{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_62519/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_62519","id":"gutenberg_62519","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62519","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Travel Writing","French literature -- Translations into English"],"text":"[Illustration]\n\n                       A JOURNEY ROUND MY ROOM.\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n                               A JOURNEY\n\n                             ROUND MY ROOM\n\n                         BY XAVIER DE MAISTRE\n\n               TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH WITH A NOTICE\n\n                         OF THE AUTHOR\u2019S LIFE\n\n                               BY H. A.\n\n                            [Illustration]\n\n\n                                LONDON\n\n                  LONGMANS, GREEN, READER, AND DYER.\n\n                                 1871\n\n          H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO., PRINTERS, RIVERSIDE PRESS,\n                              CAMBRIDGE.\n\n\n                                  TO\n\n                                 S. A.\n\n                                 H. A.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe author of the \u201cVoyage autour de ma Chambre\u201d was the younger brother\nof Count Joseph de Maistre, a well-known writer upon political and\nphilosophical subjects. Chamb\u00e9ry was the place of their birth, but their\nfamily was of French origin. Both brothers were officers in the\nSardinian army; and when Savoy was conquered by the French, Xavier de\nMaistre sought an asylum in Saint Petersburg, where his brother resided\nin the capacity of envoy from the court of Sardinia. Xavier entered the\nRussian army, distinguished himself in the war against Persia, and\nattained the rank of major-general.\n\nOur interest in the \u201cVoyage\u201d is heightened by our knowledge that it was\nactually written during De Maistre\u2019s forty-two days\u2019 arrest at Turin,\nreferred to in the third chapter. He sent the manuscript, which he\nregarded as a mere playful effort of his imagination, for his brother\u2019s\nperusal. Joseph was pleased with the book; and Xavier, who had an almost\nfilial affection for his brother, was soon afterwards agreeably\nsurprised by receiving, in place of his manuscript, the \u201cVoyage\u201d in\nprint.\n\nThis success encouraged him to begin a sequel to the \u201cVoyage.\u201d Joseph,\nhowever, disapproved of this new attempt. The \u201cExp\u00e9dition Nocturne\u201d was,\nnotwithstanding, finished, and was published some years later.\n\nXavier de Maistre\u2019s next production (1811) was \u201cLe L\u00e9preux de la Cit\u00e9\nd\u2019Aoste,\u201d a very touching and gracefully written narrative. It occupies\nbut a few pages; and, as it is to be found in almost every good\nanthology of French literature, is perhaps the best known of our\nauthor\u2019s works.\n\nHis other books are \u201cLes Prisonniers du Caucase\u201d (1815) and \u201cLa Jeune\nSib\u00e9rienne,\u201d both of them charming works, containing faithful pictures\nof domestic scenes with which we are little familiar through other\nsources.\n\nFrom his childhood Xavier de Maistre was devoted to painting. He\ndeservedly gained considerable reputation as a painter of miniature\nportraits and landscapes.\n\nNor did he neglect science while devoting himself to art and\nliterature. He applied himself so successfully to the study of chemistry\nthat he was able to communicate several valuable \u201cM\u00e9moires\u201d to the\nAcademy of Turin, of which he was a member.\n\nXavier de Maistre died (1852) at an advanced age in his adopted country,\nwhere he had married, and which he only quitted once, for a brief\nseason.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSome apology for publishing this translation is perhaps necessary.\n\nAlthough in France the \u201cVoyage\u201d retains the high esteem in which it has\nbeen held for half a century, it is hardly known in England, except by\nthose who are familiar with the French language and literature.\n\nDuring the last twenty years the proportion of educated persons in this\ncountry who are unable to enjoy a French book in the original has\ngreatly decreased. Still, there are some to whom a translation of this\ndelightful work may be acceptable.\n\nTo them I offer the pleasant labor of a few leisure hours; but not\nwithout assuring them that, in endeavoring to reproduce faithfully the\nauthor\u2019s ideas, I have felt at every paragraph how true it is that \u201c_le\nstyle ne se traduit pas_,\u201d--\u201cstyle is untranslatable.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe _headings_ of the chapters are not De Maistre\u2019s. They appear in\nTardieu\u2019s pretty little edition of the \u201cVoyage.\u201d The miniatures, by M.\nVeyssier, are from the same source.\n\nH. A.\n\nBarnes, Surrey.\n\n  _Autumn, 1871._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCHAPTER                                                             PAGE\n\nPREFACE                                                              iii\n\nI. A BOOK OF DISCOVERIES (_Vignette._)                                 1\n\nII. EULOGY OF THE JOURNEY                                              4\n\nIII. LAWS AND CUSTOMS                                                  7\n\nIV. LATITUDE AND TOPOGRAPHY                                           11\n\nV. THE BED                                                            14\n\nVI. FOR METAPHYSICIANS                                                17\n\nVII. THE SOUL                                                         21\n\nVIII. THE ANIMAL                                                      24\n\nIX. PHILOSOPHY                                                        26\n\nX. THE PORTRAIT                                                       29\n\nXI. ROSE AND WHITE                                                    33\n\nXII. THE HILLOCK (_Vignette_.)                                        36\n\nXIII. A HALT                                                          37\n\nXIV. JOANNETTI                                                        38\n\nXV. A DIFFICULTY                                                      42\n\nXVI. SOLUTION (_Vignette_)                                            45\n\nXVII. ROSE                                                            49\n\nXVIII. RESERVE                                                        52\n\nXIX. A TEAR                                                           54\n\nXX. ALBERT AND CHARLOTTE                                              57\n\nXXI. A FRIEND (_Vignette_)                                            59\n\nXXII. JENNY                                                           64\n\nXXIII. THE PICTURE GALLERY                                            66\n\nXXIV. PAINTING AND MUSIC                                              69\n\nXXV. AN OBJECTION                                                     72\n\nXXVI. RAPHAEL                                                         75\n\nXXVII. A PERFECT PICTURE                                              78\n\nXXVIII. THE UPSET CARRIAGE                                            81\n\nXXIX. MISFORTUNE                                                      87\n\nXXX. CHARITY                                                          91\n\nXXXI. INVENTORY                                                       93\n\nXXXII. MISANTHROPY                                                    95\n\nXXXIII. CONSOLATION                                                   98\n\nXXXIV. CORRESPONDENCE                                                 99\n\nXXXV. THE WITHERED ROSE (_Vignette_)                                 104\n\nXXXVI. THE LIBRARY                                                   109\n\nXXXVII. ANOTHER WORLD                                                113\n\nXXXVIII. THE BUST                                                    118\n\nXXXIX. A DIALOGUE                                                    121\n\nXL. IMAGINATION                                                      129\n\nXLI. THE TRAVELLING-COAT                                             132\n\nXLII. ASPASIA\u2019S BUSKIN (_Vignette_)                                  137\n\nLIBERTY                                                              150\n\nCircumstances beyond my control prevented my seeing any proof of these\npages. Such Latinized forms as _behavior_ and _favor_; the misplaced\nhyphen on the first line of page 25; the double _l_ in _skilful_ (p.\n138, last line but one); and the frequent suppression of the former of\ntwo parenthetical commas (as before I, p. 19, l. 18),--these are the few\ndeviations from my manuscript for which the printer is responsible.\n\nThe reader will oblige by substituting _comfortable_ for _agreeable_ on\npage 38 line 3, _sweet_ for _lovely_ on page 68 line 4, and\n_ignoramuses_ for _ignorant_ on page 78 line 12.\n\nH. A.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nWEYSSIER D.      GUILLAUME, S.\n]\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\n_A Book of Discoveries._\n\n\nWhat more glorious than to open for one\u2019s self a new career,--to appear\nsuddenly before the learned world with a book of discoveries in one\u2019s\nhand, like an unlooked-for comet blazing in the empyrean!\n\nNo longer will I keep my book in obscurity. Behold it, gentlemen; read\nit! I have undertaken and performed a forty-two days\u2019 journey round my\nroom. The interesting observations I have made, and the constant\npleasure I have experienced all along the road, made me wish to publish\nmy travels; the certainty of being useful decided the matter. And when\nI think of the number of unhappy ones to whom I offer a never failing\nresource for weary moments, and a balm for the ills they suffer, my\nheart is filled with inexpressible satisfaction. The pleasure to be\nfound in travelling round one\u2019s room is sheltered from the restless\njealousy of men, and is independent of Fortune.\n\nSurely there is no being so miserable as to be without a retreat to\nwhich he can withdraw and hide himself from the world. Such a\nhiding-place will contain all the preparations our journey requires.\n\nEvery man of sense will, I am sure, adopt my system, whatever may be his\npeculiar character or temperament. Be he miserly or prodigal, rich or\npoor, young or old, born beneath the torrid zone or near the poles, he\nmay travel with me. Among the immense family of men who throng the\nearth, there is not one, no, not one (I mean of those who inhabit\nrooms), who, after reading this book can refuse his approbation of the\nnew mode of travelling I introduce into the world.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n_Eulogy of the Journey._\n\n\nI might fairly begin the eulogium of my journey by saying it has cost me\nnothing. This point merits attention. It will gain for it the praise and\nwelcome of people of moderate means. And not of these only: there is\nanother class with whom its success will, on this account, be even more\ncertain. \u201cAnd who are they?\u201d you ask. Why, the rich, to be sure. And\nthen, again, what a comfort the new mode of travelling will be to the\nsick; they need not fear bleak winds or change of weather. And what a\nthing, too, it will be for cowards; they will be safe from pitfalls or\nquagmires. Thousands who hitherto did not dare, others who were not\nable, and others to whom it never occurred to think of such a thing as\ngoing on a journey, will make up their minds to follow my example.\nSurely, the idlest person will not hesitate to set out with me on a\npleasure jaunt which will cost him neither trouble nor money. Come then,\nlet us start! Follow me, all ye whom the \u201cpangs of despised love\u201d or the\nslights of friends keep within doors,--follow me far from the meannesses\nand unkindnesses of men. Be ye unhappy, sick, or weary, follow me. Ye\nidle ones, arouse ye, one and all. And ye who brood over gloomy projects\nof reform and retreat, on account of some infidelity,--amiable\nanchorites of an evening\u2019s duration, who renounce the world for your\nboudoir,--come, and be led by me to banish these dark thoughts; you lose\na moment\u2019s pleasure without gaining a moment\u2019s wisdom! Deign to\naccompany me on my journey. We will jog cheerfully and by easy stages\nalong the road of travellers who have seen both Rome and Paris. No\nobstacle shall hinder our way; and giving ourselves up gaily to\nImagination, we will follow her whithersoever it may be her good\npleasure to lead us.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n_Laws and Customs._\n\n\nHow many inquisitive people there are in the world! I am sure my reader\nwants to know why the journey round my room has lasted forty-two days\nrather than forty-three, or any other number. But how am I to tell him\nwhat I do not know myself? All I can say is, that if the work is too\nlong for him, it is not my fault that it was not shorter. I dismiss all\nthe pride a traveller may fairly indulge in, and candidly declare I\nshould have been well contented, for my part, with a single chapter. It\nis quite true that I made myself as comfortable as possible in my room;\nbut still, alas, I was not my own master in the matter of leaving it.\nNay, more, I even think that had it not been for the intervention of\ncertain powerful persons who interested themselves in me, and towards\nwhom I entertain a lively sense of gratitude, I should have had ample\ntime for producing a folio volume; so prejudiced in my favor were the\nguardians who made me travel round my room.\n\nAnd yet, intelligent reader, see how wrong these men were; and\nunderstand clearly, if you can, the argument I am about to put before\nyou.\n\nCan there be anything more natural or more just than to draw your sword\nupon a man who happens to tread on your toe, who lets slip a bitter word\nduring a moment\u2019s vexation caused by your own thoughtlessness, or who\nhas had the misfortune to gain favor in the sight of your lady-love?\n\nUnder such or like circumstances, you betake yourself to a meadow, and\nthere, like Nicole and the \u201cBourgeois Gentilhomme,\u201d you try to give the\nfourth cut while your adversary parries tierce; and, that vengeance may\nbe fully satisfied, you present your naked breast to him, thus running\nthe risk of being killed by your enemy, in order to be avenged.\n\nIt is evident that such a custom is most reasonable. And yet, we\nsometimes meet with people who disapprove of so praiseworthy a course.\nBut what is about of a piece with the rest of the business is, that the\nvery persons who condemn the course we have described, and who would\nhave it regarded as a grave error, would judge still more harshly any\none who refused to commit it. More than one unlucky wight has, by\nendeavoring to conform to their opinion, lost his reputation and his\nlivelihood. So that, when people are so unfortunate as to have an affair\nof honor to settle, it would not be a bad plan to cast lots to see\nwhether it shall be arranged according to law, or according to fashion.\nAnd as law and fashion are at variance, the judges might decide upon\ntheir sentence by the aid of dice,--and probably it is to some such\ndecision as this that we should have to refer in order to explain how it\ncame about that my journey lasted just two and forty days.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n_Latitude and Topography._\n\n\nMy room is situated in latitude 48\u00b0 east, according to the measurement\nof Father Beccaria. It lies east and west, and, if you keep very close\nto the wall, forms a parallelogram of thirty-six steps round. My journey\nwill, however, be longer than this; for I shall traverse my room up and\ndown and across, without rule or plan. I shall even zig-zag about,\nfollowing, if needs be, every possible geometrical line. I am no admirer\nof people who are such masters of their every step and every idea that\nthey can say: \u201cTo-morrow I shall make three calls, write four letters,\nand finish this or that work.\u201d So open is my soul to all sorts of ideas,\ntastes, and feelings; so greedily does it absorb whatever comes first,\nthat ... but why should it deny itself the delights that are scattered\nalong life\u2019s hard path? So few and far between are they, that it would\nindeed be senseless not to stop, and even turn aside, to gather such as\nare placed within our reach. Of these joys, none, to my thinking, is\nmore attractive than following the course of one\u2019s fancies as a hunter\nfollows his game, without pretending to keep to any set route. Hence,\nwhen I travel in my room, I seldom keep to a straight line. From my\ntable I go towards a picture which is placed in a corner; thence I set\nout in an oblique direction for the door; and then, although on starting\nI had intended to return to my table, yet, if I chance to fall in with\nmy arm-chair on the way, I at once, and most unceremoniously, take up my\nquarters therein. By the by, what a capital article of furniture an\narm-chair is, and, above all, how convenient to a thoughtful man. In\nlong winter evenings it is ofttimes sweet, and always prudent, to\nstretch yourself therein, far from the bustle of crowded assemblies. A\ngood fire, some books and pens; what safeguards these against _ennui_!\nAnd how pleasant, again, to forget books and pens in order to stir the\nfire, while giving one\u2019s self up to some agreeable meditation, or\nstringing together a few rhymes for the amusement of friends, as the\nhours glide by and fall into eternity, without making their sad passage\nfelt.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\n_The Bed._\n\n\nNext to my arm-chair, as we go northward, my bed comes into sight. It is\nplaced at the end of my room, and forms the most agreeable perspective.\nIt is very pleasantly situated, and the earliest rays of the sun play\nupon my curtains. On fine summer days I see them come creeping, as the\nsun rises, all along the whitened wall. The elm-trees opposite my\nwindows divide them into a thousand patterns as they dance upon my bed,\nand, reflecting its rose-and-white color, shed a charming tint around. I\nhear the confused twitter of the swallows that have taken possession of\nmy roof, and the warbling of the birds that people the elms. Then do a\nthousand smiling fancies fill my soul; and in the whole universe no\nbeing enjoys an awakening so delightful, so peaceful, as mine.\n\nI confess that I do indeed revel in these sweet moments, and prolong as\nfar as I can the pleasure it gives me to meditate in the comfortable\nwarmth of my bed. What scene can adapt itself so well to the\nimagination, and awaken such delicious ideas, as the couch on which my\nfancy floats me into the forgetfulness of self! Here it is that the\nmother, intoxicated with joy at the birth of a son, forgets her pangs.\nHither it is that fantastic pleasures, the fruit of fancy or of hope,\ncome to agitate us. In a word, it is here that during one half of a\nlife-time we forget the annoyances of the other half.\n\nBut what a host of thoughts, some agreeable, some sad, throng my brain\nat once,--strange minglings of terrible and delicious pictures!\n\nA bed sees us born, and sees us die. It is the ever changing scene upon\nwhich the human race play by turns interesting dramas, laughable farces,\nand fearful tragedies. It is a cradle decked with flowers. A throne of\nlove. A sepulchre.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n_For Metaphysicians._\n\n\nThis chapter is for metaphysicians, and for metaphysicians only. It will\nthrow a great light upon man\u2019s nature. It is the prism with which to\nanalyze and decompose the human faculties, by separating the animal\nforce from the pure rays of intellect.\n\nIt would be impossible for me to explain how I came to burn my fingers\nat the very onset of my journey without expounding to my reader my\nsystem of the _Soul and the Animal_.[1] And besides, this metaphysical\ndiscovery has so great an influence on my thoughts and actions, that it\nwould be very difficult to understand this book if I did not begin by\ngiving the key to its meaning.\n\nVarious observations have enabled me to perceive that man is made up of\na soul and an animal. These two beings are quite distinct, but they are\nso dovetailed one into the other, or upon the other, that the soul must,\nif we would make the distinction between them, possess a certain\nsuperiority over the animal.\n\nI have it from an old professor (and this is as long ago as I can\nremember), that Plato used to call matter the OTHER. This is all very\nwell; but I prefer giving this name _par excellence_ to the animal which\nis joined to our soul. This substance it is which is really the OTHER,\nand which plays such strange tricks upon us. It is easy enough to see,\nin a sort of general way, that man is twofold. But this, they say, is\nbecause he is made up of soul and body; and they accuse the body of I\ndon\u2019t know how many things, and very inconsistently, seeing that it can\nneither feel nor think. It is upon the animal that the blame should\nfall; upon that sensitive being, which, while it is perfectly distinct\nfrom the soul, is a real individual, enjoying a separate existence, with\nits own tastes, inclinations, and will, and which only ranks higher than\nother animals, because it is better educated than they, and is provided\nwith more perfect organs.\n\nLadies and gentlemen! Be as proud of your intellect as you please, but\nbe very suspicious of the OTHER, especially when you are together.\n\nI have experimented I know not how oft, upon the union of these two\nheterogeneous creatures. I have, for instance, clearly ascertained that\nthe soul can make herself obeyed by the animal, and that, by way of\nretaliation, the animal makes the soul act contrary to its own\ninclination. The one, as a rule, has the legislative, the other the\nexecutive power, but these two are often at variance. The great business\nof a man of genius is to train his animal well, in order that it may go\nalone, while the soul, delivered from this troublesome companion, can\nraise herself to the skies.\n\nBut this requires illustration. When, sir, you are reading a book, and\nan agreeable idea suddenly enters your imagination, your soul attaches\nherself to the new idea at once, and forgets the book, while your eyes\nfollow mechanically the words and lines. You get through the page\nwithout understanding it, and without remembering what you have read.\nNow this is because your soul, having ordered her companion to read to\nher, gave no warning of the short absence she contemplated, so that the\nOTHER went on reading what the soul no longer attended to.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n_The Soul._\n\n\nIs not this clear to you? Let us illustrate it still farther.\n\nOne day last summer at an appointed hour, I was wending my way to court.\nI had been sketching all day, and my soul, choosing to meditate upon\npainting, left the duty of taking me to the king\u2019s palace to the animal.\n\nHow sublime, thought my soul, is the painter\u2019s art! Happy is he who is\ntouched by the aspect of nature, and does not depend upon his pictures\nfor a livelihood; who does not paint solely as a pastime, but struck\nwith the majesty of a beautiful form, and the wonderful way in which the\nlight with its thousand tints plays upon the human face, strives to\nimitate in his works the wonderful effects of nature! Happy, too, is the\npainter who is led by love of landscape into solitary paths, and who can\nmake his canvas breathe the feeling of sadness with which he is inspired\nby a gloomy wood or a desert plain. His productions imitate and\nreproduce nature. He creates new seas and dark caverns into which the\nsun has never peered. At his command, coppices of evergreens spring into\nlife, and the blue of heaven is reflected on his pictures. He darkens\nthe air, and we hear the roar of the storm. At another time he presents\nto the eye of the wondering beholder the delightful plains of ancient\nSicily: startled nymphs flee the pursuit of a satyr through the bending\nreeds; temples of stately architecture raise their grand fronts above\nthe sacred forest that surrounds them. Imagination loses itself among\nthe still paths of this ideal country. Bluish backgrounds blend with\nthe sky, and the whole landscape, reproduced in the waters of a tranquil\nriver, forms a scene that no tongue can describe.\n\nWhile my soul was thus reflecting, the _other_ went its way, Heaven\nknows whither! Instead of going to court, according to orders, it took\nsuch a turn to the left, that my soul just caught it up at Madame de\nHautcastel\u2019s door, full half a mile from the Palais Royal!\n\nNow I leave the reader to fancy what might have been the consequence had\nthe truant visited so beautiful a lady alone.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n_The Animal._\n\n\nIf it is both useful and agreeable to have a soul so disengaged from\nmatter that we can let it travel alone whenever we please, this has also\nits disadvantages. Through this, for instance, I got the burn I spoke of\na few chapters back.\n\nI generally leave my animal to prepare my breakfast. Its care it is to\nslice and toast my bread. My coffee it makes admirably, and helps itself\nthereto without my soul\u2019s concerning herself in the transaction. But\nthis is a very rare and nice performance to execute; for though it is\neasy enough while busied in a mechanical operation, to think of\nsomething quite different, it is extremely difficult, so to speak, to\nwatch one\u2019s self-work, or, if I express myself systematically, to employ\none\u2019s soul to examine the animal\u2019s progress, and to watch its work\nwithout taking part in it. This is the most extraordinary metaphysical\nfeat a man can execute.\n\nI had rested my tongs on the embers to toast my bread, and some little\ntime afterwards, while my soul was travelling, a burning stick fell on\nthe hearth: my poor animal seized the tongs, and I burnt my fingers.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n_Philosophy_.\n\n\nI hope I have sufficiently developed my ideas in the foregoing chapters\nto furnish you, good reader, with matter for thought, and to enable you\nto make discoveries along the brilliant career before you. You cannot be\nother than highly satisfied with yourself if you succeed in the long run\nin making your soul travel alone. The pleasure afforded by this power\nwill amply counterbalance any inconvenience that may arise from it. What\nmore flattering delight is there than the being able thus to expand\none\u2019s existence, to occupy at once earth and heaven, to double, so to\nspeak, one\u2019s being? Is it not man\u2019s eternal, insatiable desire to\naugment his strength and his faculties, to be where he is not, to\nrecall the past, and live in the future? He would fain command armies,\npreside over learned societies, and be the idol of the fair. And, if he\nattain to all this, then he regrets the tranquillity of a rural life,\nand envies the shepherd\u2019s cot. His plans, his hopes, are constantly\nfoiled by the ills that flesh is heir to. He can find happiness nowhere.\nA quarter of an hour\u2019s journey with me will show him the way to it.\n\nAh, why does he not leave to the OTHER those carking cares and that\ntormenting ambition. Come, my poor friend! Make but an effort to burst\nfrom thy prison, and from the height of heaven, whither I am about to\nlead thee, from the midst of the celestial shades, from the empyrean\nitself, behold thy _animal_ run along the road to fortune and honor. See\nwith what gravity it walks among men. The crowd falls back with respect,\nand believe me, none will remark that it is alone. The people among\nwhom it walks care very little whether it has a soul or not, whether it\nthinks or not. A thousand sentimental women will fall desperately in\nlove with it without discovering the defect. It may even raise itself\nwithout thy soul\u2019s help to the highest favor and fortune. Nay, I should\nnot be astonished if, on thy return from the empyrean, thy soul, on\ngetting home, were to find itself in the _animal_ of a noble lord.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\n_The Portrait._\n\n\nBut you must not let yourself think that instead of keeping my promise\nto describe my journey round my room, I am beating the bush to see how I\ncan evade the difficulty. This would be a great mistake on your part.\nFor our journey is really going on; and while my soul, falling back on\nher own resources, was in the last chapter threading the mazy paths of\nmetaphysics, I had so placed myself in my arm-chair, that its front legs\nbeing raised about two inches from the floor, I was able, by balancing\nmyself from left to right, to make way by degrees, and at last, almost\nwithout knowing it, to get close to the wall, for this is how I travel\nwhen not pressed for time. When there, my hand possessed itself by a\nmere mechanical effort, of the portrait of Madame de Hautcastel; and the\nOTHER amused itself with removing the dust which covered it. This\noccupation produced a feeling of quiet pleasure, and the pleasure was\nconveyed to my soul, lost though it was in the vast plains of heaven.\nFor it is well to observe that when the mind is thus travelling in\nspace, it still keeps linked to the senses by a secret and subtle chain;\nso that, without being distracted from its occupations, it can\nparticipate in the peaceful joys of the OTHER. But should this pleasure\nreach a certain pitch, or should the soul be struck by some unexpected\nvision, it forthwith descends swift as lightning, and resumes its place.\n\nAnd that is just what happened to me while dusting the picture. Whilst\nthe cloth removed the dust, and brought to light those flaxen curls and\nthe wreaths of roses that crowned them, my soul, from the sun, whither\nshe had transported herself, felt a slight thrill of pleasure, and\npartook sympathetically of the joy of my heart. This joy became less\nindistinct and more lively, when, by a single sweep, the beautiful\nforehead of that charming face was revealed. My soul was on the point of\nleaving the skies in order to enjoy the spectacle. But had she been in\nthe Elysian Fields, had she been engaged in a seraphic concert, she\ncould not have stayed a single second longer when her companion, glowing\nwith the work, seized a proffered sponge, and passed it at once over the\neyebrows and the eyes, over the nose, over that mouth, ah heavens!--my\nheart beats at the thought--over the chin and neck! It was the work of\nan instant. The whole face seemed suddenly recalled into existence. My\nsoul precipitated herself like a falling star from the sky. She found\nthe OTHER in a state of ecstasy, which she herself increased by sharing\nit. This strange and unexpected position caused all thought of time and\nspace to vanish from my mind. I lived for a moment in the past, and,\ncontrary to the order of nature, I grew young again. Yes, before me\nstands that adored one; \u2019tis she, her very self! She smiles on me, she\nwill speak and own her love. That glance!... come, let me press thee to\nmy heart, O, my loved one, my other self! Partake with me this\nintoxicating bliss! The moment was short, but ravishing. Cool reason\nsoon reasserted her sway, and in the twinkling of an eye I had grown a\nwhole year older. My heart grew icy cold, and I found myself on a level\nwith the crowd of heedless ones who throng the earth.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\n_Rose and White._\n\n\nBut we must not anticipate events. My hurry to communicate to the reader\nmy system of the soul and animal caused me to abandon the description of\nmy bed earlier than I ought to have done. When I have completed this\ndescription, I will continue my journey where I interrupted it in the\nlast chapter. But let me pray you to bear in mind that we left one half\nof my _ego_ four steps from my bureau, close to the wall, and holding\nthe portrait of Madame de Hautcastel.\n\nIn speaking of my bed, I forgot to recommend every man to have, if\npossible, a bed with rose and white furniture. There can be no doubt\nthat colors so far affect us as to make us cheerful or sad, according\nto their hues. Now, rose and white are two colors that are consecrated\nto pleasure. Nature in bestowing them upon the rose has given her the\ncrown of Flora\u2019s realm. And when the sky would announce to the world a\nfine day, it paints the clouds at sunrise with this charming tint.\n\nOne day we were with some difficulty climbing a steep pathway. The\namiable Rosalie, whose agility had given her wings, was far in front. We\ncould not overtake her. All on a sudden, having reached the top of a\nhillock, she turned toward us to take breath, and smiled at our\nslowness. Never, perhaps, did the two colors whose praise I proclaim so\ntriumph. Her burning cheeks, her coral lips, her alabaster neck, were\nthrown into relief by the verdure around, and entranced us all. We could\nnot but pause and gaze upon her. I will not speak of her blue eyes, or\nof the glance she cast upon us, because this would be going from the\nsubject, and because I dwell upon these memories as little as possible.\nLet it suffice that I have given the best illustration conceivable of\nthe superiority of these two colors over all others, and of their\ninfluence upon the happiness of man.\n\nHere will I stop for to-day. Of what subject can I treat which would not\nnow be insipid? What idea is not effaced by _this_ idea? I do not even\nknow when I shall be able to resume my work. If I go on with it at all,\nand if the reader desire to see its termination, let him betake himself\nto the angel who distributes thoughts, and beg him to cease to mingle\nwith the disconnected thoughts he showers upon me at every moment the\nimage of that hillock.\n\nIf this precaution is not taken, my journey will be a failure.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\n_The Hillock._\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\n_A Halt._\n\n\nMy efforts are useless. I must sojourn here awhile, whether I will or\nnot. The \u201cHalt!\u201d is irresistible.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\n_Joannetti._\n\n\nI remarked that I was singularly fond of meditating when influenced by\nthe agreeable warmth of my bed; and that its agreeable color added not a\nlittle to the pleasure I experienced.\n\nThat I may be provided with this enjoyment, my servant is directed to\nenter my room half an hour before my time for rising. I hear him moving\nabout my room with a light step, and stealthily managing his\npreparations. This noise just suffices to convey to me the pleasant\nknowledge that I am slumbering,--a delicate pleasure this, unknown to\nmost men. You are just awake enough to know you are not entirely so, and\nto make a dreamy calculation that the hour for business and worry is\nstill in the sand-glass of time. Gradually my man grows noisier; it is\nso hard for him to restrain himself, and he knows too that the fatal\nhour draws near. He looks at my watch, and jingles the seals as a\nwarning. But I turn a deaf ear to him. There is no imaginable cheat I do\nnot put upon the poor fellow to lengthen the blissful moment. I give him\na hundred preliminary orders. He knows that these orders, given somewhat\npeevishly, are mere excuses for my staying in bed without seeming to\nwish to do so. But this he affects not to see through, and I am truly\nthankful to him.\n\nAt last, when I have exhausted all my resources, he advances to the\nmiddle of the room, and with folded arms, plants himself there in a\nperfectly immovable position. It must be admitted that it would be\nimpossible to show disapproval of my idleness with greater judgment and\naddress. I never resist this tacit invitation, but, stretching out my\narms to show I understand him, get up at once.\n\nIf the reader will reflect upon the behavior of my servant, he will\nconvince himself that in certain delicate matters of this kind,\nsimplicity and good sense are much better than the sharpest wit. I dare\nassert that the most studied discourse on the impropriety of sloth would\nnot make me spring so readily from my bed as the silent reproach of\nMonsieur Joannetti.\n\nThis Monsieur Joannetti is a thoroughly honest fellow, and at the same\ntime just the man for such a traveller as I. He is accustomed to the\nfrequent journeys of my soul, and never laughs at the inconsistencies of\nthe OTHER. He even directs it occasionally when it is alone, so that one\nmight say it is then conducted by two souls. When it is dressing, for\ninstance, he will warn it by a gesture that it is on the point of\nputting on its stockings the wrong way, or its coat before its\nwaistcoat.\n\nMany a time has my soul been amused at seeing poor Joannetti running\nafter this foolish creature under the arches of the citadel, to remind\nit of a forgotten hat or handkerchief. One day, I must confess, had it\nnot been for this faithful servant, who caught it up just at the bottom\nof the staircase, the silly creature would have presented itself at\ncourt without a sword, as boldly as if it had been the chief\ngentleman-usher, bearing the august rod.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\n_A Difficulty._\n\n\n\u201cCome, Joannetti,\u201d I said, \u201chang up this picture.\u201d He had helped to\nclean it, and had no more notion than the man in the moon what had\nproduced our chapter on the portrait. He it was, who, of his own accord,\nheld out the wet sponge, and who, through that seemingly unimportant\nact, caused my soul to travel a hundred millions of leagues in a moment\nof time. Instead of restoring it to its place, he held it to examine it\nin his turn. A difficulty, a problem, gave him an inquisitive air, which\nI did not fail to observe.\n\n\u201cWell, and what fault do you find with that portrait?\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cO, none at all, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut come now, you have some remark to make, I know.\u201d\n\nHe placed it upright on one of the wings of my bureau, and then drawing\nback a little, \u201cI wish, sir,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you would explain how it is\nthat in whatever part of the room one may be, this portrait always\nwatches you. In the morning, when I am making your bed, the face turns\ntowards me; and if I move toward the window, it still looks at me, and\nfollows me with its eyes as I go about.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo that, Joannetti,\u201d said I, \u201cif my room were full of people, that\nbeautiful lady would eye every one, on all sides, at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust so, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe would smile on every comer and goer, just as she would on me?\u201d\n\nJoannetti gave no further answer. I stretched myself in my easy-chair,\nand, hanging down my head, gave myself up to the most serious\nmeditations. What a ray of light fell upon me! Alack, poor lover! While\nthou pinest away, far from thy mistress, at whose side another perhaps,\nhas already replaced thee; whilst thou fixest thy longing eyes on her\nportrait, imagining that at least in picture, thou art the sole being\nshe deigns to regard,--the perfidious image, as faithless as the\noriginal, bestows its glances on all around, and smiles on every one\nalike!\n\nAnd in this behold a moral resemblance between certain portraits and\ntheir originals, which no philosopher, no painter, no observer, had\nbefore remarked.\n\nI go on from discovery to discovery.\n\n[Illustration: VESSIER GUILLAUME]\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\n_Solution._\n\n\nJoannetti remained in the attitude I have described, awaiting the\nexplanation he had asked of me. I withdrew my head from the folds of my\ntravelling dress, into which I had thrust it that I might meditate more\nat my ease; and after a moment\u2019s silence, to enable me to collect my\nthoughts after the reflections I had just made, I said, turning my\narm-chair toward him,--\n\n\u201cDo you not see that as a picture is a plane surface, the rays of light\nproceeding from each point on that surface ...?\u201d\n\nAt that explanation, Joannetti stretched his eyes to their very widest,\nwhile he kept his mouth half open. These two movements of the human face\nexpress, according to the famous Le Brun, the highest pitch of\nastonishment. It was, without doubt, my _animal_, that had undertaken\nthis dissertation, while my soul was well aware that Joannetti knew\nnothing whatever about plane surfaces and rays of light. The prodigious\ndilatation of his eyelids caused me to draw back. I ensconced my head in\nthe collar of my travelling coat, and this so effectively that I\nwell-nigh succeeded in altogether hiding it. I determined to dine where\nI was. The morning was far advanced, and another step in my room would\nhave delayed my dinner until night-fall. I let myself slip to the edge\nof my chair, and putting both feet on the mantel-piece, patiently\nawaited my meal. This was a most comfortable attitude; indeed, it would\nbe difficult to find another possessing so many advantages, and so well\nadapted to the inevitable sojourns of a long voyage.\n\nAt such moments, Rose, my faithful dog, never fails to come and pull at\nthe skirts of my travelling dress that I may take her up. She finds a\nvery convenient ready-made bed at the angle formed by the two parts of\nmy body. A V admirably represents my position. Rose jumps to her post if\nI do not take her up quickly enough to please her, and I often find her\nthere without knowing how she has come. My hands fall into a position\nwhich minister to her well-being, and this, either through a sympathy\nexisting between this good-natured creature and myself, or through the\nmerest chance. But no, I do not believe in that miserable doctrine of\n_chance_,--in that unmeaning word! I would rather believe in animal\nmagnetism.\n\nThere is such reality in the relations which exist between these two\nanimals, that when out of sheer distraction, I put my two feet on the\nmantel-piece and have no thought at all about a _halt_, dinner-time not\nbeing near, Rose, observing this movement, shows by a slight wag of her\ntail the pleasure she enjoys. Reserve keeps her in her place. The\n_other_ perceives this and is gratified by it, though quite unable to\nreason upon its cause. And thus a mute dialogue is established between\nthem, a pleasing interchange of sensations which could not be attributed\nto simple chance.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\n\n_Rose._\n\n\nDo not reproach me for the prolixity with which I narrate the details of\nmy journey. This is the wont of travellers. When one sets out for the\nascent of Mont Blanc, or to visit the yawning tomb of Empedocles, the\nminutest particulars are carefully described. The number of persons who\nformed the party, the number of mules, the quality of the food, the\nexcellent appetite of the travellers,--everything, to the very stumbling\nof the quadrupeds, is carefully noted down for the instruction of the\nsedentary world.\n\nUpon this principle, I resolved to speak of my dog Rose,--an amiable\ncreature for whom I entertain sincere regard,--and to devote a whole\nchapter to her.\n\nWe have lived together for six years, and there has never been any\ncoolness between us, and if ever any little disputes have arisen, the\nfault has been chiefly on my side, and Rose has always made the first\nadvances towards reconciliation.\n\nIn the evening, if she has been scolded she withdraws sadly and without\na murmur. The next morning at daybreak, she stands near my bed in a\nrespectful attitude, and at her master\u2019s slightest movement, at the\nfirst sign of his being awake, she makes her presence known by rapidly\ntapping my little table with her tail.\n\nAnd why should I refuse my affection to this good-natured creature that\nhas never ceased to love me ever since we have lived together? My memory\nwould not enable me to enumerate all the people who have interested\nthemselves in me but to forget me. I have had some few friends, several\nlady-loves, a host of acquaintances; and now I am to all these people as\nif I had never lived; they have forgotten my very name.\n\nAnd yet what protestations they made, what offers of assistance! Their\npurse was at my disposal, and they begged me to depend upon their\neternal and entire friendship!\n\nPoor Rose, who has made me no promises, renders me the greatest service\nthat can be bestowed upon humanity, for she has always loved her master,\nand loves him still. And this is why I do not hesitate to say that she\nshares with my other friends the affection I feel towards them.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII.\n\n_Reserve._\n\n\nWe left Joannetti standing motionless before me, in an attitude of\nastonishment, awaiting the conclusion of the sublime explanation I had\nbegun.\n\nWhen he saw me bury my head in my dressing-gown, and thus end my\ndissertation, he did not doubt for a moment that I had stopped short for\nlack of resources, and that he had fairly overcome me by the knotty\nquestion he had plied me with.\n\nNotwithstanding the superiority he had hereby gained over me, he felt no\nmovement of pride, and did not seek to profit by his advantage. After a\nmoment\u2019s silence, he took the picture, put it back in its place, and\nwithdrew softly on tip-toe. He felt that his presence was a sort of\nhumiliation to me, and his delicacy of feeling led him thus to retire\nunobserved. His behavior on this occasion interested me greatly, and\ngave him a higher place than ever in my affections. And he will have\ntoo, without doubt, a place in the heart of my readers. If there be one\namong them who will refuse it him after reading the next chapter, such a\none must surely have a heart of stone.\n\n\n\n\nXIX.\n\n_A Tear._\n\n\n\u201cGood Heavens!\u201d said I to him one day, \u201cthree times have I told you to\nbuy me a brush. What a head the fellow has!\u201d He answered not a word; nor\nhad he the evening before made any reply to a like expostulation. \u201cThis\nis very odd,\u201d I thought to myself, \u201che is generally so very particular.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, go and get a duster to wipe my shoes with,\u201d I said angrily. While\nhe was on his way, I regretted that I had spoken so sharply, and my\nanger entirely subsided when I saw how carefully he tried to remove the\ndust from my shoes without touching my stockings. \u201cWhat,\u201d I said to\nmyself, \u201care there then men who brush others\u2019 shoes for _money_!\u201d This\nword _money_ came upon me like a flash of lightning. I suddenly\nremembered that for a long time my servant had not had any money from\nme.\n\n\u201cJoannetti,\u201d said I, drawing away my foot, \u201chave you any change?\u201d\n\nA smile of justification lit up his face at the question.\n\n\u201cNo, sir; for the last week I have not possessed a penny. I have spent\nall I had for your little purchases.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the brush? I suppose that is why ...?\u201d\n\nHe still smiled. Now, he might very well have said, \u201cNo, sir; I am not\nthe empty-headed ass you would make out your faithful servant to be. Pay\nme the one pound two shillings and sixpence halfpenny you owe me, and\nthen I\u2019ll buy you your brush.\u201d But no, he bore this ill treatment rather\nthan cause his master to blush at his unjust anger. And may Heaven\nbless him! Philosophers, Christians! have you read this?\n\n\u201cCome, Joannetti,\u201d said I, \u201cbuy me the brush.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, sir, will you go like that, with one shoe clean, and the other\ndirty?\u201d\n\n\u201cGo, go!\u201d I replied, \u201cnever mind about the dust, never mind that.\u201d\n\nHe went out. I took the duster, and daintily wiped my left shoe, on\nwhich a tear of repentance had fallen.\n\n\n\n\nXX.\n\n_Albert and Charlotte._\n\n\nThe walls of my room are hung with engravings and pictures, which adorn\nit greatly. I should much like to submit them to the reader\u2019s\ninspection, that they might amuse him along the road we have to traverse\nbefore we reach my bureau. But it is as impossible to describe a picture\nwell, as to paint one from a description.\n\nWhat an emotion he would feel in contemplating the first drawing that\npresents itself! He would see the unhappy Charlotte,[2] slowly, and with\na trembling hand, wiping Albert\u2019s pistols. Dark forebodings, and all the\nagony of hopeless, inconsolable love, are imprinted on her features,\nwhile the cold-hearted Albert, surrounded by bags of law papers and\nvarious old documents, turns with an air of indifference towards his\nfriend to bid him good-by. Many a time have I been tempted to break the\nglass that covers this engraving, that I might tear Albert away from the\ntable, rend him to pieces, and trample him under foot. But this would\nnot do away with the Alberts. There will always be sadly too many of\nthem in the world. What sensitive man is there who has not such a one\nnear him, who receives the overflowings of his soul, the gentle emotions\nof his heart, and the flights of his imagination just as the rock\nreceives the waves of the sea? Happy is he who finds a friend whose\nheart and mind harmonize with his own; a friend who adheres to him by\nlikeness of tastes, feeling, and knowledge; a friend who is not the prey\nof ambition or greediness, who prefers the shade of a tree to the pomp\nof a court! Happy is he who has a friend!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nXXI.\n\n_A Friend._\n\n\nI had a friend. Death took him from me. He was snatched away at the\nbeginning of his career, at the moment when his friendship had become a\npressing need to my heart. We supported one another in the hard toil of\nwar. We had but one pipe between us. We drank out of the same cup. We\nslept beneath the same tent. And, amid our sad trials, the spot where we\nlived together became to us a new father-land. I had seen him exposed to\nall the perils of a disastrous war. Death seemed to spare us to each\nother. His deadly missives were exhausted around my friend a thousand\ntimes over without reaching him; but this was but to make his loss more\npainful to me. The tumult of war, and the enthusiasm which possesses the\nsoul at the sight of danger might have prevented his sighs from piercing\nmy heart, while his death would have been useful to his country, and\ndamaging to the enemy. Had he died thus, I should have mourned him less.\nBut to lose him amid the joys of our winter-quarters; to see him die at\nthe moment when he seemed full of health, and when our intimacy was\nrendered closer by rest and tranquillity,--ah, this was a blow from\nwhich I can never recover!\n\nBut his memory lives in my heart, and there alone. He is forgotten by\nthose who surrounded him, and who have replaced him. And this makes his\nloss the more sad to me.\n\nNature, in like manner indifferent to the fate of individuals, dons her\ngreen spring robe, and decks herself in all her beauty near the cemetery\nwhere he rests. The trees cover themselves with foliage, and intertwine\ntheir branches; the birds warble under the leafy sprays; the insects hum\namong the blossoms: everything breathes joy in this abode of death.\n\nAnd in the evening, when the moon shines in the sky, and I am meditating\nin this sad place, I hear the grasshopper, hidden in the grass that\ncovers the silent grave of my friend, merrily pursuing his unwearied\nsong. The unobserved destruction of human beings, as well as all their\nmisfortunes, are counted for nothing in the grand total of events.\n\nThe death of an affectionate man who breathes his last surrounded by his\nafflicted friends, and that of a butterfly killed in a flower\u2019s cup by\nthe chill air of morning, are but two similar epochs in the course of\nnature. Man is but a phantom, a shadow, a mere vapor that melts into\nthe air.\n\nBut day-break begins to whiten the sky. The gloomy thoughts that\ntroubled me vanish with the darkness, and hope awakens again in my\nheart. No! He who thus suffuses the east with light, has not made it to\nshine upon my eyes only to plunge me into the night of annihilation. He\nwho has spread out that vast horizon, who raised those lofty mountains\nwhose icy tops the sun is even now gilding, is also He who made my heart\nto beat, and my mind to think.\n\nNo! My friend is not annihilated. Whatever may be the barrier that\nseparates us, I shall see him again. My hopes are based on no mere\nsyllogism. The flight of an insect suffices to persuade me. And often\nthe prospect of the surrounding country, the perfume of the air, and an\nindescribable charm which is spread around me, so raise my thoughts,\nthat an invincible proof of immortality forces itself upon my soul, and\nfills it to the full.\n\n\n\n\nXXII.\n\n_Jenny._\n\n\nThe chapter I have just written had often presented itself to my pen,\nbut I had as often rejected it. I had promised myself that I would only\nallow the cheerful phase of my soul to show itself in this book. But\nthis project, like many others, I was forced to abandon. I hope the\nsensitive reader will pardon me for having asked his tears; and if any\none thinks I should have omitted this chapter, he can tear it from his\ncopy, or even throw the whole book on the fire.\n\nEnough for me, dear Jenny, that thy heart approves it, thou best and\nbest-beloved of women, best and best-beloved of sisters. To thee I\ndedicate my work. If it please thee, it will please all gentle and\ndelicate hearts. And if thou wilt pardon the follies into which, albeit\nagainst my will, I sometimes fall, I will brave all the critics of the\nuniverse.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII.\n\n_The Picture Gallery._\n\n\nOne word only upon our next engraving.\n\nIt represents the family of the unfortunate Ugolino, dying of hunger.\nAround him are his sons. One of them lies motionless at his feet. The\nrest stretch their enfeebled arms towards him, asking for bread; while\nthe wretched father, leaning against a pillar of his prison, his eyes\nfixed and haggard, his countenance immovable, dies a double death, and\nsuffers all that human nature can endure.\n\nAnd there is the brave Chevalier d\u2019Assas, dying, by an effort of courage\nand heroism unknown in our days, under a hundred bayonets.\n\nAnd thou who weepest under the palm-trees, poor negro woman! thou, whom\nsome barbarous fellow has betrayed and deserted, nay, worse, whom he has\nhad the brutality to sell as a vile slave, notwithstanding thy love and\ndevotion, notwithstanding the pledge of affection thou hast borne at thy\nbreast,--I will not pass before thine image without rendering to thee\nthe homage due to thy tenderness and thy sorrows.\n\nLet us pause a moment before the other picture. It is a young\nshepherdess tending her flock alone on the heights of the Alps. She sits\non an old willow trunk, bleached by many winters. Her feet are covered\nby the broad leaves of a tuft of _cacalia_, whose lilac blossoms bloom\nabove her head. Lavender, wild thyme, the anemone, centaury, and flowers\nwhich are cultivated with care in our hot-houses and gardens, and which\ngrow in all their native beauty on the Alps, form the gay carpet on\nwhich her sheep wander.\n\nLovely shepherdess! tell me where is the lovely spot thou callest thy\nhome. From what far-off sheepfold didst thou set out at daybreak this\nmorning? Could I not go thither and live with thee?\n\nBut alas, the sweet tranquillity thou enjoyest will soon vanish! The\ndemon of war, not content with desolating cities, will ere long carry\nanxiety and alarm to thy solitary retreat. Even now I see the soldiers\nadvancing: they climb height after height, as they march upward towards\nthe clouds. The cannons\u2019 roar is heard high above the thunder-clap.\n\nFly, O shepherdess! Urge on thy flock! Hide thee in the farthest caves,\nfor no longer is repose to be found on this sad earth!\n\n\n\n\nXXIV.\n\n_Painting and Music._\n\n\nI do not know how it is, but of late my chapters have always ended in a\nmournful strain. In vain do I begin by fixing my eyes on some agreeable\nobject; in vain do I embark when all is calm: a sudden gale soon drifts\nme away. To put an end to an agitation which deprives me of the mastery\nof my ideas, and to quiet the beating of a heart too much disturbed by\nso many touching images, I see no remedy but a dissertation. Yes, thus\nwill I steel my heart.\n\nAnd the dissertation shall be about painting, for I cannot at this\nmoment expatiate upon any other subject. I cannot altogether descend\nfrom the point I just now reached. Besides, painting is to me what\nUncle Toby\u2019s hobby-horse was to him.[3]\n\nI would say a few words, by the way, upon the question of pre\u00ebminence\nbetween the charming arts of painting and music. I would cast my grain\ninto the balance, were it but a grain of sand, a mere atom.\n\nIt is urged in favor of the painter, that he leaves his works behind\nhim; that his pictures outlive him, and immortalize his memory.\n\nIn reply to this we are reminded that musical composers also leave us\ntheir operas and oratorios.\n\nBut music is subject to fashion, and painting is not. The musical\npassages that deeply affected our forefathers seem simply ridiculous to\nthe amateurs of our own day; and they are placed in absurd farces to\nfurnish laughter for the nephews of those whom they once made to weep.\n\nRaphael\u2019s pictures will enchant our descendants as greatly as they did\nour forefathers.\n\nThis is my grain of sand.\n\n\n\n\nXXV.\n\n_An Objection._\n\n\n\u201cBut what,\u201d said Madame de Hautcastel to me one day,--\u201cwhat if the music\nof Cherubini or Cimarosa differs from that of their predecessors? What\ncare I if the music of the past make me laugh, so long as that of the\npresent day touch me by its charms? Is it at all essential to my\nhappiness that my pleasures should resemble those of my\ngreat-grandmother? Why talk to me of painting, an art which is only\nenjoyed by a very small class of persons, while music enchants every\nliving creature?\u201d\n\nI hardly know at this moment how one could reply to this observation,\nwhich I did not foresee when I began my chapter.\n\nHad I foreseen it, perhaps I should not have undertaken that\ndissertation. And pray do not imagine that you discover in this\n_objection_ the artifice of a musician, for upon my honor I am none,\nHeaven be my witness, and all those who have heard me play the violin!\n\nBut, even supposing the merits of the two arts to be equal, we must not\nbe too hasty in concluding that the merits of the _disciples_ of\nPainting and Music are therefore balanced. We see children play the\nharpsichord as if they were _maestri_, but no one has ever been a good\npainter at twelve years old. Painting, besides taste and feeling,\nrequires an amount of thoughtfulness that musicians can dispense with.\nAny day may you hear men who are well nigh destitute of head and heart,\nbring out from a violin or harp the most ravishing sounds.\n\nThe human ANIMAL may be taught to play the harpsichord, and when it has\nlearned of a good master, the soul can travel at her ease while sounds\nwith which she does not concern herself are mechanically produced by the\nfingers. But the simplest thing in the world cannot be painted without\nthe aid of all the faculties of the soul.\n\nIf, however, any one should take it into his head to ply me with a\ndistinction between the composition and the performance of music, I\nconfess that he would give me some little difficulty. Ah, well! were all\nwriters of essays quite candid they would all conclude as I am doing.\nWhen one enters upon the examination of a question, a dogmatic tone is\ngenerally assumed, because there has been a secret decision beforehand,\njust as I, notwithstanding my hypocritical impartiality, had decided in\nfavor of painting. But discussion awakens objections, and everything\nends with doubt.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI.\n\n_Raphael._\n\n\nNow that I am more tranquil, I will endeavor to speak calmly of the two\nportraits that follow the picture of the shepherdess of the Alps.\n\nRaphael! Who but thyself could paint thy portrait; who but thyself would\nhave dared attempt it? Thy open countenance, beaming with feeling and\nintellect, proclaims thy character and thy genius.\n\nTo gratify thy shade, I have placed beside thee the portrait of thy\nmistress, whom the men of all generations will hold answerable for the\nloss of the sublime works of which art has been deprived by thy\npremature death.\n\nWhen I examine the portrait of Raphael, I feel myself penetrated by an\nalmost religious respect for that great man, who, in the flower of his\nage, excelled the ancients, and whose pictures are at once the\nadmiration and the despair of modern artists. My soul, in admiring it,\nis moved with indignation against that Italian who preferred her love to\nher lover, and who extinguished at her bosom that heavenly flame, that\ndivine genius.\n\nUnhappy one! Knewest thou not that Raphael had announced a picture\nsuperior even to that of the _Transfiguration_? Didst thou not know that\nthine arms encircled the favorite of nature, the father of enthusiasm, a\nsublime genius ... a divinity?\n\nWhile my soul makes these observations, her companion, whose eyes are\nattentively fixed upon the lovely face of that fatal beauty, feels quite\nready to forgive her the death of Raphael.\n\nIn vain my soul upbraids this extravagant weakness; she is not listened\nto at all. On such occasions a strange dialogue arises between the two,\nwhich terminates too often in favor of the bad principles, and of which\nI reserve a sample for another chapter.\n\nAnd if, by the way, my soul had not at that moment abruptly closed the\ninspection of the gallery, if she had given the OTHER time to\ncontemplate the rounded and graceful features of the beautiful Roman\nlady, my intellect would have miserably lost its supremacy.\n\nAnd if, at that critical moment I had suddenly obtained the favor\nbestowed upon the fortunate Pygmalion, without having the least spark of\nthe genius which makes me pardon Raphael his errors, it is just possible\nthat I should have succumbed as he did.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII.\n\n_A Perfect Picture._\n\n\nMy engravings, and the paintings of which I have spoken, fade away into\nnothing at the first glance bestowed upon the next picture. The immortal\nworks of Raphael and Correggio, and of the whole Italian school, are not\nto be compared to it. Hence it is that when I accord to an amateur the\npleasure of travelling with me, I always keep this until the last as a\nspecial luxury, and ever since I first exhibited this sublime picture to\nconnoisseurs and to ignorant, to men of the world, to artists, to women,\nto children, to animals even, I have always found the spectators,\nwhoever they might be, show, each in his own way, signs of pleasure and\nsurprise, so admirably is nature rendered therein.\n\nAnd what picture could be presented to you, gentlemen; what spectacle,\nladies, could be placed before your eyes more certain of gaining your\napproval than the faithful portraiture of yourselves? The picture of\nwhich I speak is a mirror, and no one has as yet ventured to criticise\nit. It is to all who look on it a perfect picture, in depreciation of\nwhich not a word can be said.\n\nYou will at once admit that it should be regarded as one of the wonders\nof the world.\n\nI will pass over in silence the pleasure felt by the natural philosopher\nin meditating upon the strange phenomena presented by light as it\nreproduces upon that polished surface all the objects of nature. A\nmirror offers to the sedentary traveller a thousand interesting\nreflections, a thousand observations which render it at once a useful\nand precious article.\n\nYe whom Love has held or still holds under his sway, learn that it is\nbefore a mirror that he sharpens his darts, and contemplates his\ncruelties. There it is that he plans his man\u0153uvres, studies his tactics,\nand prepares himself for the war he wishes to declare. There he\npractices his killing glances and little affectations, and sly poutings,\njust as a player practices, with himself for spectator, before appearing\nin public.\n\nA mirror, being always impartial and true, brings before the eyes of the\nbeholder the roses of youth and the wrinkles of age, without calumny and\nwithout flattery. It alone among the councilors of the great, invariably\ntells them the truth.\n\nIt was this recommendation that made me desire the invention of a moral\nmirror, in which all men might see themselves, with their virtues and\ntheir vices. I even thought of offering a prize to some academy for this\ndiscovery, when riper reflection proved to me that such an invention\nwould be useless.\n\nAlas! how rare it is for ugliness to recognize itself and break the\nmirror! In vain are looking-glasses multiplied around us which reflect\nlight and truth with geometrical exactness. As soon as the rays reach\nour vision and paint us as we are, self-love slips its deceitful prism\nbetween us and our image, and presents a divinity to us.\n\nAnd of all the prisms that have existed since the first that came from\nthe hands of the immortal Newton, none has possessed so powerful a\nrefractive force, or produced such pleasing and lively colors, as the\nprism of self-love.\n\nNow, seeing that ordinary looking-glasses record the truth in vain, and\nthat they cannot make men see their own imperfections, every one being\nsatisfied with his face, what would a moral mirror avail? Few people\nwould look at it, and no one would recognize himself. None save\nphilosophers would spend their time in examining themselves,--I even\nhave my doubts about the philosophers.\n\nTaking the mirror as we find it, I hope no one will blame me for ranking\nit above all the pictures of the Italian school.\n\nLadies, whose taste cannot be faulty, and whose opinion should decide\nthe question, generally upon entering a room let their first glance fall\nupon this picture.\n\nA thousand times have I seen ladies, aye, and gallants, too, forget at a\nball their lovers and their mistresses, the dancing, and all the\npleasures of the f\u00eate, to contemplate with evident complaisance this\nenchanting picture, and honoring it even, from time to time, in the\nmidst of the liveliest quadrille, with a look.\n\nWho then can dispute the rank that I accord to it among the masterpieces\nof the art of Apelles?\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII.\n\n_The Upset Carriage._\n\n\nI had at last nearly reached my bureau. So close was I, that had I\nstretched out my arm I could have touched the corner nearest to me. But\nat this very moment I was on the verge of seeing the fruit of all my\nlabors destroyed, and of losing my life. I should pass over in silence\nthe accident that happened to me, for fear of discouraging other\ntravellers, were it not that it is so difficult to upset such a\npost-chaise as I employ, that it must be allowed that one must be\nuncommonly unlucky--as unlucky, indeed, as it is my lot to be--to be\nexposed to a like danger.\n\nThere I was, stretched at full length upon the ground, completely upset,\nand it was done so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I should have been\nalmost tempted to question the cause of my abject position, had not a\nsinging in my ears and a sharp pain in my left shoulder too plainly\ndemonstrated it.\n\nThis was again the OTHER, who had played a trick upon me.\n\nStartled by the voice of a poor man who suddenly asked alms at my door,\nand by the voice of Rose, my other half suddenly turned the arm-chair\nsharply round, before my soul had time to warn it that a piece of brick,\nwhich served as a drag, was gone. The jerk was so violent that my\npost-chaise was quite thrown from its centre of gravity, and turned over\nupon me.\n\nThis was, I must own, one of the occasions upon which I had most to\ncomplain of my soul. For instead of being vexed at herself for having\nbeen absent, and scolding her companion for its hurry, she so far\nforgot herself as to give way to the most animal resentment, and to\ninsult the poor fellow cruelly.\n\n\u201cIdle rascal,\u201d she said, \u201cgo and work.\u201d (An execrable apostrophe this,\nthe invention of miserly, heartless Mammon.)\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d replied the man, hoping to soften my heart, \u201cI come from\nChamb\u00e9ry.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo much the worse for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am James. You saw me when you were in the country. I used to drive\nthe sheep into the fields.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what do you do here?\u201d My soul began to regret the harshness of my\nfirst words; I almost think she regretted them a moment before they were\nuttered. In like manner, when one meets in the road a rut or puddle, one\nsees it, but has not time to avoid it.\n\nRose finished the work of bringing me to good sense and repentance. She\nhad recognized Jem, who had often shared his crust with her, and she\ntestified by her caresses, her remembrance and gratitude.\n\nMeanwhile, Joannetti, who had gathered together what was left of my\ndinner, his own share, gave it at once to Jem.\n\nPoor Joannetti!\n\nThus it is that in my journey I get lessons of philosophy and humanity\nfrom my servant and my dog.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX.\n\n_Misfortune._\n\n\nBefore proceeding farther, I wish to remove a suspicion which may have\ncrossed the minds of my readers.\n\nI would not for all the world be suspected of having undertaken this\njourney just because I did not know how to spend my time, and was in a\nmanner compelled thereto by circumstances. I here affirm, and swear by\nall that is dear to me, that I projected it long before the event took\nplace which deprived me of my liberty for forty-two days. This forced\nretirement only served as an opportunity for setting out sooner than I\nhad intended.\n\nThis gratuitous protestation will, I know, appear suspicious in the eyes\nof some. But those who are so ready to suspect are just the persons who\nwill not read this book. They have enough to do at home and at their\nfriends\u2019, plenty of other business to attend to. And good, honest folk\nwill believe me.\n\nStill, I freely admit that I should have preferred another season for my\njourney, and that I should have chosen for its execution Lent rather\nthan the Carnival. The philosophical reflections, however, that have\ncome to me from above have greatly aided me in supporting the loss of\nthose pleasures which Turin offers at this noisy and exciting time.\n\nIt is certain, I have thought to myself, that the walls of my chamber\nare not so magnificently decorated as those of a ballroom. The silence\nof my cottage is far less agreeable than the pleasing sounds of music\nand dancing. But among the brilliant personages one meets in those\nfestive scenes, there are certainly some who are more sick at heart\nthan I am.\n\nAnd why should I picture to myself those who are more happily\ncircumstanced than it is my lot to be, while the world swarms with those\nwho are worse off? Instead of transporting myself in fancy to that\nsumptuous dancing-hall, where so many beauties are eclipsed by the young\nEug\u00e9nie, I need only pause a moment in one of the streets, that lead\nthither, if I would learn how happy is my fate.\n\nFor, under the porticos of those magnificent apartments, lie a crowd of\nwretched people, half-naked, and ready to die from cold and misery. What\na spectacle is here! Would that this page of my book were known\nthroughout the universe! Would that every one knew that in this opulent\ncity a host of wretched beings sleep, without covering, in the coldest\nwinter nights, and with no pillow but the corner-stone of a street, or\nthe steps of a palace.\n\nHere, again, is a group of children, crouching together for protection\nfrom the deadly cold; and here a trembling woman, who has no voice left\nto complain with. The passers-by come and go without being touched by a\nspectacle with which they are so familiar. The noise of carriages, the\nshouts of intemperance, the ravishing sounds of music, mingle not\nunfrequently with the wails of those unhappy creatures, and fill the ear\nwith doleful discord.\n\n\n\n\nXXX.\n\n_Charity._\n\n\nWere any one to pass a hasty judgment upon a city, taking my last\nchapter as a criterion, he would err greatly. I have spoken of the poor\nwe meet with, of their pitiful lamentations, and of the indifference\nwith which many regard them. But I have said nothing of the multitude of\ncharitable persons who sleep while others seek amusement, and who rise\nat dawn, unobserved and unostentatiously, to succor the unfortunate.\n\nThis aspect of city life must not be passed by in silence. I will write\nit on the reverse of the page I was anxious everybody should read.\n\nAfter having divided their good things with their brethren, after\nhaving poured balm into hearts chafed by sorrow, you may see them enter\nthe churches, while wearied vice sleeps upon eider-down, to offer up\ntheir prayers to God, and to thank Him for his mercies. The light of a\nsolitary lamp still struggles in the sanctuary with the daylight; but\nthey are already prostrate before the altar. And the Almighty, angered\nby the hard-hearted selfishness of men, witholds his threatening hand.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI.\n\n_Inventory._\n\n\nI could not help saying a word in my journey about those poor creatures,\nfor the thought of them has often come across me on my way, and turned\nthe current of my reflections. Sometimes, struck with the difference\nbetween their case and my own, I have suddenly stopped my\ntravelling-carriage, and thought my chamber extravagantly embellished!\nWhat superfluous luxury! Six chairs, two tables, a bureau, and a\nlooking-glass! What vain display! My bed above all things, my rose and\nwhite bed, with its two mattresses, seemed to rival the magnificence and\neffeminacy of Asiatic monarchs.\n\nThese meditations made me indifferent to the pleasures that had been\nforbidden me. And, as I went on from one reflection to another, my fit\nof philosophy became so serious that I could have seen a ball going on\nin the next room, and heard the sound of violins and flutes without\nstirring. I could have heard Marchesini\u2019s melodious voice, that voice\nwhich has so often transported me, yes, I could have listened to it\nwithout being moved. Nay, more, I could have gazed upon the most\nbeauteous woman in Turin, upon Eug\u00e9nie herself, adorned from head to\nfoot by the hands of Mademoiselle Rapoux,[4] without emotion. But, of\nthis last, I must confess myself not quite sure.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII.\n\n_Misanthropy._\n\n\nBut, gentlemen, allow me to ask a question. Do you enjoy balls and plays\nas much as you used to do? As for me, I avow that for some time past\ncrowded assemblies have inspired me with a kind of terror. When in their\nmidst, I am assailed by an ominous dream. In vain I try to shake it off;\nlike the dream of _Athalie_, it constantly returns. Perhaps this is\nbecause the soul, overwhelmed at the present moment by dark fancies and\npainful pictures, sees nothing but sadness around it, just as a\ndisordered stomach turns the most wholesome food into poison. However\nthis may be, my dream is as follows. When I am at one of these f\u00eates,\namong a crowd of kind, good-natured men, who dance and sing, who weep at\ntragedies, and are full of frankness and cordiality, I say to myself:--\n\n\u201cIf suddenly a white bear, a philosopher, a tiger, or some other animal\nof this kind were to enter, and ascending to the orchestra, were to\nshout out furiously: \u2018Wretched beings! Listen to the truth that comes\nfrom my lips! You are oppressed! You are the slaves of tyrants! You are\nwretched and heart-sick! Awake from your lethargy!\n\n\u201c\u2018Musicians, break your instruments about your heads, and let each one\nof you arm himself with a poniard. Think no more about holidays and\nrejoicings. Climb into the boxes, and stab their occupants, one and all.\nAnd let the women steep their timid hands in blood.\n\n\u201c\u2018Quit this room, for you are free! Tear your king from his throne, and\nyour God from his sanctuary.\u2019\n\n\u201cWell, and how many of these charming men will obey this tiger\u2019s voice.\nHow many of them thought, perhaps, of such deeds before they entered?\nWho can tell? Was there no dancing in Paris five years ago?\u201d\n\nJoannetti! shut the door and windows! I do not wish to see the light!\nLet no one enter my room. Put my sword within reach. Go out yourself,\nand keep away from me.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII.\n\n_Consolation._\n\n\nNo, no! Stay, Joannetti, my good fellow! And you too, Rose, you who\nguess what are my sorrows, and soften them by your caresses, come!\n\nV forms the resting-place.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV.\n\n_Correspondence._\n\n\nThe upset of my post-chaise has rendered the reader the service of\nshortening my journey by a good dozen chapters, for, upon getting up, I\nfound myself close to my bureau, and saw that I had no time left for any\nobservations upon a number of engravings and pictures which had yet to\nbe surveyed, and which might have lengthened my excursions into the\nrealm of painting.\n\nLeaving to the right the portraits of Raphael and his mistress, the\nChevalier d\u2019Assas and the Shepherdess of the Alps, and taking the left,\nthe side on which the window is situated, my bureau comes into view. It\nis the first and the most prominent object the traveller\u2019s eyes light\nupon, taking the route I have indicated.\n\nIt is surmounted by a few shelves that serve as a book-case, and the\nwhole is terminated by a bust which completes the pyramid, and\ncontributes more than any other object to the adornment of this region.\n\nUpon opening the first drawer to the left, we find an inkstand, paper of\nall kinds, pens ready mended, and sealing-wax; all which set the most\nindolent person longing to write.\n\nI am sure, dear Jenny, that if you chanced to open this drawer, you\nwould reply to the letter I wrote you a year ago.\n\nIn the opposite drawer lies a confused heap of materials for a touching\nhistory of the prisoner of Pignerol,[5] which, my dear friends, you will\nere long read.\n\nBetween these two drawers is a recess into which I throw whatever\nletters I receive. All that have reached me during the last ten years\nare there. The oldest of them are arranged according to date in several\npackets; the new ones lie pell-mell. Besides these, I have several\ndating from my early boyhood.\n\nHow great a pleasure it is to behold again through the medium of these\nletters the interesting scenes of our early years, to be once again\ntransported into those happy days that we shall see no more!\n\nHow full is my heart, and how deeply tinged with sadness is its joy, as\nmy eyes wander over those words traced by one who is gone forever! That\nhandwriting is his, and it was his heart that guided his hand. It was to\nme that he addressed this letter, and this letter is all that is left of\nhim!\n\nWhen I put my hand into this recess, I seldom leave the spot for the\nwhole day. In like manner, a traveller will pass rapidly through whole\nprovinces of Italy, making a few hurried and trivial observations on the\nway, and upon reaching Rome will take up his abode there for months.\n\nThis is the richest vein in the mine I am exploring. How changed I find\nmy ideas and sentiments, and how altered do my friends appear when I\nexamine them as they were in days gone by, and as they are now! In these\nmirrors of the past I see them in mortal agitation about plans which no\nlonger disturb them.\n\nHere I find an event announced which we evidently looked upon as a great\nmisfortune; but the end of the letter is wanting, and the circumstance\nis so entirely forgotten that I cannot now make out what the matter was\nwhich so concerned us. We were possessed by a thousand prejudices. We\nknew nothing of the world, and of men. But then, how warm was our\nintercourse! How intimate our friendship! How unbounded our confidence!\n\nIn our ignorance there was bliss. But now,--ah! all is now changed. We\nhave been compelled, as others, to read the human heart; and truth,\nfalling like a bomb into the midst of us, has forever destroyed the\nenchanted palace of illusion.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nXXXV.\n\n_The Withered Rose._\n\n\nIf the subject were worth the trouble, I could readily write a chapter\nupon that dry rose. It is a flower of last year\u2019s carnival. I gathered\nit myself in the Valentino.[6] And in the evening, an hour before the\nball was to begin, I bore it, full of hope, and agreeably excited, to\nMadame Hautcastel, for her acceptance. She took it, and without looking\nat it or me, placed it upon her toilette-table. And how could she have\ngiven _me_ any of her attention? She was engaged in looking at herself.\nThere she stood before a large mirror; her hair was ornamented for a\nf\u00eate, and the decorations of her dress were undergoing their final\narrangement. She was so fully occupied, her attention was so totally\nabsorbed by the ribbons, gauzes, and all sorts of finery that lay in\nheaps before her, that I did not get a look or any sign of recognition.\nThere was nothing for me but resignation. I held out humbly in my hand a\nnumber of pins arranged in order. But her pincushion being more within\nreach, she took them from her pincushion, and when I brought my hand\nnearer, she took them from my hand, quite indifferently, and in taking\nthem up she would feel about for them with the tips of her fingers,\nwithout taking her eyes from the glass, lest she should lose sight of\nherself.\n\nFor some time I held behind her a second mirror that she might judge the\nbetter how her dress became her, and as her face reflected itself from\none glass to another, I saw a prospective of coquettes, no one of whom\npaid me the least attention. In a word, I must confess that my rose and\nI cut a very poor figure.\n\nAt last I lost all patience, and unable longer to control the vexation\nthat preyed upon me, I put down the looking-glass I had been holding,\nand went out angrily without taking leave.\n\n\u201cO! you are going?\u201d she said, turning so as to see her figure in\nprofile. I made no answer, but I listened some time at the door to see\nwhat effect my abrupt departure would have.\n\n\u201cDo you not see,\u201d she said to her maid, after a moment\u2019s silence, \u201cthat\nthis caraco, particularly the lower part, is much too large at the\nwaist, and will want pinning?\u201d\n\nWhy and wherefore that rose is upon my shelf, I shall certainly not\nexplain, for, as I said before, a withered rose does not deserve a\nchapter.\n\nAnd pray observe, ladies, that I make no reflection upon the adventure\nwith the rose. I do not say whether Madame de Hautcastel did well or\notherwise in preferring her dress to me, or whether I had any right to a\nbetter reception.\n\nI take special care to deduce therefrom no general conclusions about the\nreality, the strength, and the duration of the affection of ladies for\ntheir friends. I am content to cast this chapter (since it is one) into\nthe world with the rest of my journey, without addressing it to any one,\nand without recommending it to any one.\n\nI will only add, gentlemen, a word of counsel. Impress well upon your\nminds this fact, that your mistress is no longer yours on the day of a\nball.\n\nAs soon as dressing begins, a lover is no more thought of than a husband\nwould be; and the ball takes the place of a lover.\n\nEvery one knows how little a husband gains by enforcing his love. Take\nyour trouble, then, patiently, cheerfully.\n\nAnd, my dear sir, do not deceive yourself; if a lady welcome you at a\nball, it is not as a lover that you are received, for you are a\nhusband--but as a part of the ball; and you are therefore but a fraction\nof her new conquest. You are the decimal of a lover. Or, it may be, you\ndance well, and so give \u00e9clat to her graces. After all, perhaps, the\nmost flattering way in which you can regard her kind welcome is to\nconsider that she hopes by treating as her cavalier a man of parts like\nyourself, to excite the jealousy of her companions. Were it not for that\nshe would not notice you at all.\n\nIt amounts then to this. You must resign yourself to your fate, and wait\nuntil the husband\u2019s _r\u00f4le_ is played. I know those who would be glad to\nget off at so cheap a rate.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI.\n\n_The Library._\n\n\nI promised to give a dialogue between my soul and the OTHER. But there\nare some chapters which elude me, as it were, or rather, there are\nothers which flow from my pen _nolens volens_, and derange my plans.\nAmong these is one about my library; and I will make it as short as I\ncan. Our forty-two days will soon be ended; and even were it not so, a\nsimilar period would not suffice to complete the description of the rich\ncountry in which I travel so pleasantly.\n\nMy library, then, is composed of novels, if I must make the confession;\nof novels and a few choice poets.\n\nAs if I had not troubles enough of my own, I share those of a thousand\nimaginary personages, and I feel them as acutely as my own. How many\ntears have I shed for that poor Clarissa,[7] and for Charlotte\u2019s[8]\nlover!\n\nBut if I go out of my way in search of unreal afflictions, I find in\nreturn, such virtue, kindness, and disinterestedness in this imaginary\nworld as I have never yet found united in the real world around me. I\nmeet with a woman after my heart\u2019s desire, free from whim, lightness,\nand affectation. I say nothing about beauty; this I can leave to my\nimagination, and picture her faultlessly beautiful. And then, closing\nthe book, which no longer keeps pace with my ideas, I take the fair one\nby the hand, and we travel together over a country a thousand times more\ndelightful than Eden itself. What painter could represent the fairy\nland in which I have placed the goddess of my heart? What poet could\never describe the lively and manifold sensations I experience in those\nenchanted regions?\n\nHow often have I cursed that Cleveland,[9] who is always embarking upon\nnew troubles which he might very well avoid! I cannot endure that book\nwith its long list of calamities. But if I open it by way of\ndistraction, I cannot help devouring it to the end.\n\nFor how could I leave that poor man among the Abaquis? What would become\nof him in the hands of those savages? Still less dare I leave him in his\nattempt to escape from captivity.\n\nIndeed, I so enter into his sorrows, I am so interested in him and in\nhis unfortunate family, that the sudden appearance of the ferocious\nRuintons makes my hair stand on end. When I read that passage a cold\nperspiration covers me, and my fright is as lively and real as if I was\ngoing to be roasted and eaten by the monsters myself.\n\nWhen I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some poet, and set\nout again for a new world.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII.\n\n_Another World._\n\n\nFrom the Argonautic expedition to the Assembly of Notables; from the\nbottom of the nethermost pit to the furthest fixed star beyond the Milky\nWay; to the confines of the Universe; to the gates of chaos; thus far\nextends the vast field over the length and breadth of which I leisurely\nroam. I lack nor time nor space. Thither, conducted by Homer, by Milton,\nby Virgil, by Ossian, I transport my existence.\n\nAll the events that have taken place between these two epochs; all the\ncountries, all the worlds, all the beings that have existed between\nthese two boundaries,--all are mine, all as lawfully belong to me as\nthe ships that entered the Pir\u00e6us belonged to a certain Athenian.\n\nAbove all the rest do I love the poets who carry me back to the remotest\nantiquity. The death of the ambitious Agamemnon, the madness of Orestes,\nand the tragical history of the heaven-persecuted family of the Atrides,\ninspire me with a terror that all the events of modern times could not\nexcite in my breast.\n\nBehold the fatal urn which contains the ashes of Orestes! Who would not\nshudder at the sight? Electra, unhappy sister! be comforted, for it is\nOrestes himself who bears the urn, and the ashes are those of his\nenemies.\n\nNo longer are their banks like those of Xanthus or the Scamander. No\nlonger do we visit plains such as those of Hesperia or Arcadia. Where\nare now the isles of Lemnos and Crete? Where the famous labyrinth? Where\nis the rock that forlorn Ariadne washed with her tears? Theseus is seen\nno more; Hercules is gone forever. The men, aye, and the heroes of our\nday are but pigmies.\n\nWhen I would visit a scene full of enthusiasm, and put forth all the\nstrength of my imagination, I cling boldly to the flowing robe of the\nsublime blind poet of Albion at the moment when he soars heavenward, and\ndares approach the throne of the Eternal. What muse was able to sustain\nhim in a flight so lofty that no man before him ever ventured to raise\nhis eyes so high? From heaven\u2019s dazzling pavement which avaricious\nMammon looked down upon with envious eyes, I pass, horror-stricken, to\nthe vast caverns of Satan\u2019s sojourn. I take my place at the infernal\ncouncil, mingle with the host of rebellious spirits, and listen to their\ndiscourse.\n\nBut here I must confess a weakness for which I have often reproached\nmyself.\n\nI cannot help taking a certain interest in Satan, thus hurled headlong\nfrom heaven. (I am speaking, of course, of _Milton\u2019s_ Satan.) While I\nblame the obstinacy of the rebel angel, the firmness he shows in the\nmidst of his exceeding great misery, and the grandness of his courage,\ninspire me, against my will, with admiration. Although not ignorant of\nthe woe resulting from the direful enterprise that led him to force the\ngate of hell and to trouble the home of our first parents, I cannot for\na moment, do what I will, wish he may perish in the confusion of chaos\non his way. I even think I could willingly help him, did not shame\nwithhold me. I follow his every movement, and take as much pleasure in\ntravelling with him as if I were in very good company. In vain I\nconsider that after all he is a devil on his way to the ruin of the\nhuman race, that he is a thorough democrat not after the manner of those\nof Athens, but of Paris. All this does not cure me of my prejudice in\nhis favor.\n\nHow vast was his project! How great the boldness displayed in its\nexecution!\n\nWhen the thrice-threefold gates of hell fly open before him, and the\ndark, boundless ocean discloses itself in all its horror at his feet,\nwith undaunted eye he surveys the realm of chaos, and then, opening his\nsail-broad wings, precipitates himself into the abyss.[10]\n\nTo me this passage is one of the noblest efforts of imagination, and one\nof the most splendid journeys ever made, next to _the journey round my\nroom_.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII.\n\n_The Bust._\n\n\nI should never end if I tried to describe a thousandth part of the\nstrange events I meet with when I travel in my library. The voyages of\nCook and the observations of his fellow-travellers Banks and Solander\nare nothing compared with my adventures in this one district. Indeed, I\nthink I could spend my life there in a kind of rapture, were it not for\nthe bust I have already mentioned, upon which my eyes and thoughts\nalways fix themselves at last, whatever may be the position of my soul.\nAnd when my soul is violently agitated, or a prey to despair, a glance\nat this bust suffices to restore the troubled being to its natural\nstate. It sounds the chord upon which I keep in tune the harmonies, and\ncorrect the discords of the sensations and perceptions of which my being\nis made up. How striking the likeness! Those are the features nature\ngave to the best of men. O, that the sculptor had been able to bring to\nview his noble soul, his genius, his character! But what am I\nattempting! Is it here that his praise should be recorded? Do I address\nmyself to the men that surround me? Ah! what concern is it of theirs?\n\nI am contented to bend before thy image, O best of fathers! Alas, that\nthis should be all that is left me of thee and of my father-land! Thou\nquittedst the earth when crime was about to invade it; and so heavy are\nthe ills that oppress thy family, that we are constrained to regard thy\nloss as a blessing. Many would have been the evils a longer life would\nhave brought upon thee! And dost thou, O my father, dost thou, in thine\nabode of bliss, know the lot of thy family! Knowest thou that thy\nchildren are exiled from the country thou hast served with so much zeal\nand integrity for sixty years?\n\nDost thou know that they are forbidden to visit thy grave? But tyranny\nhas not been able to deprive them of the most precious part of thy\nheritage, the record of thy virtues, and the force of thine example. In\nthe midst of the torrent of crime which has borne their father-land and\ntheir patrimony to ruin, they have steadfastly remained united in the\npath marked out for them by thee. And when it shall be given them to\nprostrate themselves once more beside thy tomb, thou shalt see in them\nthine obedient children.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX.\n\n_A Dialogue._\n\n\nI promised a dialogue, and I will keep my word.\n\nIt was daybreak. The rays of the sun were gilding the summit of Mount\nViso, and the tops of the highest hills on the island beneath our feet.\nMy soul was already awake. This early awakening may have been the effect\nof those night visions which often excite in her a fatiguing and useless\nagitation: or perhaps the carnival, then drawing to a close, was the\nsecret cause; for this season of pleasure and folly influences the human\norganization much as do the phases of the moon and the conjunction of\ncertain planets. However this may be, my soul was awake, and wide awake,\nwhen she shook off the bands of sleep.\n\nFor some time she had shared, though confusedly, the sensations of the\nOTHER: but she was still encumbered by the swathes of night and sleep;\nand these swathes seemed to her transformed into gauze and fine linen\nand Indian lawn. My poor soul was, as it were, enwrapped in all this\nparaphernalia, and the god of sleep, that he might hold her still more\nfirmly under his sway, added to these bonds disheveled tresses of flaxen\nhair, ribbon bows, and pearl necklaces. Really it was pitiful to see her\nstruggle in these toils.\n\nThe agitation of the nobler part of myself communicated itself to the\nOTHER; and the latter, in its turn, reacted powerfully upon my soul.\n\nI worked myself, at last, into a state which it would be hard to\ndescribe, while my soul, either sagaciously or by chance, hit upon a way\nof escaping from the gauzes by which it was being suffocated. I know\nnot whether she discovered an outlet, or whether, which is a more\nnatural conclusion, it occurred to her to raise them: at all events, she\nfound a means of egress from the labyrinth. The tresses of disheveled\nhair were still there; but they were now rather help than hindrance; my\nsoul seized them, as a drowning man clutches the sedge on a river\u2019s\nbank, but the pearl necklace broke in the act, and the unstrung pearls\nrolled on the sofa, and from the sofa to Madame Hautcastel\u2019s floor (for\nmy soul, by an eccentricity for which it would be difficult to give a\nreason, fancied she was at that lady\u2019s house); then a great bunch of\nviolets fell to the ground, and my soul, which then awoke, returned\nhome, bringing with her common sense and reality. She strongly\ndisapproved, as you will readily imagine, of all that had passed in her\nabsence; and here it is that the dialogue begins which forms the subject\nof this chapter.\n\nNever had my soul been so ungraciously received. The complaints she\nthought fit to make at this critical moment fully sufficed to stir up\ndomestic strife; a revolt, a formal insurrection followed.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said my soul, \u201cis it thus that during my absence, instead of\nrestoring your strength by quiet sleep that you may be better able to do\nmy bidding, you have the insolence (the expressing was rather strong) to\ngive yourself up to transports which my authority has not sanctioned!\u201d\n\nLittle accustomed to this haughty tone, the OTHER angrily answered:--\n\n\u201cReally, madame\u201d (this madame was meant to remove from the discussion\nanything like familiarity), \u201creally, this affectation of virtuous\ndecorum is highly becoming to you! Is it not to the sallies of your\nimagination, and to your extravagant ideas, that I owe what in me\ndispleases you? What right have you to go on those pleasant excursions\nso often, without taking me with you? Have I ever complained about your\nattending the meetings in the Empyrean or in the Elysian fields, your\nconversations with the celestial intelligences, your profound\nspeculations (a little raillery here, you see), your castles in the air,\nand your transcendental systems? And have I not a right, when you leave\nme in this way, to enjoy the blessings bestowed upon me by Nature, and\nthe pleasures she places before me?\u201d\n\nMy soul, surprised at so much vivacity and eloquence, did not know how\nto reply. In order to settle the dispute amicably, she endeavored to\nveil with the semblance of good-nature the reproaches that had escaped\nher. But, that she might not seem to take the first steps towards\nreconciliation, she affected a formal tone. \u201c_Madame_,\u201d she said, with\nassumed cordiality.... If the reader thought the word misplaced when\naddressed to my soul, what will he say of it now, if he call to mind the\ncause of the quarrel? But my soul did not feel the extreme absurdity of\nthis mode of expression, so much does passion obscure the intellect!\n\u201cMadame,\u201d she said, \u201cnothing, be assured, would give me so much pleasure\nas to see you enjoy those pleasures of which your nature is susceptible,\nif even I did not participate in them, were it not that such pleasures\nare harmful to you, injuriously affecting the harmony which....\u201d Here my\nsoul was rudely interrupted, \u201cNo, no, I am not the dupe of your\npretended kindness. The sojourn we are compelled to make together in\nthis room in which we travel; the wound which I received, which still\nbleeds, and which nearly destroyed me,--is not all this the fruit of\nyour overweening conceit and your barbarous prejudices? My comfort, my\nvery existence, is counted as nothing when your passions sway you: and\nthen, forsooth, you pretend that you take an interest in my welfare, and\nthat your insults spring from friendship.\u201d\n\nMy soul saw very well that the part she was playing on this occasion was\nno flattering one. She began, too, to perceive that the warmth of the\ndispute had put the cause of it out of sight. Profiting from this\ncircumstance, she caused a further distraction by saying to Joannetti,\nwho at that moment entered the room, \u201cMake some coffee!\u201d The noise of\nthe cups attracted all the rebel\u2019s attention, who forthwith forgot\neverything else. In like manner we show children a toy to make them\nforget the unwholesome fruit for which they beg and stamp.\n\nWhile the water was being heated, I insensibly fell asleep. I enjoyed\nthat delightful sensation about which I have already entertained my\nreaders, and which you experience when you feel yourself to be dozing.\nThe agreeable rattling Joannetti made with the coffee-pot re\u00ebchoed in my\nbrain, and set all my sensitive nerves vibrating, just as a single\nharp-string when struck will make the octaves resound.\n\nAt last I saw as it were, a shadow pass before me. I opened my eyes, and\nthere stood Joannetti. Ah, what an aroma! How agreeable a surprise!\nCoffee! Cream! A pyramid of dry toast! Good reader, come, breakfast with\nme!\n\n\n\n\nXL.\n\n_Imagination._\n\n\nWhat a wealth of delights has kind Nature given to those who can enjoy\nthem. Who can count the innumerable phases they assume in different\nindividuals, and at different periods of life! The confused remembrance\nof the pleasures of my boyhood sends a thrill through my heart. Shall I\nattempt to paint the joys of the youth whose soul glows with all the\nwarmth of love, at an age when interest, ambition, hatred, and all the\nbase passions that degrade and torment humanity are unknown to him, even\nby name?\n\nDuring this age, too short, alas! the sun shines with a brightness it\nnever displays in after-life; the air is then purer, the streams\nclearer and fresher, and nature has aspects, and the woods have paths,\nwhich in our riper age we never find again. O, what perfumes those\nflowers breathe! How delicious are those fruits! With what colors is the\nmorning sky adorned! Men are all good, generous, kind-hearted; and women\nall lovely and faithful. On all sides we meet with cordiality,\nfrankness, and unselfishness. Nature presents to us nothing but flowers,\nvirtues, and pleasures.\n\nThe excitement of love, and the anticipation of happiness, do they not\nfill our hearts to the brim with emotions no less lively and various?\n\nThe sight of nature and its contemplation, whether we regard it as a\nwhole, or examine its details, opens to our reason an immense field of\nenjoyments. Soon the imagination, brooding over this sea of pleasures,\nincreases their number and intensity. The various sensations so unite\nand blend as to form new ones. Dreams of glory mingle with the\npalpitations of love. Benevolence moves hand in hand with self-esteem.\nMelancholy, from time to time, throws over us her solemn livery, and\nchanges our tears to joy. Thus the perceptions of the mind, the feelings\nof the heart, the very remembrance of sensations, are inexhaustible\nsources of pleasure and comfort to man. No wonder, then, that the noise\nJoannetti made with the coffee-pot, and the unexpected appearance of a\ncup of cream, should have impressed me so vividly and so agreeably.\n\n\n\n\nXLI.\n\n_The Travelling-coat._\n\n\nI put on my travelling-coat, after having examined it with a complacent\neye; and forthwith resolved to write a chapter _ad hoc_, that I might\nmake it known to the reader.\n\nThe form and usefulness of these garments being pretty generally known,\nI will treat specially of their influence upon the minds of travellers.\n\nMy winter travelling-coat is made of the warmest and softest stuff I\ncould meet with. It envelops me entirely from head to foot, and when I\nam in my arm-chair, with my hands in my pockets, I am very like the\nstatue of Vishnu one sees in the pagodas of India.\n\nYou may, if you will, tax me with prejudice when I assert the influence\na traveller\u2019s costume exercises upon its wearer. At any rate I can\nconfidently affirm with regard to this matter, that it would appear to\nme as ridiculous to take a single step of my journey round my room in\nuniform, with my sword at my side, as it would to go forth into the\nworld in my dressing-gown. Were I to find myself in full military dress,\nnot only should I be unable to proceed with my journey, but I really\nbelieve I should not be able to read what I have written about my\ntravels, still less to understand it.\n\nDoes this surprise you? Do we not every day meet with people who fancy\nthey are ill because they are unshaven, or because some one has thought\nthey have looked poorly, and told them so? Dress has such influence upon\nmen\u2019s minds that there are valetudinarians who think themselves in\nbetter health than usual when they have on a new coat and well-powdered\nwig. They deceive the public and themselves by their nicety about dress,\nuntil one finds some fine morning they have died in full fig, and their\ndeath startles everybody.\n\nAnd in the class of men among whom I live, how many there are who,\nfinding themselves clothed in uniform, firmly believe they are officers,\nuntil the unexpected appearance of the enemy shows them their mistake.\nAnd more than this, if it be the king\u2019s good pleasure to allow one of\nthem to add to his coat a certain trimming, he straightway believes\nhimself to be a general, and the whole army gives him the title without\nany notion of making fun of him! So great an influence has a coat upon\nthe human imagination!\n\nThe following illustration will show still further the truth of my\nassertion.\n\nIt sometimes happened that they forgot to inform the Count de ---- some\ndays beforehand of the approach of his turn to mount guard. Early one\nmorning, on the very day on which this duty fell to the Count, a\ncorporal awoke him, and announced the disagreeable news. But the idea of\ngetting up there and then, putting on his gaiters, and turning out\nwithout having thought about it the evening before, so disturbed him\nthat he preferred reporting himself sick and staying at home all day. So\nhe put on his dressing-gown, and sent away his barber. This made him\nlook pale and ill, and frightened his wife and family. He really _did_\nfeel a little poorly.\n\nHe told every one he was not very well, partly for the sake of\nappearances, and partly because he positively believed himself to be\nindisposed. Gradually the influence of the dressing-gown began to work.\nThe slops he was obliged to take upset his stomach. His relations and\nfriends sent to ask after him. He was soon quite ill enough to take to\nhis bed.\n\nIn the evening Dr. Ranson[11] found his pulse hard and feverish, and\nordered him to be bled next day.\n\nIf the campaign had lasted a month longer, the sick man\u2019s case would\nhave been past cure.\n\nNow, who can doubt about the influence of travelling-coats upon\ntravellers, if he reflect that poor Count de ---- thought more than once\nthat he was about to perform a journey to the other world for having\ninopportunely donned his dressing-gown in this?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nXLII.\n\n_Aspasia\u2019s Buskin._\n\n\nI was sitting near my fire after dinner, enveloped in my \u201chabit de\nvoyage,\u201d and freely abandoning myself to its influence: the hour for\nstarting was, I knew, drawing nigh; but the fumes generated by digestion\nrose to my brain, and so obstructed the channels along which thoughts\nglide on their way from the senses, that all communication between them\nwas intercepted. And as my senses no longer transmitted any idea to my\nbrain, the latter, in its turn, could no longer emit any of that\nelectric fluid with which the ingenious Doctor Valli resuscitates dead\nfrogs.\n\nAfter reading this preamble, you will easily understand why my head fell\non my chest, and why the muscles of the thumb and forefinger of my right\nhand, being no longer excited by the electric fluid, became so relaxed\nthat a volume of the works of the Marquis Caraccioli, which I was\nholding tightly between these two fingers, imperceptibly eluded my\ngrasp, and fell upon the hearth.\n\nI had just had some callers, and my conversation with the persons who\nhad left the room had turned upon the death of Dr. Cigna, an eminent\nphysician then lately deceased. He was a learned and hard-working man, a\ngood naturalist, and a famous botanist. My thoughts were occupied with\nthe merits of this skillful man. \u201cAnd yet,\u201d I said to myself, \u201cwere it\npossible for me to evoke the spirits of those whom he has, perhaps,\ndismissed to the other world, who knows but that his reputation might\nsuffer some diminution?\u201d\n\nI travelled insensibly to a dissertation on medicine and the progress it\nhas made since the time of Hippocrates. I asked myself whether the\nfamous personages of antiquity who died in their beds, as Pericles,\nPlato, the celebrated Aspasia, and Hippocrates, died, after the manner\nof ordinary mortals, of some putrid or inflammatory fever; and whether\nthey were bled, and crammed with specifics.\n\nTo say why these four personages came into my mind rather than any\nothers, is out of my power; for who can give reasons for what he dreams?\nAll that I can say is that my soul summoned the doctor of Cos, the\ndoctor of Turin, and the famous statesman who did such great things, and\ncommitted such grave faults.\n\nBut as to his graceful friend, I humbly own that it was the OTHER who\nbeckoned her to come. Still, however, when I think of the interview, I\nam tempted to feel some little pride, for it is evident that in this\ndream the balance in favor of reason was as four to one. Pretty fair\nthis, methinks, for a lieutenant.\n\nHowever this may be, whilst giving myself up to the reflections I have\ndescribed, my eyes closed, and I fell fast asleep. But upon shutting my\neyes, the image of the personages of whom I had been thinking, remained\npainted upon that delicate canvas we call memory; and these images,\nmingling in my brain with the idea of the evocation of the dead, it was\nnot long before I saw advancing in procession Hippocrates, Plato,\nPericles, Aspasia, and Doctor Cigna in his bob-wig.\n\nI saw them all seat themselves in chairs ranged around the fire.\nPericles alone remained standing to read the newspapers.\n\n\u201cIf the discoveries of which you speak were true,\u201d said Hippocrates to\nthe doctor, \u201cand had they been as useful to the healing art as you\naffirm, I should have seen the number of those who daily descend to the\ngloomy realm of Pluto decrease; but the ratio of its inhabitants,\naccording to the registers of Minos which I have myself verified,\nremains still the same as formerly.\u201d\n\nDoctor Cigna turned to me and said: \u201cYou have without doubt heard these\ndiscoveries spoken of. You know that Harvey discovered the circulation\nof the blood; that the immortal Spallanzani explained the process of\ndigestion, the mechanism of which is now well understood;\u201d and he\nentered upon a long detail of all the discoveries connected with physic,\nand of the host of remedies for which we are indebted to chemistry: in\nshort, he delivered an academical discourse in favor of modern\nmedicine.\n\n\u201cBut am I to believe,\u201d I replied, \u201cthat these great men were ignorant of\nall you have been telling them, and that their souls, having shuffled\noff this mortal coil, still meet with any obscurities in nature?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! how great is your error!\u201d exclaimed the _proto-physician_[12] of\nthe Peloponnesus. The mysteries of nature are as closely hidden from the\ndead as from the living. Of one thing we who linger on the banks of the\nStyx are certain, that He who created all things alone knows the great\nsecret which men vainly strive to solve. \u201cAnd,\u201d added he, turning to the\ndoctor, \u201cdo be persuaded by me to divest yourself of what still clings\nto you of the party-spirit you have brought with you from the sojourn of\nmortals. And since, seeing that Charon daily ferries over in his boat as\nmany shades as heretofore, the labors of a thousand generations and all\nthe discoveries men have made have not been able to prolong their\nexistence, let us not uselessly weary ourselves in defending an art\nwhich, among the dead, cannot even profit its practitioners.\u201d\n\nThus, to my great amazement, spoke the famous Hippocrates.\n\nDoctor Cigna smiled; and as spirits can neither withstand evidence, nor\nsilence truth, he not only agreed with Hippocrates, but, blushing after\nthe manner of disembodied intelligences, he protested that he had\nhimself always had his doubts.\n\nPericles, who had drawn near the window, heaved a deep sigh, the cause\nof which I divined. He was reading a number of the \u201cMoniteur,\u201d which\nannounced the decadence of the arts and sciences. He saw illustrious\nscholars desert their sublime conceptions to invent new crimes, and\nshuddered at hearing a rabble herd compare themselves with the heroes\nof generous Greece; and this, forsooth, because they put to death,\nwithout shame or remorse, venerable old men, women, and children, and\ncoolly perpetrated the blackest and most useless crimes.\n\nPlato, who had listened to our conversation without joining in it, and\nseeing it brought to a sudden and unexpected close, thus spoke: \u201cI can\nreadily understand that the discoveries great men have made in the\nvarious branches of natural science do not forward the art of medicine,\nwhich can never change the course of nature, except at the cost of life.\nBut this will certainly not be so with the researches that have been\nmade in the study of politics. Locke\u2019s inquiries into the nature of the\nhuman understanding, the invention of printing, the accumulated\nobservations drawn from history, the number of excellent books which\nhave spread sound information even among the lower orders,--so many\nwonders must have contributed to make men better, and the happy republic\nI conceived, which the age in which I lived caused me to regard as an\nimpracticable dream, no doubt now exists upon the earth?\u201d At this\nquestion the honest doctor cast down his eyes, and only answered by\ntears. In wiping them with his pocket-handkerchief, he involuntarily\nmoved his wig on one side, so that a part of his face was hidden by it.\n\u201cYe gods!\u201d exclaimed Aspasia, with a scream, \u201chow strange a sight! And\nis it a discovery of one of your great men that has led you to the idea\nof turning another man\u2019s skull into a head-dress?\u201d\n\nAspasia, from whom our philosophical dissertations had elicited nothing\nbut gapes, had taken up a magazine of fashions which lay on the\nchimney-piece, the leaves of which she had been turning over for some\ntime when the doctor\u2019s wig made her utter this exclamation. Finding the\nnarrow, ricketty seat upon which she was sitting uncomfortable, she had,\nwithout the least ceremony, placed her two bare legs, which were adorned\nwith bandelets, on the straw-bottomed chair between her and me, and\nrested her elbow upon the broad shoulders of Plato.\n\n\u201cIt is no skull,\u201d said the doctor, addressing her, and taking off his\nwig, which he threw on the fire, \u201cit is a wig, madam; and I know not why\nI did not cast this ridiculous ornament into the flames of Tartarus when\nfirst I came among you. But absurdities and prejudices adhere so closely\nto our miserable nature that they even follow us sometimes beyond the\ngrave.\u201d I took singular pleasure in seeing the doctor thus abjure his\nphysic and his wig at the same moment.\n\n\u201cI assure you,\u201d said Aspasia, \u201cthat most of the head-dresses represented\nin the pages I have been turning over deserve the same fate as yours,\nso very extravagant are they.\u201d\n\nThe fair Athenian amused herself vastly in looking over the engravings,\nand was very reasonably surprised by the variety and oddity of modern\ncontrivances. One figure, especially struck her. It was that of a young\nlady with a really elegant head-dress which Aspasia only thought\nsomewhat too high. But the piece of gauze that covered the neck was so\nvery full you could scarcely see half her face. Aspasia, not knowing\nthat these extraordinary developments were produced by starch, could not\nhelp showing a surprise which would have been redoubled (but inversely),\nhad the gauze been transparent.\n\n\u201cBut do explain,\u201d she said, \u201cwhy women of the present day seem to wear\ndresses to hide rather than to clothe them. They scarcely allow their\nfaces to be seen, those faces by which alone their sex is to be\nguessed, so strangely are their bodies disfigured by the eccentric folds\nof their garments. Among all the figures represented in these pages, I\ndo not find one with the neck, arms, and legs bare. How is it your young\nwarriors are not tempted to put an end to such a fashion? It would\nappear,\u201d she added, \u201cthat the virtue of the women of this age, which\nthey parade in all their articles of dress, greatly surpasses that of my\ncontemporaries.\u201d\n\nAs she ended these words, Aspasia turned her eyes on me as if to ask a\nreply. I pretended not to notice this, and in order to give myself an\nabsent air, took up the tongs and pushed away among the embers the\nshreds of the doctor\u2019s wig which had escaped the flames. Observing\npresently afterwards that one of the bandelets which clasped Aspasia\u2019s\nbuskin had come undone, \u201cPermit me,\u201d said I, \u201ccharming lady,\u201d--and\neagerly stooping, stretched out my hands towards the chair on which I\nhad fancied I saw those legs about which even great philosophers went\ninto ecstacies.\n\nI am persuaded that at this moment I was very near genuine somnambulism,\nso real was the movement of which I speak. But Rose, who happened to be\nsleeping in the chair, thought the movement was meant for her, and\njumping nimbly into my arms, she drove back into Hades the famous shades\nmy travelling-coat had summoned.\n\n\n\n\n_Liberty._\n\n\nDelightful realm of Imagination, which the benevolent Being has bestowed\nupon man to console him for the disappointments he meets with in real\nlife.\n\nThis day, certain persons on whom I am dependent affect to restore me to\nliberty. As if they had ever deprived me of it! As if it were in their\npower to snatch it from me for a single moment, and to hinder me from\ntraversing, at my own good pleasure, the vast space that ever lies open\nbefore me! They have forbidden me to go at large in a city, a mere\nspeck, and have left open to me the whole universe, in which immensity\nand eternity obey me.\n\nI am now free, then; or rather, I must enter again into bondage. The\nyoke of office is again to weigh me down, and every step I take must\nconform with the exigencies of politeness and duty. Fortunate shall I be\nif some capricious goddess do not again make me forget both, and if I\nescape from this new and dangerous captivity.\n\nO why did they not allow me to finish my captivity! Was it as a\npunishment that I was exiled to my chamber, to that delightful country\nin which abound all the riches and enjoyments of the world? As well\nmight they consign a mouse to a granary.\n\nStill, never did I more clearly perceive that I am double than I do now.\nWhilst I regret my imaginary joys, I feel myself consoled. I am borne\nalong by an unseen power which tells me I need the pure air, and the\nlight of heaven, and that solitude is like death. Once more I don my\ncustomary garb; my door opens; I wander under the spacious porticos of\nthe Strada della Po; a thousand agreeable visions float before my eyes.\nYes, there is that mansion, that door, that staircase! I thrill with\nexpectation.\n\nIn like manner the act of slicing a lemon gives you a foretaste that\nmakes your mouth water.\n\nPoor ANIMAL! Take care!\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] _B\u00eate_ is not translatable here. The English word _animal_ is\nhardly nearer than _beast_. _B\u00eate_ is a milder word than _beast_, and\nwhen used metaphorically, implies silliness rather than brutality. In\nsome cases our _creature_ would translate it, _Pauvre b\u00eate!_ _Poor\ncreature!_\n\n[2] Vide _Werther_, chapter xxviii.\n\n[3] The reader will probably have been reminded of the \u201cSentimental\nJourney\u201d before reaching this proof of our author\u2019s acquaintance with\nthe writings of Sterne.\n\nH. A.\n\n\n[4] A fashionable milliner of the time.\n\n[5] This work was not published.\n\n[6] The botanical garden of Turin.\n\n[7] Richardson\u2019s _Clarissa Harlowe_.\n\n[8] Goethe\u2019s _Werther_.\n\n[9] _Cleveland_, by the Abb\u00e9 Pr\u00e9vost.\n\n[10] Some freedom of translation is, perhaps, pardonable here. Our\nauthor, depending, it would seem, upon his memory, gives Satan wings\nlarge enough \u201cto cover a whole army.\u201d It was \u201cthe extended wings\u201d of\nthe gates of hell, not of Satan, that Milton describes as wide enough\nto admit a \u201cbannered host.\u201d _Paradise Lost_, ii. 885.\n\nH. A.\n\n\n[11] A popular Turin physician when the _Voyage_ was written.\n\n[12] A title known at the Sardinian court.","title":"A journey round my room","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":20155}