This edition of the Arabian Nights in a single copy lasted nearly a year, and taught Modeste the sense of satiety8 through thought. She held her life too often in her hand, she said to herself philosophically9 and with too real a bitterness, too seriously, and too often, “Well, what is it, after all?” not to have plunged10 to her waist in the deep disgust which all men of genius feel when they try to complete by intense toil11 the work to which they have devoted12 themselves. Her youth and her rich nature alone kept Modeste at this period of her life from seeking to enter a cloister13. But this sense of satiety cast her, saturated14 as she still was with Catholic spirituality, into the love of Good, the infinite of heaven. She conceived of charity, service to others, as the true occupation of life; but she cowered16 in the gloomy dreariness17 of finding in it no food for the fancy that lay crouching18 in her heart like an insect at the bottom of a calyx. Meanwhile she sat tranquilly19 sewing garments for the children of the poor, and listening abstractedly to the grumblings of Monsieur Latournelle when Dumay held the thirteenth card or drew out his last trump20.
Her religious faith drove Modeste for a time into a singular track of thought. She imagined that if she became sinless (speaking ecclesiastically) she would attain to such a condition of sanctity that God would hear her and accomplish her desires. “Faith,” she thought, “can move mountains; Christ has said so. The Saviour21 led his apostle upon the waters of the lake Tiberias; and I, all I ask of God is a husband to love me; that is easier than walking upon the sea.” She fasted through the next Lent, and did not commit a single sin; then she said to herself that on a certain day coming out of church she should meet a handsome young man who was worthy22 of her, whom her mother would accept, and who would fall madly in love with her. When the day came on which she had, as it were, summoned God to send her an angel, she was persistently23 followed by a rather disgusting beggar; moreover, it rained heavily, and not a single young man was in the streets. On another occasion she went to walk on the jetty to see the English travellers land; but each Englishman had an Englishwoman, nearly as handsome as Modeste herself, who saw no one at all resembling a wandering Childe Harold. Tears overcame her, as she sat down like Marius on the ruins of her imagination. But on the day when she subpoenaed24 God for the third time she firmly believed that the Elect of her dreams was within the church, hiding, perhaps out of delicacy25, behind one of the pillars, round all of which she dragged Madame Latournelle on a tour of inspection26. After this failure, she deposed27 the Deity28 from omnipotence29. Many were her conversations with the imaginary lover, for whom she invented questions and answers, bestowing30 upon him a great deal of wit and intelligence.
The high ambitions of her heart hidden within these romances were the real explanation of the prudent31 conduct which the good people who watched over Modeste so much admired; they might have brought her any number of young Althors or Vilquins, and she would never have stooped to such clowns. She wanted, purely32 and simply, a man of genius, — talent she cared little for; just as a lawyer is of no account to a girl who aims for an ambassador. Her only desire for wealth was to cast it at the feet of her idol33. Indeed, the golden background of these visions was far less rich than the treasury34 of her own heart, filled with womanly delicacy; for its dominant35 desire was to make some Tasso, some Milton, a Jean–Jacques Rousseau, a Murat, a Christopher Columbus happy.
Commonplace miseries36 did not seriously touch this youthful soul, who longed to extinguish the fires of the martyrs37 ignored and rejected in their own day. Sometimes she imagined balms of Gilead, soothing38 melodies which might have allayed40 the savage41 misanthropy of Rousseau. Or she fancied herself the wife of Lord Byron; guessing intuitively his contempt for the real, she made herself as fantastic as the poetry of Manfred, and provided for his scepticism by making him a Catholic. Modeste attributed Moliere’s melancholy42 to the women of the seventeenth century. “Why is there not some one woman,” she asked herself, “loving, beautiful, and rich, ready to stand beside each man of genius and be his slave, like Lara, the mysterious page?” She had, as the reader perceives, fully6 understood “il pianto,” which the English poet chanted by the mouth of his Gulmare. Modeste greatly admired the behavior of the young Englishwoman who offered herself to Crebillon, the son, who married her. The story of Sterne and Eliza Draper was her life and her happiness for several months. She made herself ideally the heroine of a like romance, and many a time she rehearsed in imagination the sublime43 role of Eliza. The sensibility so charmingly expressed in that delightful44 correspondence filled her eyes with tears which, it is said, were lacking in those of the wittiest45 of English writers.
Modeste existed for some time on a comprehension, not only of the works, but of the characters of her favorite authors — Goldsmith, the author of Obermann, Charles Nodier, Maturin. The poorest and the most suffering among them were her deities46; she guessed their trials, initiated47 herself into a destitution48 where the thoughts of genius brooded, and poured upon it the treasures of her heart; she fancied herself the giver of material comfort to these great men, martyrs to their own faculty. This noble compassion49, this intuition of the struggles of toilers, this worship of genius, are among the choicest perceptions that flutter through the souls of women. They are, in the first place, a secret between the woman and God, for they are hidden; in them there is nothing striking, nothing that gratifies the vanity, — that powerful auxiliary50 to all action among the French.
Out of this third period of the development of her ideas, there came to Modeste a passionate51 desire to penetrate52 to the heart of one of these abnormal beings; to understand the working of the thoughts and the hidden griefs of genius — to know not only what it wanted but what it was. At the period when this story begins, these vagaries53 of fancy, these excursions of her soul into the void, these feelers put forth54 into the darkness of the future, the impatience55 of an ungiven love to find its goal, the nobility of all her thoughts of life, the decision of her mind to suffer in a sphere of higher things rather than flounder in the marshes56 of provincial57 life like her mother, the pledge she had made to herself never to fail in conduct, but to respect her father’s hearth58 and bring it happiness — all this world of feeling and sentiment had lately come to a climax59 and taken shape. Modeste wished to be the friend and companion of a poet, an artist, a man in some way superior to the crowd of men. But she intended to choose him — not to give him her heart, her life, her infinite tenderness freed from the trammels of passion, until she had carefully and deeply studied him.
She began this pretty romance by simply enjoying it. Profound tranquillity60 settled down upon her soul. Her cheeks took on a soft color; and she became the beautiful and noble image of Germany, such as we have lately seen her, the glory of the Chalet, the pride of Madame Latournelle and the Dumays. Modeste was living a double existence. She performed with humble61, loving care all the minute duties of the homely62 life at the Chalet, using them as a rein63 to guide the poetry of her ideal life, like the Carthusian monks64 who labor65 methodically on material things to leave their souls the freer to develop in prayer. All great minds have bound themselves to some form of mechanical toil to obtain greater mastery of thought. Spinosa ground glasses for spectacles; Bayle counted the tiles on the roof; Montesquieu gardened. The body being thus subdued66, the soul could spread its wings in all security.
Madame Mignon, reading her daughter’s soul, was therefore right. Modeste loved; she loved with that rare platonic67 love, so little understood, the first illusion of a young girl, the most delicate of all sentiments, a very dainty of the heart. She drank deep draughts68 from the chalice69 of the unknown, the vague, the visionary. She admired the blue plumage of the bird that sings afar in the paradise of young girls, which no hand can touch, no gun can cover, as it flits across the sight; she loved those magic colors, like sparkling jewels dazzling to the eye, which youth can see, and never sees again when Reality, the hideous70 hag, appears with witnesses accompanied by the mayor. To live the very poetry of love and not to see the lover — ah, what sweet intoxication71! what visionary rapture72! a chimera73 with flowing man and outspread wings!
The following is the puerile74 and even silly event which decided75 the future life of this young girl.
Modeste happened to see in a bookseller’s window a lithographic portrait of one of her favorites, Canalis. We all know what lies such pictures tell — being as they are the result of a shameless speculation76, which seizes upon the personality of celebrated77 individuals as if their faces were public property.
In this instance Canalis, sketched78 in a Byronic pose, was offering to public admiration79 his dark locks floating in the breeze, a bare throat, and the unfathomable brow which every bard80 ought to possess. Victor Hugo’s forehead will make more persons shave their heads than the number of incipient81 marshals ever killed by the glory of Napoleon. This portrait of Canalis (poetic through mercantile necessity) caught Modeste’s eye. The day on which it caught her eye one of Arthez’s best books happened to be published. We are compelled to admit, though it may be to Modeste’s injury, that she hesitated long between the illustrious poet and the illustrious prose-writer. Which of these celebrated men was free? — that was the question.
Modeste began by securing the co-operation of Francoise Cochet, a maid taken from Havre and brought back again by poor Bettina, whom Madame Mignon and Madame Dumay now employed by the day, and who lived in Havre. Modeste took her to her own room and assured her that she would never cause her parents any grief, never pass the bounds of a young girl’s propriety82, and that as to Francoise herself she would be well provided for after the return of Monsieur Mignon, on condition that she would do a certain service and keep it an inviolable secret. What was it? Why, a nothing — perfectly83 innocent. All that Modeste wanted of her accomplice84 was to put certain letters into the post at Havre and to bring some back which would be directed to herself, Francoise Cochet. The treaty concluded, Modeste wrote a polite note to Dauriat, publisher of the poems of Canalis, asking, in the interest of that great poet, for some particulars about him, among others if he were married. She requested the publisher to address his answer to Mademoiselle Francoise, “poste restante,” Havre.
Dauriat, incapable85 of taking the epistle seriously, wrote a reply in presence of four or five journalists who happened to be in his office at the time, each of whom added his particular stroke of wit to the production.
Mademoiselle — Canalis (Baron86 of), Constant Cys Melchior, member
of the French Academy, born in 1800, at Canalis (Correze), five
feet four inches in height, of good standing87, vaccinated88, spotless
birth, has given a substitute to the conscription, enjoys perfect
health, owns a small patrimonial89 estate in the Correze, and wishes
to marry, but the lady must be rich.
He beareth per pale, gules an axe90 or, sable91 three escallops
argent, surmounted92 by a baron’s coronet; supporters, two larches93,
vert. Motto: “Or et fer” (no allusion94 to Ophir or auriferous).
The original Canalis, who went to the Holy Land with the First
Crusade, is cited in the chronicles of Auvergne as being armed
with an axe on account of the family indigence95, which to this day
weighs heavily on the race. This noble baron, famous for
discomfiting96 a vast number of infidels, died, without “or” or
“fer,” as naked as a worm, near Jerusalem, on the plains of
Ascalon, ambulances not being then invented.
The chateau97 of Canalis (the domain98 yields a few chestnuts)
consists of two dismantled99 towers, united by a piece of wall
covered by a fine ivy100, and is taxed at twenty-two francs.
The undersigned (publisher) calls attention to the fact that he
pays ten thousand francs for every volume of poetry written by
Monsieur de Canalis, who does not give his shells, or his nuts
either, for nothing.
The chanticler of the Correze lives in the rue15 de
Paradis–Poissoniere, number 29, which is a highly suitable
location for a poet of the angelic school. Letters must be
post-paid.
Noble dames101 of the faubourg Saint–Germain are said to take the
path to Paradise and protect its god. The king, Charles X., thinks
so highly of this great poet as to believe him capable of
governing the country; he has lately made him officer of the
Legion of honor, and (what pays him better) president of the court
of Claims at the foreign office. These functions do not hinder
this great genius from drawing an annuity102 out of the fund for the
encouragement of the arts and belles103 letters.
The last edition of the works of Canalis, printed on vellum, royal
8vo, from the press of Didot, with illustrations by Bixiou, Joseph
Bridau, Schinner, Sommervieux, etc., is in five volumes, price,
nine francs post-paid.
This letter fell like a cobble-stone on a tulip. A poet, secretary of claims, getting a stipend104 in a public office, drawing an annuity, seeking a decoration, adored by the women of the faubourg Saint–Germain — was that the muddy minstrel lingering along the quays105, sad, dreamy, worn with toil, and re-entering his garret fraught106 with poetry? However, Modeste perceived the irony107 of the envious108 bookseller, who dared to say, “I invented Canalis; I made Nathan!” Besides, she re-read her hero’s poems — verses extremely seductive, insincere, and hypocritical, which require a word of analysis, were it only to explain her infatuation.
Canalis may be distinguished109 from Lamartine, chief of the angelic school, by a wheedling110 tone like that of a sick-nurse, a treacherous111 sweetness, and a delightful correctness of diction. If the chief with his strident cry is an eagle, Canalis, rose and white, is a flamingo112. In him women find the friend they seek, their interpreter, a being who understands them, who explains them to themselves, and a safe confidant. The wide margins113 given by Didot to the last edition were crowded with Modeste’s pencilled sentiments, expressing her sympathy with this tender and dreamy spirit. Canalis does not possess the gift of life; he cannot breathe existence into his creations; but he knows how to calm vague sufferings like those which assailed114 Modeste. He speaks to young girls in their own language; he can allay39 the anguish115 of a bleeding wound and lull116 the moans, even the sobs117 of woe118. His gift lies not in stirring words, nor in the remedy of strong emotions, he contents himself with saying in harmonious119 tones which compel belief, “I suffer with you; I understand you; come with me; let us weep together beside the brook120, beneath the willows121.” And they follow him! They listen to his empty and sonorous122 poetry like infants to a nurse’s lullaby. Canalis, like Nodier, enchants123 the reader by an artlessness which is genuine in the prose writer and artificial in the poet, by his tact124, his smile, the shedding of his rose-leaves, in short by his infantile philosophy. He imitates so well the language of our early youth that he leads us back to the prairie-land of our illusions. We can be pitiless to the eagles, requiring from them the quality of the diamond, incorruptible perfection; but as for Canalis, we take him for what he is and let the rest go. He seems a good fellow; the affectations of the angelic school have answered his purpose and succeeded, just as a woman succeeds when she plays the ingenue cleverly, and simulates surprise, youth, innocence125 betrayed, in short, the wounded angel.
Modeste, recovering her first impression, renewed her confidence in that soul, in that countenance126 as ravishing as the face of Bernardin de Saint–Pierre. She paid no further attention to the publisher. And so, about the beginning of the month of August she wrote the following letter to this Dorat of the sacristy, who still ranks as a star of the modern Pleiades.
To Monsieur de Canalis — Many a time, monsieur, I have wished to
write to you; and why? Surely you guess why — to tell you how much
I admire your genius. Yes, I feel the need of expressing to you
the admiration of a poor country girl, lonely in her little
corner, whose only happiness is to read your thoughts. I have read
Rene, and I come to you. Sadness leads to reverie. How many other
women are sending you the homage127 of their secret thoughts? What
chance have I for notice among so many? This paper, filled with my
soul — can it be more to you than the perfumed letters which
already beset128 you. I come to you with less grace than others, for
I wish to remain unknown and yet to receive your entire confidence
— as though you had long known me.
Answer my letter and be friendly with me. I cannot promise to make
myself known to you, though I do not positively129 say I will not
some day do so.
What shall I add? Read between the lines of this letter, monsieur,
the great effort which I am making: permit me to offer you my
hand — that of a friend, ah! a true friend.
Your servant, O. d’Este M.
P.S. — If you do me the favor to answer this letter address your
reply, if you please, to Mademoiselle F. Cochet, “poste restante,”
Havre.
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1
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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12
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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13
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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14
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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15
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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16
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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17
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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18
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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19
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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20
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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21
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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22
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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23
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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24
subpoenaed
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| v.（用传票）传唤（某人）( subpoena的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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26
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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27
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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28
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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31
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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32
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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34
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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35
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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36
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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37
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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39
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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40
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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42
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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43
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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45
wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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46
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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47
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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48
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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49
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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50
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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51
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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52
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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53
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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56
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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57
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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58
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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59
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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60
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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61
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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62
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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63
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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64
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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65
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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66
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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68
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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69
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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70
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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71
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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72
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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73
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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74
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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75
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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76
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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77
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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78
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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80
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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81
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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82
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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83
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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85
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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86
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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87
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vaccinated
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| [医]已接种的，种痘的，接种过疫菌的 | |
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89
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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90
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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92
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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93
larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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95
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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96
discomfiting
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| v.使为难( discomfit的现在分词 )；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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100
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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101
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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102
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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103
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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104
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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105
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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106
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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107
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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108
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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109
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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110
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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111
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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112
flamingo
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| n.红鹳，火烈鸟 | |
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113
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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114
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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115
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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116
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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117
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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118
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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119
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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120
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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121
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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122
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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123
enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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124
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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125
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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126
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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127
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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128
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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129
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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