A COMPLETE WOMAN
"Feminine to her inmost heart, and feminine
to her tender feet.
Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing
body and mind."
Tennyson, _Locksley Hall Sixty_
_Years After_.
He had a fair skin and a savage mustache, his beard cut like the
Austrians, an animal jaw, beatified eyes; the air of needing plenty of
meat and plenty of tenderness. His skull seemed to be straight, under
his closely-cut hair and his ears, too long, seemed endowed with a
special motility. His gestures revealed the uneasy deference of the
stranger, but on occasion there appeared the sudden hauteur of the
gentleman; he lacked an easy bearing, but there was some vivacity and a
rude charm in him.
Hubert, examining this intruder, assumed a reserve which masked his
curiosity. He thought he perceived that for Sixtine this was more than
a chance visitor, and the name awakened a discouraging association of
ideas, for it strictly agreed with the initials, although this person,
it seemed to him, had no connection with the portrait, so far as the
figure was concerned. His name was Sabas Moscowitch.
Sixtine spelled out the syllables with complacency and, after uttering
a few banalities, narrated some pages of the history of Monsieur Sabas.
A life not unlike Tolstoy's, without the final mysticism: a period of
living in the Caucasus and then at his manor, in his domains which were
disorganized by the recent freedom; he had a reformative turn of mind
in sympathy with modern trends, and had won successes at the theatre
with dramas of conflicts which had displeased the czar; then, and this
was the interesting side of Monsieur Sabas, he had come to France
to have his dramas played. As he knew French from childhood, he was
translating them himself. Yet some advice would be profitable to him:
he likewise had need of some support in the literary world. She boldly
anticipated the kindness of Hubert.
"M. d'Entragues could be very useful to you."
Entragues, in a very guarded tone, offered his services. To read his
dramas, present the author to the _Revue spéculative_, give the cue to
Van Baël, who knew everybody, win over Fortier--all this was possible.
Besides, Fortier was seeking new things: it would be a good idea, after
the novels, to attempt the publication of a Russian drama. One of them
would appear in the _Revue_ with a great hubbub, and the road would be
prepared for the others.
Sixtine seemed enchanted with the plan: Moscowitch had a vision of
the glory he would gain; Entragues said to himself: "Either they are
making a fool of me, and I have nothing to lose in being amiable to
this Russian, or else she is only interesting herself in him through
vanity, and the more I do, the more she will be grateful to me. No, I
shall certainly be a dupe and without reward; there are old relations
between them: the S. M. proves it. Oh! how anxious I am to mock gently
before being mocked myself by the facts. That would mean to lose all.
Ah! but I am implicated in odd intrigues! I must examine my acts
carefully and weigh my words: it is painful. Ah! how I should like to
leave! How I wish that I had never known this woman who holds me here
and compares me with the other! I see it quite well: she is analyzing
us, in so far as a woman is capable of doing it; she measures and
weighs us; she asks herself which of the two would give her the greater
pleasure. And perhaps she is embarrassed, for if one of us, and it is
I, should attract her by the physical and intellectual affinities of
race, the other has for her the magic of newness, of the unexpected,
of the different. For she is perverted: without this, she would have a
husband or a lover. Women who wait, who want to choose, who desire the
utmost possible, are capable of deciding suddenly under the pressure
of an unaccustomed sensation. But is it the first time she has seen
this Moscowitch? Oh, no! but as long as the veil has not been lifted,
the mystery remains untouched and still tempting. The exportation to
France of Russian novels should be an enterprise for the Don Juans
of the Neva: one must be, at this hour, a Russian to please. Oh! it
is quite immaterial whether we shall be Russianized to-day or in a
century, since we will be so, eventually: Tolstoy is the ensign-bearer
and Dostoevsky the trumpet of the vanguard. _Amen!_ I open the door to
Moscowitch. If they play his dramas in place of mine and if he takes
the woman I desire, well and good, for deprived of all, I shall perhaps
enjoy peace."
Having finished this inward monologue, hardly interrupted by the
nodding of the head and the vague syllables thrown by him as replies in
the conversation, Entragues, with a sudden movement, arose.
"You are leaving?"
There was such an accent of reproach in these three words that
Entragues was stricken with remorse. It was a foolish act: he soon saw
its consequence, for Moscowitch instantly stood up to his full height,
ready to follow him.
"Since it is too late, and since the pleasure of a tête-à-tête eludes
me, we will leave together. I wouldn't mind talking a little with this
Russian and, if he must be my rival, learning his quality; at least I
shall know to whom I yield my place."
He was a child.
"Isn't she truly charming and adorable?"
"Ah! confidences?" Entragues told himself. "This is excellent. He
belongs to those whose heart overflows with sentiment as a brook under
a heavy rain, and he is going to tell me his life. Perfect. I am
conscious of a mischievous curiosity. How I will enjoy it!"
A slight quiver of joy coursed through him, and his fingers twisted
through nervousness.
"Isn't she?"
"Are you speaking of Madame Magne? I have known her only a short while.
She is an intelligent woman."
"It is evident," Moscowitch rejoined, "that her beauty, her charm, and
her grace have not made a strong impression on you. It is surprising."
"Why so? The sympathies of any group do not necessarily go to the same
woman, though she have intelligence and an Aspasian beauty. The charm
that has captivated you does not exist for me, or exists only in a less
degree."
"Ah! you reason like a very sensible Frenchman. As for myself, I
believe I am incapable of reasoning on this point."
"This does not prevent me," Entragues returned, "from doing justice to
her qualities. She is, to put it simply, a complete woman. This word,
which implies everything and specifies nothing, is appropriate, for I
believe her to be very flexible, and made to pattern herself, like the
ivy, on the oak to which she will cling."
"I hope," Entragues reflected, "that I speak clearly and with an
abundance of commonplaces, for I wish to be understood."
After a brief silence, Moscowitch slowly uttered these words which he
seemed to be repeating to himself:
"Yes, I think I will be happy with her."
Entragues controlled his emotions and asked in a calm voice:
"Are you going to marry her?"
"Yes, if she consents. That is my intention and my dearest wish. She
says neither no nor yes. I don't know what to do about it."
"You don't displease her?"
"You think not?"
"I mean," Entragues answered, "that you please her. But she herself
does not know it and you must teach her to read her own heart.
Recall the words of Madame Récamier to Benjamin Constant: 'Dare, my
friend, dare!' You perhaps don't know the French women, but trust
to my experience. A little force doesn't displease them. I don't
say violence, I say force. The iron hand gloved in velvet can play
a decisive rôle in love; nothing more enlightens a woman about her
own sentiments than a kiss which goes further than kisses. Then she
knows what she wishes and nine times out of ten she will love, through
gratitude, the bold man who has drawn her from indecision. Note this
well: she runs after her modesty as one runs after one's gold."
Moscowitch, very interested, drew nearer to Entragues and, as if to
appropriate him to himself, passed his arm under Entragues', saying:
"May I?"
"The great liberty? Ah! you know your authors! I believe we are going
to become friends, for I felt a great sympathy towards you from the
very first.... It is just like in the trenches, before Sebastopol....
See, my dear Moscowitch, I who usually am good for nothing, who am
endowed with only a modest activity, I wish, in the name of this common
friend, who will be more than a friend for you, to help your noble
ambitions, like a brother. You must attain everything: love and glory
must crown your genius."
Moscowitch breathed deeply.
"Ah! how happy I am to have met you!"
"Why," Entragues modestly returned, "I think you will not have to
repent it. There are so few people capable of understanding; one
usually finds only envy, jealousy, stupidity, conceit, and indifference
when one is born under a very favorable star. Come, where shall we
begin? You know that I can in no way directly intervene to further your
marriage. Just acquaint me with what takes place and I will give you
advice on the conduct to be followed. You will come to see me; we shall
deliberate like a counsel of war; we shall examine the condition of the
place; we shall make plans; we shall leave nothing to chance, and we
will be victors. Have no doubts upon this. Do you know her long?"
"Since last winter. Some Russian friends gave me a letter of
introduction to Madame la comtesse d'Aubry, who introduced me one
evening to Madame Magne. I suddenly felt that my life had found its
goal."
"It was a sort of thunderbolt?"
"I know that word, thunderbolt," Moscowitch complacently remarked. "No,
a sudden attraction, rather. I saw her and loved her--that is all."
"And you did not confess your love till long after?"
"Later, two or three months afterwards. But I believe she had already
perceived my sentiments, for she was not surprised to hear me express
them."
"The fact that one loves a woman never astonishes her; it is the
contrary that surprises her."
"Yes, she had divined my state of mind."
"Oh! they always divine, and that is why confessions always find them
so calm. So she allowed you to come to see her?"
"Yes, and I did; but one finds her so rarely! We met quite often at
the home of the countess and I spent a delightful fortnight, oh!
very delightful, at the château de Rabodanges, during the month of
July. I was to have returned there in September and she, too, was to
have returned there, but I had to leave for Russia. I am here only a
week. I met her again for the first time this evening. I confess, my
dear Monsieur d'Entragues, that your entrance in the room was very
disagreeable to me. I repent having had this wicked sentiment, but I
could not guess that I had before me a friend so ... so...."
"So useful," Entragues finished. "Friends should be useful. That is
their purpose. Then, at Rabodanges?"
"It was delightful. I cannot find another word. It was there she did
my portrait. It is quite good, only there is no resemblance. I think
she was making sport of me that day, for why should she give me a
pointed beard instead of this national cut of which I am proud, and
which I shall certainly never change. Besides, thanks to retouchings,
the very features do not belong to me. She began by copying my figure
and ended by designing a dream."
"Was it a sketch?" Entragues asked, amused at this cruel feminine irony.
"Yes, but she etched it the following day, for you know she has a real
talent in that direction. She made two copies in my presence, gave
me out and then used the same copper plate to elaborate a fantastic
landscape where my head became a tree, cloud, grass, I know not what.
This figure, which at least I had inspired, I have lost, and despite
everything, I deplore its loss because of the inscription."
"That is regrettable," Entragues coldly said, "for without speaking of
the sentiment which doubles the price of things, this almost unique
sketch had a value because of its rarity and curiosity. If it ever fell
into my hands--for things go astray and are found again--I do not truly
know if I would surrender it to you. I have a collector's taste."
"It is with this portrait as with its author," replied Moscowitch, with
a sudden menacing violence. "I believe it was in the works of a Spanish
poet that I once read: 'I love your love more than your life.'"
Entragues was tempted to say: "I possess this sketch, and I have
no intention of returning it to you, my friend." What would the
consequences be? A duel. But this manner of treating life roughly and
questioning the fates was truly quite naive. Sixtine would probably
belong to the victor; at least, it would have happened thus in
barbarous times. These days, the vanquished have attractions. They
inspire pity and the gods are often wrong. "Would I not love her enough
to risk my life? Life means nothing to me: if I had any doubts on the
matter, I would prove the contrary by quitting it. Moscowitch would
willingly fight; but he is a simple soul, while I am very complicated."
Aloud, he continued:
"A woman who inspires such a passion is vanquished in advance. But you
must master yourself, so as not to be compromised. Do not see her too
often, nor too long at one time. Let her understand that you suffer and
that the more cruel she is, the more you suffer. Keep enough presence
of mind to remain an exact observer, and then, some fine day, thrust
the knife into her neck, crying: 'I suffer too much, be merciful.' She
yields and you are happy, unless your imagination has exceeded reality.
This happens; then one misses_ il tempo de' dolci sospiri_. Oh! you
need not fear this weakness; you are robust and she is beautiful.
There are other ways of reaching the same end; what I give you is the
surest. It is the procedure of physical love, I confess, but no other
mimicry affects a woman to a greater degree. Before all, they wish
to be desired; the rest comes or does not come, it is an addition. It
is the cement which joins the stones, but the Cyclopean constructions
dispensed with it quite easily and were not the less solid. Like the
block of granite, the strength of the body is the base of all: one
must promise marvels of solidity and the idea of duration, of eternal
duration, will soon rise. He who gives this impression does not find
women inhuman, and he who transforms it into fine and good sensations,
during the hours of maturity, has nothing to fear from infidelity. Ah!
you are fortunate, Moscowitch; you are a Hercules!"
"You speak," said the Russian, "as if I should dissemble. But this
passion, at once ideal and physical, I truly feel and if I say that I
suffer I shall not be lying."
"All the better, for sincerity is a mighty wonder-worker, but you
would be able to say nothing and, through modesty, you would conceal
your sufferings. I merely offer you the means of not suffering, of not
loving in vain. Ah! the futile loves, the deceitful tortures of vain
desire: tears--good grain sown on the sands!"
"Yes," Moscowitch answered, "all who weep are not consoled. I thank you
and understand you. You, too, have the religion of human suffering."
"I!" Hubert wanted to cry, jestingly. But why wound this humanitarian
mystic? He simply answered:
"Grief is inevitable, but far from being evil, it is the very honor
of humanity and the supreme reason of existence. We suffer in order to
be less ugly, and that, in the vulgarity of our animal flesh, there
may be an esthetic illusion. Joys are unacceptable and repulsive which
have in them no promise of suffering: two lovers, in their sports,
make a charming spectacle because they tread on the fragile trap-door
of an oubliette, full of stakes and hooks. Intellectual desires, in
the same way, are interesting in that they surely lead to the horrors
of deception or doubt. Try, then, you who are a poet and a creator of
souls, to induce the esthetic thrill in your audience with the picture
of a perfect happiness: joy is illogical, and, since the illogical
is the essential cause of laughter, joy causes laughter. This might,
nevertheless, serve in the fifth act as an unexpected punishment.
Could you not show a happy knave just by inflicting upon him the
most degrading punishment possible to a man? Happy, while he dreams
infinitely of the contempt residing in the word, 'happy'!"
"Yet," Moscowitch answered, "we do nothing else but pursue happiness."
"Oh!" Entragues rejoined, "that is a pastime. We know quite well that
we shall never reach it.
"I believe," the Russian said, "that you judge humanity by your own
sentiments."
"I think so too," Entragues answered, "but the contrary would be the
more surprising. With whose brain would you have me think, if not with
my own?"
They separated, after having arranged a rendezvous. Moscowitch, on the
day after the morrow or the following day, would call for Entragues at
his home, and together they would go to _la Revue spéculative_.