sarrasine-第1章

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Sarrasine

by　Honore　de　Balzac

Translated　by　Clara　Bell　and　others





DEDICATION

To　Monsieur　Charles　Bernard　du　Grail。




SARRASINE



I　was　buried　in　one　of　those　profound　reveries　to　which　everybody；
even　a　frivolous　man；　is　subject　in　the　midst　of　the　most　uproarious
festivities。　The　clock　on　the　Elysee…Bourbon　had　just　struck　midnight。
Seated　in　a　window　recess　and　concealed　behind　the　undulating　folds　of
a　curtain　of　watered　silk；　I　was　able　to　contemplate　at　my　leisure　the
garden　of　the　mansion　at　which　I　was　passing　the　evening。　The　trees；
being　partly　covered　with　snow；　were　outlined　indistinctly　against　the
grayish　background　formed　by　a　cloudy　sky；　barely　whitened　by　the
moon。　Seen　through　the　medium　of　that　strange　atmosphere；　they　bore　a
vague　resemblance　to　spectres　carelessly　enveloped　in　their　shrouds；　a
gigantic　image　of　the　famous　/Dance　of　Death/。　Then；　turning　in　the
other　direction；　I　could　gaze　admiringly　upon　the　dance　of　the　living！
a　magnificent　salon；　with　walls　of　silver　and　gold；　with　gleaming
chandeliers；　and　bright　with　the　light　of　many　candles。　There　the
loveliest；　the　wealthiest　women　in　Paris；　bearers　of　the　proudest
titles；　moved　hither　and　thither；　fluttered　from　room　to　room　in
swarms；　stately　and　gorgeous；　dazzling　with　diamonds；　flowers　on　their
heads　and　breasts；　in　their　hair；　scattered　over　their　dresses　or
lying　in　garlands　at　their　feet。　Light　quiverings　of　the　body；
voluptuous　movements；　made　the　laces　and　gauzes　and　silks　swirl　about
their　graceful　figures。　Sparkling　glances　here　and　there　eclipsed　the
lights　and　the　blaze　of　the　diamonds；　and　fanned　the　flame　of　hearts
already　burning　too　brightly。　I　detected　also　significant　nods　of　the
head　for　lovers　and　repellent　attitudes　for　husbands。　The　exclamation
of　the　card…players　at　every　unexpected　/coup/；　the　jingle　of　gold；
mingled　with　music　and　the　murmur　of　conversation；　and　to　put　the
finishing　touch　to　the　vertigo　of　that　multitude；　intoxicated　by　all
the　seductions　the　world　can　offer；　a　perfume…laden　atmosphere　and
general　exaltation　acted　upon　their　over…wrought　imaginations。　Thus；
at　my　right　was　the　depressing；　silent　image　of　death；　at　my　left　the
decorous　bacchanalia　of　life；　on　the　one　side　nature；　cold　and　gloomy；
and　in　mourning　garb；　on　the　other　side；　man　on　pleasure　bent。　And；
standing　on　the　borderland　of　those　two　incongruous　pictures；　which
repeated　thousands　of　times　in　diverse　ways；　make　Paris　the　most
entertaining　and　most　philosophical　city　in　the　world；　I　played　a
mental　/macedoine/＇*＇；　half　jesting；　half　funereal。　With　my　left　foot
I　kept　time　to　the　music；　and　the　other　felt　as　if　it　were　in　a　tomb。
My　leg　was；　in　fact；　frozen　by　one　of　those　draughts　which　congeal　one
half　of　the　body　while　the　other　suffers　from　the　intense　heat　of　the
salonsa　state　of　things　not　unusual　at　balls。

＇*＇　/Macedoine/；　in　the　sense　in　which　it　is　here　used；　is　a　game；　or
　　　　rather　a　series　of　games；　of　cards；　each　player；　when　it　is　his
　　　　turn　to　deal；　selecting　the　game　to　be　played。

〃Monsieur　de　Lanty　has　not　owned　this　house　very　long；　has　he？〃

〃Oh；　yes！　It　is　nearly　ten　years　since　the　Marechal　de　Carigliano　sold
it　to　him。〃

〃Ah！〃

〃These　people　must　have　an　enormous　fortune。〃

〃They　surely　must。〃

〃What　a　magnificent　party！　It　is　almost　insolent　in　its　splendor。〃

〃Do　you　imagine　they　are　as　rich　as　Monsieur　de　Nucingen　or　Monsieur
de　Gondreville？〃

〃Why；　don't　you　know？〃

I　leaned　forward　and　recognized　the　two　persons　who　were　talking　as
members　of　that　inquisitive　genus　which；　in　Paris；　busies　itself
exclusively　with　the　/Whys/　and　/Hows/。　/Where　does　he　come　from？　Who
are　they？　What's　the　matter　with　him？　What　has　she　done？/　They　lowered
their　voices　and　walked　away　in　order　to　talk　more　at　their　ease　on
some　retired　couch。　Never　was　a　more　promising　mine　laid　open　to
seekers　after　mysteries。　No　one　knew　from　what　country　the　Lanty
family　came；　nor　to　what　sourcecommerce；　extortion；　piracy；　or
inheritancethey　owed　a　fortune　estimated　at　several　millions。　All
the　members　of　the　family　spoke　Italian；　French；　Spanish；　English；　and
German；　with　sufficient　fluency　to　lead　one　to　suppose　that　they　had
lived　long　among　those　different　peoples。　Were　they　gypsies？　were　they
buccaneers？

〃Suppose　they're　the　devil　himself；〃　said　divers　young　politicians；
〃they　entertain　mighty　well。〃

〃The　Comte　de　Lanty　may　have　plundered　some　/Casbah/　for　all　I　care；　I
would　like　to　marry　his　daughter！〃　cried　a　philosopher。

Who　would　not　have　married　Marianina；　a　girl　of　sixteen；　whose　beauty
realized　the　fabulous　conceptions　of　Oriental　poets！　Like　the　Sultan's
daughter　in　the　tale　of　the　/Wonderful　Lamp/；　she　should　have　remained
always　veiled。　Her　singing　obscured　the　imperfect　talents　of　the
Malibrans；　the　Sontags；　and　the　Fodors；　in　whom　some　one　dominant
quality　always　mars　the　perfection　of　the　whole；　whereas　Marianina
combined　in　equal　degree　purity　of　tone；　exquisite　feeling；　accuracy
of　time　and　intonation；　science；　soul；　and　delicacy。　She　was　the　type
of　that　hidden　poesy；　the　link　which　connects　all　the　arts　and　which
always　eludes　those　who　seek　it。　Modest；　sweet；　well…informed；　and
clever；　none　could　eclipse　Marianina　unless　it　was　her　mother。

Have　you　ever　met　one　of　those　women　whose　startling　beauty　defies　the
assaults　of　time；　and　who　seem　at　thirty…six　more　desirable　than　they
could　have　been　fifteen　years　earlier？　Their　faces　are　impassioned
souls；　they　fairly　sparkle；　each　feature　gleams　with　intelligence；
each　possesses　a　brilliancy　of　its　own；　especially　in　the　light。　Their
captivating　eyes　attract　or　repel；　speak　or　are　silent；　their　gait　is
artlessly　seductive；　their　voices　unfold　the　melodious　treasures　of
the　most　coquettishly　sweet　and　tender　tones。　Praise　of　their　beauty；
based　upon　comparisons；　flatters　the　most　sensitive　self…esteem。　A
movement　of　their　eyebrows；　the　slightest　play　of　the　eye；　the　curling
of　the　lip；　instils　a　sort　of　terror　in　those　whose　lives　and
happiness　depend　upon　their　favor。　A　maiden　inexperienced　in　love　and
easily　moved　by　words　may　allow　herself　to　be　seduced；　but　in　dealing
with　women　of　this　sort；　a　man　must　be　able；　like　M。　de　Jaucourt；　to
refrain　from　crying　out　when；　in　hiding　him　in　a　closet；　the　lady's
maid　crushes　two　of　his　fingers　in　the　crack　of　a　door。　To　love　one　of
these　omnipotent　sirens　is　to　stake　one's　life；　is　it　not？　And　that；
perhaps；　is　why　we　love　them　so　passionately！　Such　was　the　Comtesse　de
Lanty。

Filippo；　Marianina's　brother；　inherited；　as　did　his　sister；　the
Countess'　marvelous　beauty。　To　tell　the　whole　story　in　a　word；　that
young　man　was　a　living　image　of　Antinous；　with　somewhat　slighter
proportions。　But　how　well　such　a　slender　and　delicate　figure　accords
with　youth；　when　an　olive　complexion；　heavy　eyebrows；　and　the　gleam　of
a　velvety　eye　promise　virile　passions；　noble　ideas　for　the　future！　If
Filippo　remained　in　the　hearts　of　young　women　as　a　type　of　manly
beauty；　he　likewise　remained　in　the　memory　of　all　mothers　as　the　best
match　in　France。

The　beauty；　the　great　wealth；　the　intellectual　qualities；　of　these　two
children　came　entirely　from　their　mother。　The　Comte　de　Lanty　was　a
short；　thin；　ugly　little　man；　as　dismal　as　a　Spaniard；　as　great　a　bore
as　a　banker。　He　was　looked　upon；　however；　as　a　profound　politician；
perhaps　because　he　rarely　laughed；　and　was　always　quoting　M。　de
Metternich　or　Wellington。

This　mysterious　family　had　all　the　attractiveness　of　a　poem　by　Lord
Byron；　whose　difficult　passages　were　translated　differently　by　each
person　in　fashionable　society；　a　poem　that　grew　more　obscure　and　more
sublime　from　strophe　to　strophe。　The　reserve　which　Monsieur　and　Madame
de　Lanty　maintained　concerning　their　origin；　their　past　lives；　and
their　relations　with　the　four　quarters　of　the　globe　would　not；　of
itself；　have　been　for　long　a　subject　of　wonderment　in　Paris。　In　no
other　country；　perhaps；　is　Vespasian's　maxim　more　thoroughly
understood。　Here　gold　pieces；　even　when　stained　with　blood　or　mud；
betray　nothing；　and　represent　everything。　Provided　that　good　society
knows　the　amoun