“Another Vandal punished by Venus! Would that all the destroyers of our
ancient monuments had their heads broken in the same way!”
With this charitable desire, I fell asleep.
It was broad daylight when I awoke. At one side of my bed stood M. de
Peyrehorade in his dressing-gown; at the other a servant, sent by his
wife, a cup of chocolate in his hand.
“Come! get up, Parisian! That’s just like you lazy people from the
capital!” said my host, while I dressed myself hurriedly. “Eight
o’clock, and still in bed! Why, I’ve been up since six o’clock! This
is the third time I’ve been upstairs; I went to your door on tiptoe;
no one, no sign of life. It is bad for you to sleep too much at your
age. And my Venus, whom you have not seen yet! Come, quick and take
this cup of Barcelona chocolate.... Real smuggled.... Chocolate such
as you don’t have in Paris. Fortify yourself, for, once you are in the
presence of my Venus, there will be no tearing you away from her.”
In five minutes I was ready, that is to say, half shaved, buttoned
awry, and scalded by the chocolate that I had swallowed boiling hot. I
went down to the garden, and found myself before an admirable statue.
It really was a Venus of marvellous beauty. The upper part of the body
was nude, as the ancients usually represented the greater divinities;
the right hand, raised level with the breast, was turned palm inwards,
the thumb and first two fingers extended, the others slightly bent. The
other hand, approaching her haunch, supported the drapery that covered
the lower part of the body. The pose of the statue recalled that of the
player at morra, which is designated, for some reason or other, by the
name of Germanicus. Perhaps the intention was to represent the goddess
as playing at morra.
Be that as it may, nothing more perfect could possibly be seen than
the body of that Venus; nothing more suave, more voluptuous than its
contours; nothing more elegant and more noble than its drapery. I had
expected some work of the Lower Empire; I saw a masterpiece of the best
period of sculpture. What struck me above all was the exquisite truth
of the forms, so much so that one might have supposed them moulded from
nature, if nature produced such perfect models.
The hair, piled above the forehead, seemed to have been gilded at
one time. The head, small like that of almost all Greek statues, was
slightly inclined forwards. As for the face, I shall never succeed in
expressing its strange character, the type of which was not like that
of any other antique statue that I can remember. It was not the calm
and severe beauty of the Greek sculptors, who, on system, gave all the
features a majestic immobility. Here, on the contrary, I observed with
surprise the distinct intention of the artist to render mischievousness
almost bordering on malice. All the features were slightly contracted:
the eyes a little oblique, the mouth raised at the corners, the
nostrils somewhat distended. Disdain, irony, cruelty were to be read
on this visage, which was at the same time of an incredible beauty.
In fact, the more one looked at that admirable statue, the more one
experienced a feeling of pain that such marvellous beauty could be
allied to utter absence of sensibility.
“If the model ever existed,” I said to M. de Peyrehorade--” and I doubt
if Heaven ever produced such a woman--how I pity her lovers! She must
have found pleasure in making them die of despair. There is something
ferocious in her expression, and yet I have never seen anything so
beautiful.”
“‛Tis Venus’ self a stooping o’er her prey!”
exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade, gratified at my enthusiasm.
The expression of infernal irony was augmented, perhaps, by the
contrast between her eyes inlaid with silver, very brilliant, and the
blackish-green patina which time had given to the whole statue. Those
brilliant eyes produced a certain illusion, which recalled reality,
life. I remembered what my guide had told me, that she made those who
looked at her cast down their eyes. That was almost true, and I could
not refrain from a gesture of anger against myself at feeling somewhat
ill at ease before this figure of bronze.
“Now that you have admired everything in detail, my dear colleague
in the antique,” said my host, “let us proceed, if you please, to a
scientific discussion. What do you say about this inscription, to which
you have not paid any attention as yet?”
He showed me the base of the statue, and there I read these words: