My friend — Suffer me to give you that name — you have delighted
me; I would not have you other than you are in this letter, the
first — oh, may it not be the last! Who but a poet could have
excused and understood a young girl so delicately?
I wish to speak with the sincerity1 that dictated2 the first lines
of your letter. And first, let me say that most fortunately you do
not know me. I can joyfully3 assure you than I am neither that
hideous4 Mademoiselle Vilquin nor the very noble and withered5
Mademoiselle d’Herouville who floats between twenty and forty
years of age, unable to decide on a satisfactory date. The
Cardinal6 d’Herouville flourished in the history of the Church at
least a century before the cardinal of whom we boast as our only
family glory — for I take no account of lieutenant-generals, and
abbes who write trumpery7 little verses.
Moreover, I do not live in the magnificent villa8 Vilquin; there is
not in my veins9, thank God, the ten-millionth of a drop of that
chilly10 blood which flows behind a counter. I come on one side from
Germany, on the other from the south of France; my mind has a
Teutonic love of reverie, my blood the vivacity11 of Provence. I am
noble on my father’s and on my mother’s side. On my mother’s I
derive12 from every page of the Almanach de Gotha. In short, my
precautions are well taken. It is not in any man’s power, nor even
in the power of the law, to unmask my incognito13. I shall remain
veiled, unknown.
As to my person and as to my “belongings,” as the Normans say,
make yourself easy. I am at least as handsome as the little girl
(ignorantly happy) on whom your eyes chanced to light during your
visit to Havre; and I do not call myself poverty-stricken,
although ten sons of peers may not accompany me on my walks. I
have seen the humiliating comedy of the heiress sought for her
millions played on my account. In short, make no attempt, even on
a wager14, to reach me. Alas15! though free as air, I am watched and
guarded — by myself, in the first place, and secondly16, by people
of nerve and courage who would not hesitate to put a knife in your
heart if you tried to penetrate17 my retreat. I do not say this to
excite your courage or stimulate18 your curiosity; I believe I have
no need of such incentives19 to interest you and attach you to me.
I will now reply to the second edition, considerably20 enlarged, of
your first sermon.
Will you have a confession21? I said to myself when I saw you so
distrustful, and mistaking me for Corinne (whose improvisations
bore me dreadfully), that in all probability dozes22 of Muses23 had
already led you, rashly curious, into their valleys, and begged
you to taste the fruits of their boarding-school Parnassus. Oh!
you are perfectly24 safe with me, my friend; I may love poetry, but
I have no little verses in my pocket-book, and my stockings are,
and will remain, immaculately white. You shall not be pestered25
with the “Flowers of my Heart” in one or more volumes. And,
finally, should it ever happen that I say to you the word “Come!”
you will not find — you know it now — an old maid, no, nor a poor
and ugly one.
Ah! my friend, if you only knew how I regret that you came to
Havre! You have lowered the charm of what you call my romance. God
alone knew the treasure I was reserving for the man noble enough,
and trusting enough, and perspicacious26 enough to come — having
faith in my letters, having penetrated27 step by step into the
depths of my heart — to come to our first meeting with the
simplicity28 of a child: for that was what I dreamed to be the
innocence29 of a man of genius. And now you have spoiled my
treasure! But I forgive you; you live in Paris and, as you say,
there is always a man within a poet.
Because I tell you this will you think me some little girl who
cultivates a garden-full of illusions? You, who are witty31 and
wise, have you not guessed that when Mademoiselle d’Este received
your pedantic32 lesson she said to herself: “No, dear poet, my first
letter was not the pebble33 which a vagabond child flings about the
highway to frighten the owner of the adjacent fruit-trees, but a
net carefully and prudently34 thrown by a fisherman seated on a rock
above the sea, hoping and expecting a miraculous35 draught36.”
All that you say so beautifully about the family has my approval.
The man who is able to please me, and of whom I believe myself
worthy37, will have my heart and my life — with the consent of my
parents, for I will neither grieve them, nor take them unawares:
happily, I am certain of reigning38 over them; and, besides, they
are wholly without prejudice. Indeed, in every way, I feel myself
protected against any delusions39 in my dream. I have built the
fortress40 with my own hands, and I have let it be fortified41 by the
boundless42 devotion of those who watch over me as if I were a
treasure — not that I am unable to defend myself in the open, if
need be; for, let me say, circumstances have furnished me with
armor of proof on which is engraved43 the word “Disdain.” I have the
deepest horror of all that is calculating — of all that is not
pure, disinterested44, and wholly noble. I worship the beautiful,
the ideal, without being romantic; though I HAVE been, in my heart
of hearts, in my dreams. But I recognize the truth of the various
things, just even to vulgarity, which you have written me about
Society and social life.
For the time being we are, and we can only be, two friends. Why
seek an unseen friend? you ask. Your person may be unknown to me,
but your mind, your heart I know; they please me, and I feel an
infinitude of thoughts within my soul which need a man of genius
for their confidant. I do not wish the poem of my heart to be
wasted; I would have it known to you as it is to God. What a
precious thing is a true comrade, one to whom we can tell all! You
will surely not reject the unpublished leaflets of a young girl’s
thoughts when they fly to you like the pretty insects fluttering
to the sun? I am sure you have never before met with this good
fortune of the soul — the honest confidences of an honest girl.
Listen to her prattle45; accept the music that she sings to you in
her own heart. Later, if our souls are sisters, if our characters
warrant the attempt, a white-haired old serving-man shall await
you by the wayside and lead you to the cottage, the villa, the
castle, the palace — I don’t know yet what sort of bower46 it will
be, nor what its color, nor whether this conclusion will ever be
possible; but you will admit, will you not? that it is poetic47, and
that Mademoiselle d’Este has a complying disposition48. Has she not
left you free? Has she gone with jealous feet to watch you in the
salons49 of Paris? Has she imposed upon you the labors50 of some high
emprise, such as paladins sought voluntarily in the olden time?
No, she asks a perfectly spiritual and mystic alliance. Come to me
when you are unhappy, wounded, weary. Tell me all, hide nothing; I
have balms for all your ills. I am twenty years of age, dear
friend, but I have the sense of fifty, and unfortunately I have
known through the experience of another all the horrors and the
delights of love. I know what baseness the human heart can
contain, what infamy51; yet I myself am an honest girl. No, I have
no illusions; but I have something better, something real — I have
beliefs and a religion. See! I open the ball of our confidences.
Whoever I marry — provided I choose him for myself — may sleep in
peace or go to the East Indies sure that he will find me on his
return working at the tapestry52 which I began before he left me;
and in every stitch he shall read a verse of the poem of which he
has been the hero. Yes, I have resolved within my heart never to
follow my husband where he does not wish me to go. I will be the
divinity of his hearth53. That is my religion of humanity. But why
should I not test and choose the man to whom I am to be like the
life to the body? Is a man ever impeded54 by life? What can that
woman be who thwarts55 the man she loves? — an illness, a disease,
not life. By life, I mean that joyous56 health which makes each hour
a pleasure.
But to return to your letter, which will always be precious to me.
Yes, jesting apart, it contains that which I desired, an
expression of prosaic57 sentiments which are as necessary to family
life as air to the lungs; and without which no happiness is
possible. To act as an honest man, to think as a poet, to love as
women love, that is what I longed for in my friend, and it is now
no longer a chimera58.
Adieu, my friend. I am poor at this moment. That is one of the
reasons why I cling to my concealment59, my mask, my impregnable
fortress. I have read your last verses in the “Revue,”— ah! with
what delight, now that I am initiated60 in the austere61 loftiness of
your secret soul.
Will it make you unhappy to know that a young girl prays for you;
that you are her solitary62 thought — without a rival except in her
father and mother? Can there be any reason why you should reject
these pages full of you, written for you, seen by no eye but
yours? Send me their counterpart. I am so little of a woman yet
that your confidences — provided they are full and true — will
suffice for the happiness of your
O. d’Este M.
“Good heavens! can I be in love already?” cried the young secretary, when he perceived that he had held the above letter in his hands more than an hour after reading it. “What shall I do? She thinks she is writing to the great poet! Can I continue the deception63? Is she a woman of forty, or a girl of twenty?”
Ernest was now fascinated by the great gulf64 of the unseen. The unseen is the obscurity of infinitude, and nothing is more alluring65. In that sombre vastness fires flash, and furrow66 and color the abyss with fancies like those of Martin. For a busy man like Canalis, an adventure of this kind is swept away like a harebell by a mountain torrent67, but in the more unoccupied life of the young secretary, this charming girl, whom his imagination persistently68 connected with the blonde beauty at the window, fastened upon his heart, and did as much mischief69 in his regulated life as a fox in a poultry-yard. La Briere allowed himself to be preoccupied70 by this mysterious correspondent; and he answered her last letter with another, a pretentious71 and carefully studied epistle, in which, however, passion begins to reveal itself through pique72.
Mademoiselle — Is it quite loyal in you to enthrone yourself in
the heart of a poor poet with a latent intention of abandoning him
if he is not exactly what you wish, leaving him to endless
regrets — showing him for a moment an image of perfection, were it
only assumed, and at any rate giving him a foretaste of happiness?
I was very short-sighted in soliciting73 this letter, in which you
have begun to unfold the elegant fabric74 of your thoughts. A man
can easily become enamored with a mysterious unknown who combines
such fearlessness with such originality75, so much imagination with
so much feeling. Who would not wish to know you after reading your
first confidence? It requires a strong effort on my part to retain
my senses in thinking of you, for you combine all that can trouble
the head or the heart of man. I therefore make the most of the
little self-possession you have left me to offer you my humble76
remonstrances77.
Do you really believe, mademoiselle, that letters, more or less
true in relation to the life of the writers, more or less
insincere — for those which we write to each other are the
expressions of the moment at which we pen them, and not of the
general tenor78 of our lives — do you believe, I say, that beautiful
as they may be, they can at all replace the representation that we
could make of ourselves to each other by the revelations of daily
intercourse79? Man is dual80. There is a life invisible, that of the
heart, to which letters may suffice; and there is a life material,
to which more importance is, alas, attached than you are aware of
at your age. These two existences must, however, be made to
harmonize in the ideal which you cherish; and this, I may remark
in passing, is very rare.
The pure, spontaneous, disinterested homage81 of a solitary soul
which is both educated and chaste82, is one of those celestial83
flowers whose color and fragrance84 console for every grief, for
every wound, for every betrayal which makes up the life of a
literary man; and I thank you with an impulse equal to your own.
But after this poetical85 exchange of my griefs for the pearls of
your charity, what next? what do you expect? I have neither the
genius nor the splendid position of Lord Byron; above all, I have
not the halo of his fictitious86 damnation and his false social
woes87. But what could you have hoped from him in like
circumstances? His friendship? Well, he who ought to have felt
only pride was eaten up by vanity of every kind — sickly,
irritable88 vanity which discouraged friendship. I, a thousand-fold
more insignificant89 than he, may I not have discordances of
character, and make friendship a burden heavy indeed to bear? In
exchange for your reveries, what will you gain? The
dissatisfaction of a life which will not be wholly yours. The
compact is madness. Let me tell you why. In the first place, your
projected poem is a plagiarism90. A young German girl, who was not,
like you, semi-German, but altogether so, adored Goethe with the
rash intoxication91 of girlhood. She made him her friend, her
religion, her god, knowing at the same time that he was married.
Madame Goethe, a worthy German woman, lent herself to this worship
with a sly good-nature which did not cure Bettina. But what was
the end of it all? The young ecstatic married a man who was
younger and handsomer than Goethe. Now, between ourselves, let us
admit that a young girl who should make herself the handmaid of a
man of genius, his equal through comprehension, and should piously92
worship him till death, like one of those divine figures sketched93
by the masters on the shutters94 of their mystic shrines95, and who,
when Germany lost him, should have retired96 to some solitude97 away
from men, like the friend of Lord Bolingbroke — let us admit, I
say, that the young girl would have lived forever, inlaid in the
glory of the poet as Mary Magdalene in the cross and triumph of
our Lord. If that is sublime98, what say you to the reverse of the
picture? As I am neither Goethe nor Lord Byron, the colossi of
poetry and egotism, but simply the author of a few esteemed99
verses, I cannot expect the honors of a cult30. Neither am I
disposed to be a martyr100. I have ambition, and I have a heart; I am
still young and I have my career to make. See me for what I am.
The bounty101 of the king and the protection of his ministers give me
sufficient means of living. I have the outward bearing of a very
ordinary man. I go to the soirees in Paris like any other
empty-headed fop; and if I drive, the wheels of my carriage do not
roll on the solid ground, absolutely indispensable in these days,
of property invested in the funds. But if I am not rich, neither do
I have the reliefs and consolations102 of life in a garret, the toil103
uncomprehended, the fame in penury104, which belong to men who are
worth far more than I— D’Arthez, for instance.
Ah! what prosaic conclusions will your young enthusiasm find to
these enchanting105 visions. Let us stop here. If I have had the
happiness of seeming to you a terrestrial paragon106, you have been
to me a thing of light and a beacon107, like those stars that shine
for a moment and disappear. May nothing ever tarnish108 this episode
of our lives. Were we to continue it I might love you; I might
conceive one of those mad passions which rend109 all obstacles, which
light fires in the heart whose violence is greater than their
duration. And suppose I succeeded in pleasing you? we should end
our tale in the common vulgar way — marriage, a household,
children, Belise and Henriette Chrysale together! — could it be?
Therefore, adieu.
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1
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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5
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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6
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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7
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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8
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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9
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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10
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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12
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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14
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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15
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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16
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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19
incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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20
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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dozes
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| n.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的名词复数 )v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的第三人称单数 ) | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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24
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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25
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
perspicacious
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| adj.聪颖的，敏锐的 | |
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27
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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28
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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29
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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32
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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33
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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37
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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42
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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43
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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44
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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45
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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46
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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51
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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52
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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54
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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60
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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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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64
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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66
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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68
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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69
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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71
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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74
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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76
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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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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78
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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87
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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93
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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100
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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101
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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102
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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103
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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104
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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105
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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106
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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107
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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108
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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109
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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