deliverer, you must be armed to the
teeth.”
“_E verissimo_” (most true).
“Do you happen to have--”
“Yes, files, pincers--_Corpo di
Bacco_! I came to borrow the treas-
ures of the Bracciani on a long
loan.”
“You will earn a handsome share
of them very legitimately, my good
Rinaldo, and we may possibly go
man hunting together--”
“You surprise me, Eccellenza!”
“Listen to me, Rinaldo. I will
say nothing of the craving for
vengeance that gnaws at my heart.
I have been here for thirty months
--you too are Italian--you will un-
OR ROMAN REVENGE 223
derstand me! Alas, my friend, my
fatigue and my horrible incarcera-
tion are nothing in comparison
with the rage that devours my soul.
The Duchess of Bracciano is still
one of the most beautiful women in
Rome. I loved her well enough to
be jealous--”
“You, her husband!”
“Yes, I was wrong, no doubt.”
“It is not the correct thing, to be
sure,” said Rinaldo.
“My jealousy was roused by the
Duchess’ conduct,” the Duke went
on. “The event proved me right. A
young Frenchman fell in love with
Olympia, and she loved him. I had
proofs of their reciprocal affection
“Pray excuse me, ladies,” said Lousteau, “but I find it impossible to go
on without remarking to you how direct this Empire literature is, going
to the point without any details, a characteristic, as it seems to me,
of a primitive time. The literature of that period holds a place between
the summaries of chapters in _Telemaque_ and the categorical reports of
a public office. It had ideas, but refrained from expressing them,
it was so scornful! It was observant, but would not communicate its
observations to any one, it was so miserly! Nobody but Fouche ever
mentioned what he had observed. ‘At that time,’ to quote the words
of one of the most imbecile critics in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_,
‘literature was content with a clear sketch and the simple outline of
all antique statues. It did not dance over its periods.’--I should think
not! It had no periods to dance over. It had no words to play with. You
were plainly told that Lubin loved Toinette; that Toinette did not love
Lubin; that Lubin killed Toinette and the police caught Lubin, who was
put in prison, tried at the assizes, and guillotined.--A strong sketch,
a clear outline! What a noble drama! Well, in these days the barbarians
make words sparkle.”
“Like a hair in a frost,” said Monsieur de Clagny.
“So those are the airs you affect?”[*] retorted Lousteau.
[*] The rendering given above is only intended to link the
various speeches into coherence; it has no resemblance with
the French. In the original, “Font chatoyer les _mots_.”
“Et quelquefois les _morts_,” dit Monsieur de Clagny.
“Ah! Lousteau! vous vous donnez de ces R-la (airs-la).”
Literally: “And sometimes the dead.”--“Ah, are those the airs you
assume?”--the play on the insertion of the letter R (_mots,
morts_) has no meaning in English.
“What can he mean?” asked Madame de Clagny, puzzled by this vile pun.
“I seem to be walking in the dark,” replied the Mayoress.
“The jest would be lost in an explanation,” remarked Gatien.
“Nowadays,” Lousteau went on, “a novelist draws characters, and instead
of a ‘simple outline,’ he unveils the human heart and gives you some
interest either in Lubin or in Toinette.”
“For my part, I am alarmed at the progress of public knowledge in the
matter of literature,” said Bianchon. “Like the Russians, beaten by
Charles XII., who at least learned the art of war, the reader has
learned the art of writing. Formerly all that was expected of a romance
was that it should be interesting. As to style, no one cared for that,
not even the author; as to ideas--zero; as to local color--_non est_.
By degrees the reader has demanded style, interest, pathos, and complete
information; he insists on the five literary senses--Invention, Style,
Thought, Learning, and Feeling. Then some criticism commenting on
everything. The critic, incapable of inventing anything but calumny,
pronounces every work that proceeds from a not perfect brain to be
deformed. Some magicians, as Walter Scott, for instance, having appeared
in the world, who combined all the five literary senses, such writers
as had but one--wit or learning, style or feeling--these cripples, these
acephalous, maimed or purblind creatures--in a literary sense--have
taken to shrieking that all is lost, and have preached a crusade against
men who were spoiling the business, or have denounced their works.”
“The history of your last literary quarrel!” Dinah observed.
“For pity’s sake, come back to the Duke of Bracciano,” cried Monsieur de
Clagny.
To the despair of all the company, Lousteau went on with the made-up
sheet.