridiculous to take a single step of my journey round my room in
uniform, with my sword at my side, as it would to go forth into the
world in my dressing-gown. Were I to find myself in full military dress,
not only should I be unable to proceed with my journey, but I really
believe I should not be able to read what I have written about my
travels, still less to understand it.
Does this surprise you? Do we not every day meet with people who fancy
they are ill because they are unshaven, or because some one has thought
they have looked poorly, and told them so? Dress has such influence upon
men’s minds that there are valetudinarians who think themselves in
better health than usual when they have on a new coat and well-powdered
wig. They deceive the public and themselves by their nicety about dress,
until one finds some fine morning they have died in full fig, and their
death startles everybody.
And in the class of men among whom I live, how many there are who,
finding themselves clothed in uniform, firmly believe they are officers,
until the unexpected appearance of the enemy shows them their mistake.
And more than this, if it be the king’s good pleasure to allow one of
them to add to his coat a certain trimming, he straightway believes
himself to be a general, and the whole army gives him the title without
any notion of making fun of him! So great an influence has a coat upon
the human imagination!
The following illustration will show still further the truth of my
assertion.