louis lambert-第8章

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Pythagoras。

Lambert's　home…sickness　lasted　for　many　months。　I　know　no　words　to
describe　the　dejection　to　which　he　was　a　prey。　Louis　has　taken　the
glory　off　many　a　masterpiece　for　me。　We　had　both　played　the　part　of
the　〃Leper　of　Aosta；〃　and　had　both　experienced　the　feelings　described
in　Monsieur　de　Maistre's　story；　before　we　read　them　as　expressed　by
his　eloquent　pen。　A　book　may；　indeed；　revive　the　memories　of　our
childhood；　but　it　can　never　compete　with　them　successfully。　Lambert's
woes　had　taught　me　many　a　chant　of　sorrow　far　more　appealing　than　the
finest　passages　in　〃Werther。〃　And；　indeed；　there　is　no　possible
comparison　between　the　pangs　of　a　passion　condemned；　whether　rightly
or　wrongly；　by　every　law；　and　the　grief　of　a　poor　child　pining　for　the
glorious　sunshine；　the　dews　of　the　valley；　and　liberty。　Werther　is　the
slave　of　desire；　Louis　Lambert　was　an　enslaved　soul。　Given　equal
talent；　the　more　pathetic　sorrow；　founded　on　desires　which；　being
purer；　are　the　more　genuine；　must　transcend　the　wail　even　of　genius。

After　sitting　for　a　long　time　with　his　eyes　fixed　on　a　lime…tree　in
the　playground；　Louis　would　say　just　a　word；　but　that　word　would
reveal　an　infinite　speculation。

〃Happily　for　me；〃　he　exclaimed　one　day；　〃there　are　hours　of　comfort
when　I　feel　as　though　the　walls　of　the　room　had　fallen　and　I　were
awayaway　in　the　fields！　What　a　pleasure　it　is　to　let　oneself　go　on
the　stream　of　one's　thoughts　as　a　bird　is　borne　up　on　its　wings！〃

〃Why　is　green　a　color　so　largely　diffused　throughout　creation？〃　he
would　ask　me。　〃Why　are　there　so　few　straight　lines　in　nature？　Why　is
it　that　man；　in　his　structures；　rarely　introduces　curves？　Why　is　it
that　he　alone；　of　all　creatures；　has　a　sense　of　straightness？〃

These　queries　revealed　long　excursions　in　space。　He　had；　I　am　sure；
seen　vast　landscapes；　fragrant　with　the　scent　of　woods。　He　was　always
silent　and　resigned；　a　living　elegy；　always　suffering　but　unable　to
complain　of　suffering。　An　eagle　that　needed　the　world　to　feed　him；
shut　in　between　four　narrow；　dirty　walls；　and　thus　this　life　became　an
ideal　life　in　the　strictest　meaning　of　the　words。　Filled　as　he　was
with　contempt　of　the　almost　useless　studies　to　which　we　were
harnessed；　Louis　went　on　his　skyward　way　absolutely　unconscious　of　the
things　about　us。

I；　obeying　the　imitative　instinct　that　is　so　strong　in　childhood；
tired　to　regulate　my　life　in　conformity　with　his。　And　Louis　the　more
easily　infected　me　with　the　sort　of　torpor　in　which　deep　contemplation
leaves　the　body；　because　I　was　younger　and　more　impressionable　than
he。　Like　two　lovers；　we　got　into　the　habit　of　thinking　together　in　a
common　reverie。　His　intuitions　had　already　acquired　that　acuteness
which　must　surely　characterize　the　intellectual　perceptiveness　of
great　poets　and　often　bring　them　to　the　verge　of　madness。

〃Do　you　ever　feel；〃　said　he　to　me　one　day；　〃as　though　imagined
suffering　affected　you　in　spite　of　yourself？　If；　for　instance；　I　think
with　concentration　of　the　effect　that　the　blade　of　my　penknife　would
have　in　piercing　my　flesh；　I　feel　an　acute　pain　as　if　I　had　really　cut
myself；　only　the　blood　is　wanting。　But　the　pain　comes　suddenly；　and
startles　me　like　a　sharp　noise　breaking　profound　silence。　Can　an　idea
cause　physical　pain？What　do　you　say　to　that；　eh？〃

When　he　gave　utterance　to　such　subtle　reflections；　we　both　fell　into
artless　meditation；　we　set　to　work　to　detect　in　ourselves　the
inscrutable　phenomena　of　the　origin　of　thoughts；　which　Lambert　hoped
to　discover　in　their　earliest　germ；　so　as　to　describe　some　day　the
unknown　process。　Then；　after　much　discussion；　often　mixed　up　with
childish　notions；　a　look　would　flash　from　Lambert's　eager　eyes；　he
would　grasp　my　hand；　and　a　word　from　the　depths　of　his　soul　would　show
the　current　of　his　mind。

〃Thinking　is　seeing；〃　said　he　one　day；　carried　away　by　some　objection
raised　as　to　the　first　principles　of　our　organization。　〃Every　human
science　is　based　on　deduction；　which　is　a　slow　process　of　seeing　by
which　we　work　up　from　the　effect　to　the　cause；　or；　in　a　wider　sense；
all　poetry；　like　every　work　of　art；　proceeds　from　a　swift　vision　of
things。〃

He　was　a　spiritualist　（as　opposed　to　materialism）；　but　I　would　venture
to　contradict　him；　using　his　own　arguments　to　consider　the　intellect
as　a　purely　physical　phenomenon。　We　both　were　right。　Perhaps　the　words
materialism　and　spiritualism　express　the　two　faces　of　the　same　fact。
His　considerations　on　the　substance　of　the　mind　led　to　his　accepting；
with　a　certain　pride；　the　life　of　privation　to　which　we　were　condemned
in　consequence　of　our　idleness　and　our　indifference　to　learning。　He
had　a　certain　consciousness　of　his　own　powers　which　bore　him　up
through　his　spiritual　cogitations。　How　delightful　it　was　to　me　to　feel
his　soul　acting　on　my　own！　Many　a　time　have　we　remained　sitting　on　our
form；　both　buried　in　one　book；　having　quite　forgotten　each　other's
existence；　and　yet　not　apart；　each　conscious　of　the　other's　presence；
and　bathing　in　an　ocean　of　thought；　like　two　fish　swimming　in　the　same
waters。

Our　life；　apparently；　was　merely　vegetating；　but　we　lived　through　our
heart　and　brain。

Lambert's　influence　over　my　imagination　left　traces　that　still　abide。
I　used　to　listen　hungrily　to　his　tales；　full　of　the　marvels　which　make
men；　as　well　as　children；　rapturously　devour　stories　in　which　truth
assumes　the　most　grotesque　forms。　His　passion　for　mystery；　and　the
credulity　natural　to　the　young；　often　led　us　to　discuss　Heaven　and
Hell。　Then　Louis；　by　expounding　Swedenborg；　would　try　to　make　me　share
in　his　beliefs　concerning　angels。　In　his　least　logical　arguments　there
were　still　amazing　observations　as　to　the　powers　of　man；　which　gave
his　words　that　color　of　truth　without　which　nothing　can　be　done　in　any
art。　The　romantic　end　he　foresaw　as　the　destiny　of　man　was　calculated
to　flatter　the　yearning　which　tempts　blameless　imaginations　to　give
themselves　up　to　beliefs。　Is　it　not　during　the　youth　of　a　nation　that
its　dogmas　and　idols　are　conceived？　And　are　not　the　supernatural
beings　before　whom　the　people　tremble　the　personification　of　their
feelings　and　their　magnified　desires？



All　that　I　can　now　remember　of　the　poetical　conversations　we　held
together　concerning　the　Swedish　prophet；　whose　works　I　have　since　had
the　curiosity　to　read；　may　be　told　in　a　few　paragraphs。

In　each　of　us　there　are　two　distinct　beings。　According　to　Swedenborg；
the　angel　is　an　individual　in　whom　the　inner　being　conquers　the
external　being。　If　a　man　desires　to　earn　his　call　to　be　an　angel；　as
soon　as　his　mind　reveals　to　him　his　twofold　existence；　he　must　strive
to　foster　the　delicate　angelic　essence　that　exists　within　him。　If；　for
lack　of　a　lucid　appreciation　of　his　destiny；　he　allows　bodily　action
to　predominate；　instead　of　confirming　his　intellectual　being；　all　his
powers　will　be　absorbed　in　the　use　of　his　external　senses；　and　the
angel　will　slowly　perish　by　the　materialization　of　both　natures。　In
the　contrary　case；　if　he　nourishes　his　inner　being　with　the　aliment
needful　to　it；　the　soul　triumphs　over　matter　and　strives　to　get　free。

When　they　separate　by　the　act　of　what　we　call　death；　the　angel；　strong
enough　then　to　cast　off　its　wrappings；　survives　and　begins　its　real
life。　The　infinite　variety　which　differentiates　individual　men　can
only　be　explained　by　this　twofold　existence；　which；　again；　is　proved
and　made　intelligible　by　that　variety。

In　point　of　fact；　the　wide　distance　between　a　man　whose　torpid
intelligence　condemns　him　to　evident　stupidity；　and　one　who；　by　the
exercise　of　his　inner　life；　has　acquired　the　gift　of　some　power；
allows　us　to　suppose　that　there　is　as　great　a　difference　between　men
of　genius　and　other　beings　as　there　is　between　the　blind　and　those　who
see。　This　hypothesis；　since　it　extends　creation　beyond　all　limits；
gives　us；　as　it　were；　the　clue　to　heaven。　The　beings　who；　here　on
earth；　are　apparently　mingled　without　distinction；　are　there
distributed；　according　to　their　inner　perfection；　in　distinct　spheres
whose　speech　and　manners　have　nothing　in　common。　In　the　invisible
world；　as　in　the　real　world；　if　some　native　of　the　lower　spheres
co