Count Xavier de Maistre was born in October 1763 at Chambéry,
in Savoy. When, in the war and the upheaval that followed on
the French Revolution, his country was annexed to France, he
emigrated to Russia, and being a landscape painter of fine
talent, he managed to live on the pictures which he sold. He
died at St. Petersburg on June 12, 1852. His famous "Journey
Round My Room" ("Voyage autour de ma chambre") was written in
1794 at Turin, where he was imprisoned for forty-two days over
some affair of honour. The style of his work is clearly
modelled on that of Sterne, but the ideas, which he pours out
with a delightful interplay of wit and fancy, are marked with
the stamp of a fine, original mind. The work is one of the
most brilliant _tours de force_ in a literature remarkable for
its lightness, grace, and charm. Being a born writer, de
Maistre whiled away his time by producing a sparkling little
masterpiece, which will be cherished long after the heavy,
philosophical works written by his elder brother, Joseph de
Maistre, have mouldered into the dust. In the lifetime of the
two brothers, Joseph was regarded throughout Europe as a man
of high genius, while Xavier was looked down on as a trifler.
_I.--My Great Discovery_
How glorious it is to open a new career, and to appear suddenly in the
world of science with a book of discoveries in one's hand like an
unexpected comet sparkling in space! Here is the book, gentleman. I have
undertaken and carried out a journey of forty-two days in my room. The
interesting observations I have made, and the continual pleasure I have
felt during this long expedition, excited in me the wish to publish it;
the certitude of the usefulness of my work decided me. My heart is
filled with an inexpressible satisfaction when I think of the infinite
number of unhappy persons to whom I am now able to offer an assured
resource against the tediousness and vexations of life. The delight one
finds in travelling in one's own room is a pure joy, exempt from the
unquiet jealousies of men and independent of ill-fortune.
In the immense family of men that swarm on the surface of the earth,
there is not one--no, not one (I am speaking, of course, of those who
have a room to live in)--who can, after having read this book, refuse
his approbation to the new way of travelling which I have invented. It
costs nothing, that is the great thing! Thus it is certain of being
adopted by very rich people! Thousands of persons who have never thought
of travelling will now resolve to follow my example.
Come, then, let us go forth! Follow me, all ye hermits who through some
mortification in love, some negligence in friendship, have withdrawn
into your rooms far from the pettiness and infidelity of mankind! But
quit your dismal thoughts, I pray you. Every minute you lose some
pleasure without gaining any wisdom in place of it. Deign to accompany
me on my travels. We shall go by easy stages, laughing all along the
road at every tourist who has gone to Rome or Paris. No obstacle shall
stop us, and, surrendering ourselves to our imagination, we will follow
it wherever it may lead us.
But persons are so curious. I am sure you would like to know why my
journey round my room lasted forty-two days instead of forty-three, or
some other space of time. But how can I tell you when I do not know
myself? All I can say is that if you find my work too long, it was not
my fault. In spite of the vanity natural in a traveller, I should have
been very glad if it had only run a single chapter. The fact is, that
though I was allowed in my room all the pleasures and comfort possible,
I was not permitted to leave it when I wished.
Is there anything more natural and just than to fight to the death with
a man who has inadvertently trodden on your foot, or let fall some sharp
words in a moment of vexation of which your imprudence was the cause?
Nothing, you will admit, is more logical; and yet there are some people
who disapprove of this admirable custom.
But, what is still more natural and logical, the very people who
disapprove it and regard it as a grave crime treat with greater rigour
any man who refuses to commit it. Many an unhappy fellow has lost his
reputation and position through conforming with their views, so that if
you have the misfortune to be engaged in what is called "an affair of
honour," it is best to toss up to see if you should follow the law or
the custom; and as the law and the custom in regard to duelling are
contradictory, the magistrates would also do well to frame their
sentence on the throw of the dice. Probably, it was in this way that
they determined that my journey should last exactly forty-two days.
_II.--My Armchair and my Bed_
My chamber forms a square, round which I can take thirty-six steps, if I
keep very close to the wall. But I seldom travel in a straight line. I
dislike persons who are such masters of their feet and of their ideas
that they can say: "To-day I shall make three calls, I shall write four
letters, I shall finish this work that I have begun." So rare are the
pleasures scattered along our difficult path in life, that we must be
mad not to turn out of our way and gather anything of joy which is
within our reach.
To my mind, there is nothing more attractive than to follow the trail of
one's ideas, like a hunter tracking down game, without holding to any
road. I like to zigzag about. I set out from my table to the picture in
the corner. From there I journey obliquely towards the door; but if I
come upon my armchair I stand on no ceremonies, but settle myself in it
at once. 'Tis an excellent piece of furniture, an armchair, and
especially useful to a meditative man. In long winter evenings it is
sometimes delightful and always wise to stretch oneself in it easily,
far from the din of the numerous assemblies.
After my armchair, in walking towards the north I discover my bed, which
is placed at the end of my room, and there forms a most agreeable
perspective. So happily is it arranged that the earliest rays of
sunlight come and play on the curtains. I can see them, on fine summer
mornings, advancing along the white wall with the rising sun; some elms,
growing before my window, divide them in a thousand ways, and make them
dance on my bed, which, by their reflection, spread all round the room
the tint of its own charming white and rose pattern. I hear the
twittering of the swallows that nest in the roof, and of other birds in
the elms; a stream of charming thoughts flows into my mind, and in the
whole world nobody has an awakening as pleasant and as peaceful as mine.
_III.--The Beast_
Only metaphysicians must read this chapter. It throws a great light on
the nature of man. I cannot explain how and why I burnt my fingers at
the first steps I made in setting out on my journey around my room,
until I expose my system of the soul and the beast. In the course of
diverse observations I have found out that man is composed of a soul and
a beast.
It is often said that man is made up of a soul and a body, and this body
is accused of doing all sorts of wrong things. In my opinion, there is
no ground for such accusations, for the body is as incapable of feeling
as it is of thinking. The beast is the creature on whom the blame should
be laid. It is a sensible being, perfectly distinct from the soul, a
veritable individual, with its separate existence, tastes, inclinations,
and will; it is superior to other animals only because it has been
better brought up, and endowed with finer organs. The great art of a man
of genius consists in knowing how to train his beast so well that it can
run alone, while the soul, delivered from its painful company, rises up
into the heavens. I must make this clear by an example.
One day last summer I was walking along on my way to the court. I had
been painting all the morning, and my soul, delighted with her
meditation on painting, left to the beast the care of transporting me to
the king's palace.
"What a sublime art painting is!" thought my soul. "Happy is the man who
has been touched by the spectacle of nature, who is not compelled to
paint pictures for a living, and still less just to pass the time away;
but who, struck by the majesty of a fine physiognomy and by the
admirable play of light that blends in a thousand tints on a human face,
tries to approach in his works the sublime effects of nature!"
While my soul was making these reflections, the beast was running its
own way. Instead of going to court, as it had been ordered to, it
swerved so much to the left that at the moment when my soul caught it
up, it was at the door of Mme. de Hautcastel's house, half a mile from
the palace.
* * * * *
If it is useful and pleasant to have a soul so disengaged from the
material world that one can let her travel all alone when one wishes to,
this faculty is not without its inconveniences. It was through it, for
instance, that I burnt my fingers. I usually leave to my beast the duty
of preparing my breakfast. It toasts my bread and cuts it in slices.
Above all, it makes coffee beautifully, and it drinks it very often
without my soul taking part in the matter, except when she amuses
herself with watching the beast at work. This, however, is rare, and a
very difficult thing to do.
It is easy, during some mechanical act, to think of something else; but
it is extremely difficult to study oneself in action, so to speak; or,
to explain myself according to my own system, to employ one's soul in
examining the conduct of one's beast, to see it work without taking any
part. This is really the most astonishing metaphysical feat that man can
execute.
I had laid my tongs on the charcoal to toast my bread, and some time
after, while my soul was on her travels, a flaming stump rolled on the
grate; my poor beast went to take up the tongs, and I burnt my fingers.
_IV.--A Great Picture_
The first stage of my journey round my room is accomplished. While my
soul has been explaining my new system of metaphysic, I have been
sitting in my armchair in my favourite attitude, with the two front feet
raised a couple of inches off the floor. By swaying my body to and fro,
I have insensibly gained ground, and I find myself with a start close to
the wall. This is the way in which I travel when I am not in a hurry.
My chamber is hung with prints and paintings which embellish it in an
admirable manner. I should like the reader to examine them one after the
other, and to entertain himself during the long journey that we must
make in order to arrive at my desk. Look, here is a portrait of Raphael.
Beside it is a likeness of the adorable lady whom he loved.
But I have something still finer than these, and I always reserve it for
the last. I find that both connoisseurs and ignoramuses, both women of
the world and little children, yes, and even animals, are pleased and
astonished by the way in which this sublime work renders every effect in
nature. What picture can I present to you, gentlemen; what scene can I
put beneath your lovely eyes, ladies, more certain of winning your
favour than the faithful image of yourselves? The work of which I speak
is a looking-glass, and nobody up to the present has taken it into his
head to criticise it; it is, for all those who study it, a perfect
picture in which there is nothing to blame. It is thus the gem of my
collection.
You see this withered rose? It is a flower of the Turin carnival of last
year. I gathered it myself at Valentin's, and in the evening, an hour
before the ball, I went full of hope and joy to present it to Mme. de
Hautcastel. She took it, and placed it on her dressing-table without
looking at it, and without looking at me. But how could she take any
notice of me? Standing in an ectasy before a great mirror, she was
putting the last touches to her finery. So totally was she absorbed in
the ribbons, the gauzes, the ornaments heaped up before her, that I
could not obtain a glance, a sign. I finished my losing patience, and
being unable to resist the feeling of anger that swept over me, I took
up the rose and walked out without taking leave of my sweetheart.
"Are you going?" she said, turning round to see her figure in profile.
I did not answer, but I listened at the door to learn if my brusque
departure produced any effect.
"Do you not see," exclaimed Mme. de Hautcastel to her maid, after a
short silence, "that this pelisse is much too full at the bottom? Get
some pins and make a tuck in it."
That is how I come to have a withered rose on my desk. I shall make no
reflections on the affair. I shall not even draw any conclusions from it
concerning the force and duration of a woman's love.
My forty-two days are coming to an end, and an equal space of time would
not suffice to describe the rich country in which I am now travelling,
for I have at last reached my bookshelf. It contains nothing but
novels--yes, I shall be candid--nothing but novels and a few choice
poets. As though I had not enough troubles of my own, I willingly share
in those of a thousand imaginary persons, and I feel them as keenly as
if they were mine. What tears have I shed over the unhappiness of
Clarissa!
But if I thus seek for feigned afflictions, I find, in compensation, in
this imaginary world, the virtue, the goodness, the disinterestedness
which I have been unable to discover together in the real world in which
I exist. It is there that I find the wife that I desire, without temper,
without lightness, without subterfuge; I say nothing about beauty--you
can depend on my imagination for that! Then, closing the book which no
longer answers to my ideas, I take her by the hand, and we wander
together through a land a thousand times more delicious than that of
Eden. What painter can depict the scene of enchantment in which I have
placed the divinity of my heart? But when I am tired of love-making I
take up some poet, and set out again for another world.
_V.--In Prison Again_
O charming land of imagination which has been given to men to console
them for the realities of life, it is time for me to leave thee! This is
the day when certain persons pretend to give me back my freedom, as
though they had deprived me of it! As though it were in their power to
take it away from me for a single instant, and to hinder me from
scouring as I please the vast space always open before me! They have
prevented me from going out into a single town--Turin, a mere point on
the earth--but they have left to me the entire universe; immensity and
eternity have been at my service.
To-day, then, I am free, or rather I am going to be put back into irons.
The yoke of business is again going to weigh me down; I shall not be
able to take a step which is not measured by custom or duty. I shall be
fortunate if some capricious goddess does not make me forget one and the
other, and if I escape from this new and dangerous captivity.
Oh, why did they not let me complete my journey! Was it really to punish
me that they confined me in my room? In this country of delight which
contains all the good things, all the riches of the world? They might as
well have tried to chastise a mouse by shutting him up in a granary.
Yet never have I perceived more clearly that I have a double nature. All
the time that I am regretting my pleasures of the imagination, I feel
myself consoled by force. A secret power draws me away. It tells me that
I have need of the fresh air and the open sky, and that solitude
resembles death. So here am I dressed and ready. My door opens; I am
rambling under the spacious porticoes of the street of Po; a thousand
charming phantoms dance before my eyes. Yes, this is her mansion, this
is the door; I tremble with anticipation.
* * * * *