Countess Coronini--A Lover's Pique--Reconciliation--The First Meeting--A
Philosophical Parenthesis
My beautiful nun had not spoken to me, and I was glad of it, for I was so
astonished, so completely under the spell of her beauty, that I might
have given her a very poor opinion of my intelligence by the rambling
answers which I should very likely have given to her questions. I knew
her to be certain that she had not to fear the humiliation of a refusal
from me, but I admired her courage in running the risk of it in her
position. I could hardly understand her boldness, and I could not
conceive how she contrived to enjoy so much liberty. A casino at Muran!
the possibility of going to Venice to sup with a young man! It was all
very surprising, and I decided in my own mind that she had an
acknowledged lover whose pleasure it was to make her happy by satisfying
her caprices. It is true that such a thought was rather unpleasant to my
pride, but there was too much piquancy in the adventure, the heroine of
it was too attractive, for me to be stopped by any considerations. I saw
very well that I was taking the high road to become unfaithful to my dear
C---- C----, or rather that I was already so in thought and will, but I
must confess that, in spite of all my love for that charming child, I
felt no qualms of conscience. It seemed to me that an infidelity of that
sort, if she ever heard of it, would not displease her, for that short
excursion on strange ground would only keep me alive and in good
condition for her, because it would save me from the weariness which was
surely killing me.
I had been presented to the celebrated Countess Coronini by a nun, a
relative of M. Dandolo. That countess, who had been very handsome and was
very witty, having made up her mind to renounce the political intrigues
which had been the study of her whole life, had sought a retreat in the
Convent of St. Justine, in the hope of finding in that refuge the calm
which she wanted, and which her disgust of society had rendered necessary
to her. As she had enjoyed a very great reputation, she was still visited
at the convent by all the foreign ambassadors and by the first noblemen
of Venice; inside of the walls of her convent the countess was acquainted
with everything that happened in the city. She always received me very
kindly, and, treating me as a young man, she took pleasure in giving me,
every time I called on her, very agreeable lessons in morals. Being quite
certain to find out from her, with a little manoeuvering, something
concerning M---- M----, I decided on paying her a visit the day after I
had seen the beautiful nun.
The countess gave me her usual welcome, and, after the thousand nothings
which it is the custom to utter in society before anything worth saying
is spoken, I led the conversation up to the convents of Venice. We spoke
of the wit and influence of a nun called Celsi, who, although ugly, had
an immense credit everywhere and in everything. We mentioned afterwards
the young and lovely Sister Michali, who had taken the veil to prove to
her mother that she was superior to her in intelligence and wit. After
speaking of several other nuns who had the reputation of being addicted
to gallantry, I named M---- M----, remarking that most likely she deserved
that reputation likewise, but that she was an enigma. The countess
answered with a smile that she was not an enigma for everybody, although
she was necessarily so for most people.
"What is incomprehensible," she said, "is the caprice that she took
suddenly to become a nun, being handsome, rich, free, well-educated, full
of wit, and, to my knowledge, a Free-thinker. She took the veil without
any reason, physical or moral; it was a mere caprice."
"Do you believe her to be happy, madam?"
"Yes, unless she has repented her decision, or if she does not repent it
some day. But if ever she does, I think she will be wise enough never to
say so to anyone."
Satisfied by the mysterious air of the countess that M---- M---- had a
lover, I made up my mind not to trouble myself about it, and having put
on my mask I went to Muran in the afternoon. When I reached the gate of
the convent I rang the bell, and with an anxious heart I asked for
M---- M---- in the name of Madame de S----. The small parlour being closed,
the attendant pointed out to me the one in which I had to go. I went in,
took off my mask, and sat down waiting for my divinity.
My heart was beating furiously; I was waiting with great impatience; yet
that expectation was not without charm, for I dreaded the beginning of
the interview. An hour passed pretty rapidly, but I began then to find
the time rather long, and thinking that, perhaps, the attendant had not
rightly understood me, I rang the bell, and enquired whether notice of my
visit had being given to Sister M---- M----. A voice answered
affirmatively. I took my seat again, and a few minutes afterwards an old,
toothless nun came in and informed me that Sister M---- M---- was engaged
for the whole day. Without giving me time to utter a single word, the
woman left the parlour. This was one of those terrible moments to which
the man who worships at the shrine of the god of love is exposed! They
are indeed cruel moments; they bring fearful sorrow, they may cause
death.
Feeling myself disgraced, my first sensation was utter contempt for
myself, an inward despair which was akin to rage; the second was
disdainful indignation against the nun, upon whom I passed the severe
judgment which I thought she deserved, and which was the only way I had
to soothe my grief. Such behaviour proclaimed her to be the most impudent
of women, and entirely wanting in good sense; for the two letters she had
written to me were quite enough to ruin her character if I had wished to
revenge myself, and she evidently could not expect anything else from me.
She must have been mad to set at defiance my revengeful feelings, and I
should certainly have thought that she was insane if I had not heard her
converse with the countess.
Time, they say, brings good counsel; it certainly brings calm, and cool
reflection gives lucidity to the mind. At last I persuaded myself that
what had occurred was after all in no way extraordinary, and that I would
certainly have considered it at first a very common occurrence if I had
not been dazzled by the wonderful beauty of the nun, and blinded by my
own vanity. As a very natural result I felt that I was at liberty to
laugh at my mishap, and that nobody could possibly guess whether my mirth
was genuine or only counterfeit. Sophism is so officious!
But, in spite of all my fine arguments, I still cherished the thought of
revenge; no debasing element, however, was to form part of it, and being
determined not to leave the person who had been guilty of such a bad
practical joke the slightest cause of triumph, I had the courage not to
shew any vexation. She had sent word to me that she was engaged; nothing
more natural; the part I had to play was to appear indifferent. "Most
likely she will not be engaged another time," I said to myself, "but I
defy her to catch me in the snare again. I mean to shew her that I only
laugh at her uncivil behaviour." Of course I intended to send back her
letters, but not without the accompaniment of a billet-doux, the
gallantry of which was not likely to please her.
The worse part of the affair for me was to be compelled to go to her
church; because, supposing her not to be aware of my going there for
C---- C----, she might imagine that the only object of my visits was to
give her the opportunity of apologizing for her conduct and of appointing
a new meeting. I wanted her to entertain no doubt of my utter contempt
for her person, and I felt certain that she had proposed the other
meetings in Venice and at the casino of Muran only to deceive me more
easily.
I went to bed with a great thirst for revenge, I fell asleep thinking of
it, and I awoke with the resolution of quenching it. I began to write,
but, as I wished particularly that my letter should not show the pique of
the disappointed lover, I left it on my table with the intention of
reading it again the next day. It proved a useful precaution, for when I
read it over, twenty-four hours afterwards, I found it unworthy of me,
and tore it to pieces. It contained some sentences which savoured too
much of my weakness, my love, and my spite, and which, far from
humiliating her, would only have given her occasion to laugh at me.
On the Wednesday after I had written to C---- C---- that very serious
reasons compelled me to give up my visits to the church of her convent, I
wrote another letter to the nun, but on Thursday it had the same fate as
the first, because upon a second perusal I found the same deficiencies.
It seemed to me that I had lost the faculty of writing. Ten days
afterwards I found out that I was too deeply in love to have the power of
expressing myself in any other way than through the feelings of my heart.
'Sincerium est nisi vas, quodcunque infundis acescit.'
The face of M---- M---- had made too deep an impression on me; nothing
could possibly obliterate it except the all-powerful influence of time.
In my ridiculous position I was sorely tempted to complain to Countess
S----; but I am happy to say I was prudent enough not to cross the
threshold of her door. At last I bethought myself that the giddy nun was
certainly labouring under constant dread, knowing that I had in my
possession her two letters, with which I could ruin her reputation and
cause the greatest injury to the convent, and I sent them back to her
with the following note, after I had kept them ten days:
"I can assure you, madam, that it was owing only to forgetfulness that I
did not return your two letters which you will find enclosed. I have
never thought of belying my own nature by taking a cowardly revenge upon
you, and I forgive you most willingly the two giddy acts of which you
have been guilty, whether they were committed thoughtlessly or because
you wanted to enjoy a joke at my expense. Nevertheless, you will allow me
to advise you not to treat any other man in the same way, for you might
meet with one endowed with less delicacy. I know your name, I know who
you are, but you need not be anxious; it is exactly as if I did not know
it. You may, perhaps, care but little for my discretion, but if it should
be so I should greatly pity you.
"You may be aware that I shall not shew myself again at your church; but
let me assure you that it is not a sacrifice on my part, and that I can
attend mass anywhere else. Yet I must tell you why I shall abstain from
frequenting the church of your convent. It is very natural for me to
suppose that to the two thoughtless acts of which you have been guilty,
you have added another not less serious, namely, that of having boasted
of your exploits with the other nuns, and I do not want to be the butt of
your jokes in cell or parlour. Do not think me too ridiculous if, in
spite of being five or six years older than you, I have not thrown off
all feelings of self-respect, or trodden under, my feet all reserve and
propriety; in one word, if I have kept some prejudices, there are a few
which in my opinion ought never to be forgotten. Do not disdain, madam,
the lesson which I take the liberty to teach you, as I receive in the
kindest spirit the one which you have given me, most likely only for the
sake of fun, but by which I promise you to profit as long as I live."
I thought that, considering all circumstances, my letter was a very
genial one; I made up my parcel, put on my mask, and looked out for a
porter who could have no knowledge of me; I gave him half a sequin, and I
promised him as much more when he could assure me that he had faithfully
delivered my letter at the convent of Muran. I gave him all the necessary
instructions, and cautioned him to go away the very moment he had
delivered the letter at the gate of the convent, even if he were told to
wait. I must say here that my messenger was a man from Forli, and that
the Forlanese were then the most trustworthy men in Venice; for one of
them to be guilty of a breach of trust was an unheard-of thing. Such men
were formerly the Savoyards, in Paris; but everything is getting worse in
this world.
I was beginning to forget the adventure, probably because I thought,
rightly or wrongly, that I had put an insurmountable barrier between the
nun and myself, when, ten days after I had sent my letter, as I was
coming out of the opera, I met my messenger, lantern in hand. I called
him, and without taking off my mask I asked him whether he knew me. He
looked at me, eyed me from head to foot, and finally answered that he did
not.
"Did you faithfully carry the message to Muran?"
"Ah, sir! God be praised! I am very happy to see you again, for I have an
important communication to make to you. I took your letter, delivered it
according to your instructions, and I went away as soon as it was in the
hands of the attendant, although she requested me to wait. When I
returned from Muran I did not see you, but that did not matter. On the
following day, one of my companions, who happened to be at the gate of
the convent when I delivered your letter, came early in the morning to
tell me to go to Muran, because the attendant wanted particularly to
speak to me. I went there, and after waiting for a few minutes I was
shewn into the parlour, where I was kept for more than an hour by a nun
as beautiful as the light of day, who asked me a thousand questions for
the purpose of ascertaining, if not who you are, at least where I should
be likely to find you. You know that I could not give her any
satisfactory information. She then left the parlour, ordering me to wait,
and at the end of two hours she came back with a letter which she
entrusted to my hands, telling me that, if I succeeded in finding you out
and in bringing her an answer, she would give me two sequins. In the mean
time I was to call at the convent every day, shew her the letter, and
receive forty sons every time. Until now I have earned twenty crowns, but
I am afraid the lady will get tired of it, and you can make me earn two
sequins by answering a line."
"Where is the letter?"
"In my room under lock and key, for I am always afraid of losing it."
"Then how can I answer?"
"If you will wait for me here, you shall have the letter in less than a
quarter of an hour."
"I will not wait, because I do not care about the letter. But tell me how
you could flatter the nun with the hope of finding me out? You are a
rogue, for it is not likely that she would have trusted you with the
letter if you had not promised her to find me."
"I am not a rogue, for I have done faithfully what you told me; but it is
true that I gave her a description of your coat, your buckles, and your
figure, and I can assure you that for the last ten days I have examined
all the masks who are about your size, but in vain. Now I recognize your
buckles, but I do not think you have the same coat. Alas, sir! it will
not cost you much to write only one line. Be kind enough to wait for me
in the coffee-house close by."
I could not resist my curiosity any longer, and I made up my mind not to
wait for him but to accompany him as far as his house. I had only to
write, "I have received the letter," and my curiosity was gratified and
the Forlanese earned his two sequins. I could afterwards change my
buckles and my mask, and thus set all enquiries at defiance.
I therefore followed him to his door; he went in and brought me the
letter. I took him to an inn, where I asked for a room with a good fire,
and I told my man to wait. I broke the seal of the parcel--a rather large
one, and the first papers that I saw were the two letters which I had
sent back to her in order to allay her anxiety as to the possible
consequences of her giddiness.
The sight of these letters caused me such a palpitation of the heart that
I was compelled to sit down: it was a most evident sign of my defeat.
Besides these two letters I found a third one signed "S." and addressed
to M---- M----. I read the following lines:
"The mask who accompanied me back to my house would not, I believe, have
uttered a single word, if I had not told him that the charms of your
witty mind were even more bewitching than those of your person; and his
answer was, 'I have seen the one, and I believe in the other.' I added
that I did not understand why you had not spoken to him, and he said,
with a smile, 'I refused to be presented to her, and she punished me for
it by not appearing to know that I was present.' These few words were all
our dialogue. I intended to send you this note this morning, but found it
impossible. Adieu."
After reading this note, which stated the exact truth, and which could be
considered as proof, my heart began to beat less quickly. Delighted at
seeing myself on the point of being convicted of injustice, I took
courage, and I read the following letter:
"Owing to an excusable weakness, feeling curious to know what you would
say about me to the countess after you had seen me, I took an opportunity
of asking her to let me know all you said to her on the following day at
latest, for I foresaw that you would pay me a visit in the afternoon. Her
letter, which I enclose, and which I beg you to read, did not reach me
till half an hour after you had left the convent.
"This was the first fatality.
"Not having received that letter when you called, I had not the courage
to see you. This absurd weakness on my part was the second fatality, but
the weakness you will; I hope; forgive. I gave orders to the lay-sister
to tell you that I was ill for the whole day; a very legitimate excuse;
whether true or false, for it was an officious untruth, the correction of
which, was to be found in the words: for the whole day. You had already
left the convent, and I could not possibly send anyone to run after you,
when the old fool informed me of her having told you that I was engaged.
"This was the third fatality.
"You cannot imagine what I had a mind to do and to say to that foolish
sister; but here one must say or do nothing; one must be patient and
dissemble, thanking God when mistakes are the result of ignorance and not
of wickedness--a very common thing in convents. I foresaw at once, at
least partly; what would happen; and what has actually, happened; for no
reasonable being could, I believe, have foreseen it all. I guessed that,
thinking yourself the victim of a joke, you would be incensed, and I felt
miserable, for I did not see any way of letting you know the truth before
the following Sunday. My heart longed ardently for that day. Could I
possibly imagine that you, would take a resolution not to come again to
our church! I tried to be patient until that Sunday; but when I found
myself disappointed in my hope, my misery became unbearable, and it will
cause my death if you refuse to listen to my justification. Your letter
has made me completely unhappy, and I shall not resist my despair if you
persist in the cruel resolve expressed by your unfeeling letter. You have
considered yourself trifled with; that is all you can say; but will this
letter convince you of your error? And even believing yourself deceived
in the most scandalous manner, you must admit that to write such an awful
letter you must have supposed me an abominable wretch--a monster, such as
a woman of noble birth and of refined education cannot possibly be. I
enclose the two letters you sent back to me, with the idea of allaying my
fears which you cruelly supposed very different to what they are in
reality. I am a better physiognomist than you, and you must be quite
certain that I have not acted thoughtlessly, for I never thought you
capable, I will not say of crime, but even of an indelicate action. You
must have read on my features the signs only of giddy impudence, and that
is not my nature. You may be the cause of my death, you will certainly
make me miserable for the remainder of my life, if you do not justify
yourself; on my side I think the justification is complete.
"I hope that, even if you feel no interest in my life, you will think
that you are bound in honour to come and speak to me. Come yourself to
recall all you have written; it is your duty, and I deserve it. If you do
not realize the fatal effect produced upon me by your letter, I must
indeed pity you, in spite of my misery, for it proves that you have not
the slightest knowledge of the human heart. But I feel certain that you
will come back, provided the man to whom I trust this letter contrives to
find you. Adieu! I expect life or death from you."
I did not require to read that letter twice; I was ashamed and in
despair. M---- M---- was right. I called the Forlanese, enquired from him
whether he had spoken to her in the morning, and whether she looked ill.
He answered that he had found her looking more unhappy every day, and
that her eyes were red from weeping.
"Go down again and wait," I said to him.
I began to write, and I had not concluded my long screed before the dawn
of day; here are, word by word, the contents of the letter which I wrote
to the noblest of women, whom in my unreasonable spite I had judged so
wrongly.
"I plead guilty, madam; I cannot possibly justify myself, and I am
perfectly convinced of your innocence. I should be disconsolate if I did
not hope to obtain pardon, and you will not refuse to forgive me if you
are kind enough to recollect the cause of my guilt. I saw you; I was
dazzled, and I could not realize a happiness which seemed to me a dream;
I thought myself the prey of one of those delightful illusions which
vanish when we wake up. The doubt under which I was labouring could not
be cleared up for twenty-four hours, and how could I express my feverish
impatience as I was longing for that happy moment! It came at last! and
my heart, throbbing with desire and hope, was flying towards you while I
was in the parlour counting the minutes! Yet an hour passed almost
rapidly, and not unnaturally, considering my impatience and the deep
impression I felt at the idea of seeing you. But then, precisely at the
very moment when I believed myself certain that I was going to gaze upon
the beloved features which had been in one interview indelibly engraved
upon my heart, I saw the most disagreeable face appear, and a creature
announced that you were engaged for the whole day, and without giving me
time to utter one word she disappeared! You may imagine my astonishment
and... the rest. The lightning would not have produced upon me a more
rapid, a more terrible effect! If you had sent me a line by that
sister--a line from your hand--I would have gone away, if not pleased, at
least submissive and resigned.
"But that was a fourth fatality which you have forgotten to add to your
delightful and witty justification. Thinking myself scoffed at, my
self-love rebelled, and indignation for the moment silenced love. Shame
overwhelmed me! I thought that everybody could read on my face all the
horror in my heart, and I saw in you, under the outward appearance of an
angel, nothing but a fearful daughter of the Prince of Darkness. My mind
was thoroughly upset, and at the end of eleven days I lost the small
portion of good sense that was left in me--at least I must suppose so, as
it is then that I wrote to you the letter of which you have so good a
right to complain, and which at that time seemed to me a masterpiece of
moderation.
"But I hope it is all over now, and this very day at eleven o'clock you
will see me at your feet--tender, submissive and repentant. You will
forgive me, divine woman, or I will myself avenge you for the insult I
have hurled at you. The only thing which I dare to ask from you as a
great favour is to burn my first letter, and never to mention it again. I
sent it only after I had written four, which I destroyed one after the
other: you may therefore imagine the state of my heart.
"I have given orders to my messenger to go to your convent at once, so
that my letter can be delivered to you as soon as you wake in the
morning. He would never have discovered me, if my good angel had not made
me go up to him at the door of the opera-house. But I shall not require
his services any more; do not answer me, and receive all the devotion of
a heart which adores you."
When my letter was finished, I called my Forlanese, gave him one sequin,
and I made him promise me to go to Muran immediately, and to deliver my
letter only to the nun herself. As soon as he had gone I threw myself on
my bed, but anxiety and burning impatience would not allow me to sleep.
I need not tell the reader who knows the state of excitement under which
I was labouring, that I was punctual in presenting myself at the convent.
I was shewn into the small parlour where I had seen her for the first
time, and she almost immediately made her entrance. As soon as I saw her
near the grating I fell on my knees, but she entreated me to rise at once
as I might be seen. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her looks
seemed to me heavenly. She sat down, and I took a seat opposite to her.
We remained several minutes motionless, gazing at each other without
speaking, but I broke the silence by asking her, in a voice full of love
and anxiety, whether I could hope to obtain my pardon. She gave me her
beautiful hand through the grating, and I covered it with tears and
kisses.
"Our acquaintance," she said, "has begun with a violent storm; let us
hope that we shall now enjoy it long in perfect and lasting calm. This is
the first time that we speak to one another, but what has occurred must
be enough to give us a thorough knowledge of each other. I trust that our
intimacy will be as tender as sincere, and that we shall know how to have
a mutual indulgence for our faults."
"Can such an angel as you have any?"
"Ah, my friend! who is without them?"
"When shall I have the happiness of convincing you of my devotion with
complete freedom and in all the joy of my heart?"
"We will take supper together at my casino whenever you please, provided
you give me notice two days beforehand; or I will go and sup with you in
Venice, if it will not disturb your arrangements."
"It would only increase my happiness. I think it right to tell you that I
am in very easy circumstances, and that, far from fearing expense, I
delight in it: all I possess belongs to the woman I love."
"That confidence, my dear friend, is very agreeable to me, the more so
that I have likewise to tell you that I am very rich, and that I could
not refuse anything to my lover."
"But you must have a lover?"
"Yes; it is through him that I am rich, and he is entirely my master. I
never conceal anything from him. The day after to-morrow, when I am alone
with you, I will tell you more."
"But I hope that your lover...."
"Will not be there? Certainly not. Have you a mistress?"
"I had one, but, alas! she has been taken from me by violent means, and
for the last six months I have led a life of complete celibacy."
"Do you love her still?"
"I cannot think of her without loving her. She has almost as great
charms, as great beauty, as you have; but I foresee that you will make me
forget her."
"If your happiness with her was complete, I pity you. She has been
violently taken from you, and you shun society in order to feed your
sorrow. I have guessed right, have I not? But if I happen to take
possession of her place in your heart, no one, my sweet friend, shall
turn me out of it."
"But what will your lover say?"
"He will be delighted to see me happy with such a lover as you. It is in
his nature."
"What an admirable nature! Such heroism is quite beyond me!"
"What sort of a life do you lead in Venice?"
"I live at the theatres, in society, in the casinos, where I fight
against fortune sometimes with good sometimes with bad success."
"Do you visit the foreign ambassadors?"
"No, because I am too much acquainted with the nobility; but I know them
all."
"How can you know them if you do not see them?"
"I have known them abroad. In Parma the Duke de Montalegre, the Spanish
ambassador; in Vienna I knew Count Rosemberg; in Paris, about two years
ago, the French ambassador."
"It is near twelve o'clock, my dear friend; it is time for us to part.
Come at the same hour the day after tomorrow, and I will give you all the
instructions which you will require to enable you to come and sup with
me."
"Alone?"
"Of course."
"May I venture to ask you for a pledge? The happiness which you promise
me is so immense!"
"What pledge do you want?"
"To see you standing before that small window in the grating with
permission for me to occupy the same place as Madame de S----."
She rose at once, and, with the most gracious smile, touched the spring;
after a most expressive kiss, I took leave of her. She followed me with
her eyes as far as the door, and her loving gaze would have rooted me to
the spot if she had not left the room.
I spent the two days of expectation in a whirl of impatient joy, which
prevented me from eating and sleeping; for it seemed to me that no other
love had ever given me such happiness, or rather that I was going to be
happy for the first time.
Irrespective of birth, beauty, and wit, which was the principal merit of
my new conquest, prejudice was there to enhance a hundredfold my
felicity, for she was a vestal: it was forbidden fruit, and who does not
know that, from Eve down to our days, it was that fruit which has always
appeared the most delicious! I was on the point of encroaching upon the
rights of an all-powerful husband; in my eyes M---- M---- was above all the
queens of the earth.
If my reason had not been the slave of passion, I should have known that
my nun could not be a different creature from all the pretty women whom I
had loved for the thirteen years that I had been labouring in the fields
of love. But where is the man in love who can harbour such a thought? If
it presents itself too often to his mind, he expels it disdainfully!
M---- M---- could not by any means be otherwise than superior to all other
women in the wide world.
Animal nature, which chemists call the animal kingdom, obtains through
instinct the three various means necessary for the perpetuation of its
species.
There are three real wants which nature has implanted in all human
creatures. They must feed themselves, and to prevent that task from being
insipid and tedious they have the agreeable sensation of appetite, which
they feel pleasure in satisfying. They must propagate their respective
species; an absolute necessity which proves the wisdom of the Creator,
since without reproduction all would, be annihilated--by the constant law
of degradation, decay and death. And, whatever St. Augustine may say,
human creatures would not perform the work of generation if they did not
find pleasure in it, and if there was not in that great work an
irresistible attraction for them. In the third place, all creatures have
a determined and invincible propensity to destroy their enemies; and it
is certainly a very wise ordination, for that feeling of
self-preservation makes it a duty for them to do their best for the
destruction of whatever can injure them.
Each species obeys these laws in its own way. The three sensations:
hunger, desire, and hatred--are in animals the satisfaction of habitual
instinct, and cannot be called pleasures, for they can be so only in
proportion to the intelligence of the individual. Man alone is gifted
with the perfect organs which render real pleasure peculiar to him;
because, being, endowed with the sublime faculty of reason, he foresees
enjoyment, looks for it, composes, improves, and increases it by thought
and recollection. I entreat you, dear reader, not to get weary of
following me in my ramblings; for now that I am but the shadow of the
once brilliant Casanova, I love to chatter; and if you were to give me
the slip, you would be neither polite nor obliging.
Man comes down to the level of beasts whenever he gives himself up to the
three natural propensities without calling reason and judgment to his
assistance; but when the mind gives perfect equilibrium to those
propensities, the sensations derived from them become true enjoyment, an
unaccountable feeling which gives us what is called happiness, and which
we experience without being able to describe it.
The voluptuous man who reasons, disdains greediness, rejects with
contempt lust and lewdness, and spurns the brutal revenge which is caused
by a first movement of anger: but he is dainty, and satisfies his
appetite only in a manner in harmony with his nature and his tastes; he
is amorous, but he enjoys himself with the object of his love only when
he is certain that she will share his enjoyment, which can never be the
case unless their love is mutual; if he is offended, he does not care for
revenge until he has calmly considered the best means to enjoy it fully.
If he is sometimes more cruel than necessary, he consoles himself with
the idea that he has acted under the empire of reason; and his revenge is
sometimes so noble that he finds it in forgiveness. Those three
operations are the work of the soul which, to procure enjoyment for
itself, becomes the agent of our passions. We sometimes suffer from
hunger in order to enjoy better the food which will allay it; we delay
the amorous enjoyment for the sake of making it more intense, and we put
off the moment of our revenge in order to mike it more certain. It is
true, however, that one may die from indigestion, that we allow ourselves
to be often deceived in love, and that the creature we want to annihilate
often escapes our revenge; but perfection cannot be attained in anything,
and those are risks which we run most willingly.