sarrasine-第6章

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rapture；　all　the　marvelous　charms　of　the　Venuses　worshiped　and　copied
by　the　chisel　of　the　Greeks。　The　artist　did　not　tire　of　admiring　the
inimitable　grace　with　which　the　arms　were　attached　to　the　body；　the
wonderful　roundness　of　the　throat；　the　graceful　curves　described　by
the　eyebrows　and　the　nose；　and　the　perfect　oval　of　the　face；　the
purity　of　its　clean…cut　lines；　and　the　effect　of　the　thick；　drooping
lashes　which　bordered　the　large　and　voluptuous　eyelids。　She　was　more
than　a　woman；　she　was　a　masterpiece！　In　that　unhoped…for　creation
there　was　love　enough　to　enrapture　all　mankind；　and　beauties
calculated　to　satisfy　the　most　exacting　critic。

〃Sarrasine　devoured　with　his　eyes　what　seemed　to　him　Pygmalion's
statue　descended　from　its　pedestal。　When　La　Zambinella　sang；　he　was
beside　himself。　He　was　cold；　then　suddenly　he　felt　a　fire　burning　in
the　secret　depths　of　his　being；　in　what；　for　lack　of　a　better　word；　we
call　the　heart。　He　did　not　applaud；　he　said　nothing；　he　felt　a　mad
impulse；　a　sort　of　frenzy　of　the　sort　that　seizes　us　only　at　the　age
when　there　is　a　something　indefinably　terrible　and　infernal　in　our
desires。　Sarrasine　longed　to　rush　upon　the　stage　and　seize　that　woman。
His　strength；　increased　a　hundredfold　by　a　moral　depression　impossible
to　describe；for　such　phenomena　take　place　in　a　sphere　inaccessible
to　human　observation；insisted　upon　manifesting　itself　with
deplorable　violence。　Looking　at　him；　you　would　have　said　that　he　was　a
cold；　dull　man。　Renown；　science；　future；　life；　prizes；　all　vanished。

〃　'To　win　her　love　or　die！'　Such　was　the　sentence　Sarrasine　pronounced
upon　himself。

〃He　was　so　completely　intoxicated　that　he　no　longer　saw　theatre；
audience；　or　actors；　no　longer　heard　the　music。　Nay；　more；　there　was
no　space　between　him　and　La　Zambinella；　he　possessed　her；　his　eyes；
fixed　steadfastly　upon　her；　took　possession　of　her。　An　almost
diabolical　power　enabled　him　to　feel　the　breath　of　that　voice；　to
inhale　the　fragrant　powder　with　which　her　hair　was　covered；　to　see　the
slightest　inequalities　of　her　face；　to　count　the　blue　veins　which
threaded　their　way　beneath　the　satiny　skin。　And　that　fresh；　brisk
voice　of　silvery　/timbre/；　flexible　as　a　thread　to　which　the　faintest
breath　of　air　gives　form；　which　it　rolls　and　unrolls；　tangles　and
blows　away；　that　voice　attacked　his　heart　so　fiercely　that　he　more
than　once　uttered　an　involuntary　exclamation；　extorted　by　the
convulsive　ecstasy　too　rarely　evoked　by　human　passions。　He　was　soon
obliged　to　leave　the　theatre。　His　trembling　legs　almost　refused　to
bear　him。　He　was　prostrated；　weak；　like　a　nervous　man　who　has　given
way　to　a　terrible　burst　of　anger。　He　had　had　such　exquisite　pleasure；
or　perhaps　had　suffered　so；　that　his　life　had　flowed　away　like　water
from　an　overturned　vessel。　He　felt　a　void　within　him；　a　sense　of
goneness　like　the　utter　lack　of　strength　which　discourages　a
convalescent　just　recovering　from　a　serious　sickness。　Overwhelmed　by
inexplicable　melancholy；　he　sat　down　on　the　steps　of　a　church。　There；
with　his　back　resting　against　a　pillar；　he　lost　himself　in　a　fit　of
meditation　as　confused　as　a　dream。　Passion　had　dealt　him　a　crushing
blow。　On　his　return　to　his　apartments　he　was　seized　by　one　of　those
paroxysms　of　activity　which　reveal　to　us　the　presence　of　new
principles　in　our　existence。　A　prey　to　that　first　fever　of　love　which
resembles　pain　as　much　as　pleasure；　he　sought　to　defeat　his　impatience
and　his　frenzy　by　sketching　La　Zambinella　from　memory。　It　was　a　sort
of　material　meditation。　Upon　one　leaf　La　Zambinella　appeared　in　that
pose；　apparently　calm　and　cold；　affected　by　Raphael；　Georgione；　and
all　the　great　painters。　On　another；　she　was　coyly　turning　her　head　as
she　finished　a　roulade；　and　seemed　to　be　listening　to　herself。
Sarrasine　drew　his　mistress　in　all　poses：　he　drew　her　unveiled；
seated；　standing；　reclining；　chaste；　and　amorousinterpreting；　thanks
to　the　delirious　activity　of　his　pencil；　all　the　fanciful　ideas　which
beset　our　imagination　when　our　thoughts　are　completely　engrossed　by　a
mistress。　But　his　frantic　thoughts　outran　his　pencil。　He　met　La
Zambinella；　spoke　to　her；　entreated　her；　exhausted　a　thousand　years　of
life　and　happiness　with　her；　placing　her　in　all　imaginable　situations；
trying　the　future　with　her；　so　to　speak。　The　next　day　he　sent　his
servant　to　hire　a　box　near　the　stage　for　the　whole　season。　Then；　like
all　young　men　of　powerful　feelings；　he　exaggerated　the　difficulties　of
his　undertaking；　and　gave　his　passion；　for　its　first　pasturage；　the
joy　of　being　able　to　admire　his　mistress　without　obstacle。　The　golden
age　of　love；　during　which　we　enjoy　our　own　sentiments；　and　in　which　we
are　almost　as　happy　by　ourselves；　was　not　likely　to　last　long　with
Sarrasine。　However；　events　surprised　him　when　he　was　still　under　the
spell　of　that　springtime　hallucination；　as　naive　as　it　was　voluptuous。
In　a　week　he　lived　a　whole　lifetime；　occupied　through　the　day　in
molding　the　clay　with　which　he　succeeded　in　copying　La　Zambinella；
notwithstanding　the　veils；　the　skirts；　the　waists；　and　the　bows　of
ribbon　which　concealed　her　from　him。　In　the　evening；　installed　at　an
early　hour　in　his　box；　alone；　reclining　on　a　sofa；　he　made　for
himself；　like　a　Turk　drunk　with　opium；　a　happiness　as　fruitful；　as
lavish；　as　he　wished。　First　of　all；　he　familiarized　himself　gradually
with　the　too　intense　emotions　which　his　mistress'　singing　caused　him；
then　he　taught　his　eyes　to　look　at　her；　and　was　finally　able　to
contemplate　her　at　his　leisure　without　fearing　an　explosion　of
concealed　frenzy；　like　that　which　had　seized　him　the　first　day。　His
passion　became　more　profound　as　it　became　more　tranquil。　But　the
unsociable　sculptor　would　not　allow　his　solitude；　peopled　as　it　was
with　images；　adorned　with　the　fanciful　creations　of　hope；　and　full　of
happiness；　to　be　disturbed　by　his　comrades。　His　love　was　so　intense
and　so　ingenuous；　that　he　had　to　undergo　the　innocent　scruples　with
which　we　are　assailed　when　we　love　for　the　first　time。　As　he　began　to
realize　that　he　would　soon　be　required　to　bestir　himself；　to　intrigue；
to　ask　where　La　Zambinella　lived；　to　ascertain　whether　she　had　a
mother；　an　uncle；　a　guardian；　a　family；in　a　word；　as　he　reflected
upon　the　methods　of　seeing　her；　of　speaking　to　her；　he　felt　that　his
heart　was　so　swollen　with　such　ambitious　ideas；　that　he　postponed
those　cares　until　the　following　day；　as　happy　in　his　physical
sufferings　as　in　his　intellectual　pleasures。〃

〃But；〃　said　Madame　de　Rochefide；　interrupting　me；　〃I　see　nothing　of
Marianina　or　her　little　old　man　in　all　this。〃

〃You　see　nothing　but　him！〃　I　cried；　as　vexed　as　an　author　for　whom
some　one　has　spoiled　the　effect　of　a　/coup　de　theatre/。

〃For　some　days；〃　I　resumed　after　a　pause；　〃Sarrasine　had　been　so
faithful　in　attendance　in　his　box；　and　his　glances　expressed　such
passionate　love；　that　his　passion　for　La　Zambinella's　voice　would　have
been　the　town…talk　of　Paris；　if　the　episode　had　happened　here；　but　in
Italy；　madame；　every　one　goes　to　the　theatre　for　his　own　enjoyment；
with　all　his　own　passions；　with　a　heartfelt　interest　which　precludes
all　thought　of　espionage　with　opera…glasses。　However；　the　sculptor's
frantic　admiration　could　not　long　escape　the　notice　of　the　performers；
male　and　female。　One　evening　the　Frenchman　noticed　that　they　were
laughing　at　him　in　the　wings。　It　is　hard　to　say　what　violent　measures
he　might　have　resorted　to；　had　not　La　Zambinella　come　on　the　stage。
She　cast　at　Sarrasine　one　of　those　eloquent　glances　which　often　say
more　than　women　intend。　That　glance　was　a　complete　revelation　in
itself。　Sarrasine　was　beloved！

〃　'If　it　is　a　mere　caprice；'　he　thought；　already　accusing　his　mistress
of　too　great　ardor；　'she　does　not　know　the　sort　of　domination　to　which
she　is　about　to　become　subject。　Her　caprice　will　last；　I　trust；　as
long　as　my　life。'

〃At　that　moment；　three　light　taps　on　the　door　of　his　box　attracted　the
artist's　attention。　He　opened　the　door。　An　old　woman　entered　with　an
air　of　mystery。

〃　'Young　man；'　she　said；　'if　you　wish　to　be　happy；　be　prudent。　Wrap
yourself　in　a　cloak；　pull　a　broad…brimmed　hat　over　your　eyes；　and　be
on　the　Rue　du　C