modeste mignon-第25章

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　　the　development　of　personal　character；　but　you　must　not。　Neither

　　Lord　Byron；　nor　Goethe；　nor　Walter　Scott；　nor　Cuvier；　nor　any

　　inventor；　belongs　to　himself；　he　is　the　slave　of　his　idea。　And

　　this　mysterious　power　is　more　jealous　than　a　woman；　it　sucks　their

　　blood；　it　makes　them　live；　it　makes　them　die　for　its　sake。　The

　　visible　developments　of　their　hidden　existence　do　seem；　in　their

　　results；　like　egotism；　but　who　shall　dare　to　say　that　the　man　who

　　has　abnegated　self　to　give　pleasure；　instruction；　or　grandeur　to

　　his　epoch；　is　an　egoist？　Is　a　mother　selfish　when　she　immolates

　　all　things　to　her　child？　Well；　the　detractors　of　genius　do　not

　　perceive　its　fecund　maternity；　that　is　all。　The　life　of　a　poet　is

　　so　perpetual　a　sacrifice　that　he　needs　a　gigantic　organization　to

　　bear　even　the　ordinary　pleasures　of　life。　Therefore；　into　what

　　sorrows　may　he　not　fall　when；　like　Moliere；　he　wishes　to　live　the

　　life　of　feeling　in　its　most　poignant　crises；　to　me；　remembering

　　his　personal　life；　Moliere's　comedy　is　horrible。



　　The　generosity　of　genius　seems　to　me　half　divine；　and　I　place　you

　　in　this　noble　family　of　alleged　egoists。　Ah！　if　I　had　found　self…

　　interest；　ambition；　a　seared　nature　where　I　now　can　see　my　best

　　loved　flowers　of　the　soul；　you　know　not　what　long　anguish　I　should

　　have　had　to　bear。　I　met　with　disappointment　before　I　was　sixteen。

　　What　would　have　become　of　me　had　I　learned　at　twenty　that　fame　is

　　a　lie；　that　he　whose　books　express　the　feelings　hidden　in　my　heart

　　was　incapable　of　feeling　them　himself？　Oh！　my　friend；　do　you　know

　　what　would　have　become　of　me？　Shall　I　take　you　into　the　recesses

　　of　my　soul？　I　should　have　gone　to　my　father　and　said；　〃Bring　me

　　the　son…in…law　whom　you　desire；　my　will　abdicates；marry　me　to

　　whom　you　please。〃　And　the　man　might　have　been　a　notary；　banker；

　　miser；　fool；　dullard；　wearisome　as　a　rainy　day；　common　as　the

　　usher　of　a　school；　a　manufacturer；　or　some　brave　soldier　without

　　two　ideas；he　would　have　had　a　resigned　and　attentive　servant　in

　　me。　But　what　an　awful　suicide！　never　could　my　soul　have　expanded

　　in　the　life…giving　rays　of　a　beloved　sun。　No　murmur　should　have

　　revealed　to　my　father；　or　my　mother；　or　my　children　the　suicide　of

　　the　creature　who　at　this　instant　is　shaking　her　fetters；　casting

　　lightnings　from　her　eyes；　and　flying　towards　you　with　eager　wing。

　　See；　she　is　there；　at　the　angle　of　your　desk；　like　Polyhymnia；

　　breathing　the　air　of　your　presence；　and　glancing　about　her　with　a

　　curious　eye。　Sometimes　in　the　fields　where　my　husband　would　have

　　taken　me　to　walk；　I　should　have　wept；　apart　and　secretly；　at　sight

　　of　a　glorious　morning；　and　in　my　heart；　or　hidden　in　a　bureau…

　　drawer；　I　might　have　kept　some　treasure；　the　comfort　of　poor　girls

　　ill…used　by　love；　sad；　poetic　souls；but　ah！　I　have　YOU；　I

　　believe　in　YOU；　my　friend。　That　belief　straightens　all　my　thoughts

　　and　fancies；　even　the　most　fantastic；　and　sometimessee　how　far

　　my　frankness　leads　meI　wish　I　were　in　the　middle　of　the　book　we

　　are　just　beginning；　such　persistency　do　I　feel　in　my　sentiments；

　　such　strength　in　my　heart　to　love；　such　constancy　sustained　by

　　reason；　such　heroism　for　the　duties　for　which　I　was　created；if

　　indeed　love　can　ever　be　transmuted　into　duty。



　　If　you　were　able　to　follow　me　to　the　exquisite　retreat　where　I

　　fancy　ourselves　happy；　if　you　knew　my　plans　and　projects；　the

　　dreadful　word　〃folly！〃　might　escape　you；　and　I　should　be　cruelly

　　punished　for　sending　poetry　to　a　poet。　Yes；　I　wish　to　be　a　spring

　　of　waters　inexhaustible　as　a　fertile　land　for　the　twenty　years

　　that　nature　allows　me　to　shine。　I　want　to　drive　away　satiety　by

　　charm。　I　mean　to　be　courageous　for　my　friend　as　most　women　are　for

　　the　world。　I　wish　to　vary　happiness。　I　wish　to　put　intelligence

　　into　tenderness；　and　to　give　piquancy　to　fidelity。　I　am　filled

　　with　ambition　to　kill　the　rivals　of　the　past；　to　conjure　away　all

　　outside　griefs　by　a　wife's　gentleness；　by　her　proud　abnegation；　to

　　take　a　lifelong　care　of　the　nest；such　as　birds　can　only　take　for

　　a　few　weeks。



　　Tell　me；　do　you　now　think　me　to　blame　for　my　first　letter？　The

　　mysterious　wind　of　will　drove　me　to　you；　as　the　tempest　brings　the

　　little　rose…tree　to　the　pollard　window。　In　your　letter；　which　I

　　hold　here　upon　my　heart；　you　cried　out；　like　your　ancestor　when　he

　　departed　for　the　Crusades；　〃God　wills　it。〃



　　Ah！　but　you　will　cry　out；　〃What　a　chatterbox！〃　All　the　people

　　round　me　say；　on　the　contrary；　〃Mademoiselle　is　very　taciturn。〃



O。　d'Este　M。







CHAPTER　XI



WHAT　COMES　OF　CORRESPONDENCE



The　foregoing　letters　seemed　very　original　to　the　persons　from　whom

the　author　of　the　〃Comedy　of　Human　Life〃　obtained　them；　but　their

interest　in　this　duel；　this　crossing　of　pens　between　two　minds；　may

not　be　shared。　For　every　hundred　readers；　eighty　might　weary　of　the

battle。　The　respect　due　to　the　majority　in　every　nation　under　a

constitutional　government；　leads　us；　therefore；　to　suppress　eleven

other　letters　exchanged　between　Ernest　and　Modeste　during　the　month　of

September。　If；　later　on；　some　flattering　majority　should　arise　to

claim　them；　let　us　hope　that　we　can　then　find　means　to　insert　them　in

their　proper　place。



Urged　by　a　mind　that　seemed　as　aggressive　as　the　heart　was　lovable；

the　truly　chivalrous　feelings　of　the　poor　secretary　gave　themselves

free　play　in　these　suppressed　letters；　which　seem；　perhaps；　more

beautiful　than　they　really　are；　because　the　imagination　is　charmed　by

a　sense　of　the　communion　of　two　free　souls。　Ernest's　whole　life　was

now　wrapped　up　in　these　sweet　scraps　of　paper；　they　were　to　him　what

banknotes　are　to　a　miser；　while　in　Modeste's　soul　a　deep　love　took　the

place　of　her　delight　in　agitating　a　glorious　life；　and　being；　in　spite

of　distance；　its　mainspring。　Ernest's　heart　was　the　complement　of

Canalis's　glory。　Alas！　it　often　takes　two　men　to　make　a　perfect　lover；

just　as　in　literature　we　compose　a　type　by　collecting　the

peculiarities　of　several　similar　characters。　How　many　a　time　a　woman

has　been　heard　to　say　in　her　own　salon　after　close　and　intimate

conversations：



〃Such　a　one　is　my　ideal　as　to　soul；　and　I　love　the　other　who　is　only　a

dream　of　the　senses。〃



The　last　letter　written　by　Modeste；　which　here　follows；　gives　us　a

glimpse　of　the　enchanted　isle　to　which　the　meanderings　of　this

correspondence　had　led　the　two　lovers。



　　To　Monsieur　de　Canalis；Be　at　Havre　next　Sunday；　go　to　church；

　　after　the　morning　service；　walk　once　or　twice　round　the　nave；　and

　　go　out　without　speaking　to　any　one；　but　wear　a　white　rose　in　your

　　button…hole。　Then　return　to　Paris；　where　you　shall　receive　an

　　answer。　I　warn　you　that　this　answer　will　not　be　what　you　wish；

　　for；　as　I　told　you；　the　future　is　not　yet　mine。　But　should　I　not

　　indeed　be　mad　and　foolish　to　say　yes　without　having　seen　you？　When

　　I　have　seen　you　I　can　say　no　without　wounding　you；　I　can　make　sure

　　that　you　shall　not　see　me。



This　letter　had　been　sent　off　the　evening　before　the　day　when　the

abortive　struggle　between　Dumay　and　Modeste　had　taken　place。　The　happy

girl　was　impatiently　awaiting　Sunday；　when　her　eyes　were　to　vindicate

or　condemn　her　heart　and　her　actions；a　solemn　moment　in　the　life　of

any　woman；　and　which　three　months　of　close　communion　of　souls　now

rendered　as　romantic　as　the　most　imaginative　maiden　could　have　wished。

Every　one；　except　the　mother；　had　taken　this　torpor　of　expectation　for

the　calm　of　innocence。　No　matter　how　firmly　family　laws　and　religious

precepts　may　bind；　there　will　always　be　the　Clarissas　and　the　Julies；

whose　souls　like　flowing　cups　o'erlap　the　brim　under　some　spiritual

pressure。　Modeste　was　glorious　in　the　savage　energy　with　which　she

repressed　her　exuberant　youthful　happiness　and　remained　demurely

quiet。　Let　us　say　frankly　that　the　memory　of　her　sister　was　more

potent　upon　her