“He makes a mint of money.”
“They say he is very grasping,” added Canalis.
The praises which Modeste showered on Desplein had annoyed the poet. Vanity acts like a woman — they both think they are defrauded9 when love or praise is bestowed10 on others. Voltaire was jealous of the wit of a roue whom Paris admired for two days; and even a duchess takes offence at a look bestowed upon her maid. The avarice11 excited by these two sentiments is such that a fraction of them given to the poor is thought robbery.
“Do you think, monsieur,” said Modeste, smiling, “that we should judge genius by ordinary standards?”
“Perhaps we ought first of all to define the man of genius,” replied Canalis. “One of the conditions of genius is invention — invention of a form, a system, a force. Napoleon was an inventor, apart from his other conditions of genius. He invented his method of making war. Walter Scott is an inventor, Linnaeus is an inventor, Geoffrey Saint–Hilaire and Cuvier are inventors. Such men are men of genius of the first rank. They renew, increase, or modify both science and art. But Desplein is merely a man whose vast talent consists in properly applying laws already known; in observing, by means of a natural gift, the limits laid down for each temperament12, and the time appointed by Nature for an operation. He has not founded, like Hippocrates, the science itself. He has invented no system, as did Galen, Broussais, and Rasori. He is merely an executive genius, like Moscheles on the piano, Paganini on the violin, or Farinelli on his own larynx — men who have developed enormous faculties13, but who have not created music. You must permit me to discriminate14 between Beethoven and la Catalani: to one belongs the immortal15 crown of genius and of martyrdom, to the other innumerable five-franc pieces; one we can pay in coin, but the world remains16 throughout all time a debtor17 to the other. Each day increases our debt to Moliere, but Baron18’s comedies have been overpaid.”
“I think you make the prerogative19 of ideas too exclusive,” said Ernest de La Briere, in a quiet and melodious20 voice, which formed a sudden contrast to the peremptory21 tones of the poet, whose flexible organ had abandoned its caressing22 notes for the strident and magisterial23 voice of the rostrum. “Genius must be estimated according to its utility; and Parmentier, who brought potatoes into general use, Jacquart, the inventor of silk looms24; Papin, who first discovered the elastic25 quality of steam, are men of genius, to whom statues will some day be erected26. They have changed, or they will change in a certain sense, the face of the State. It is in that sense that Desplein will always be considered a man of genius by thinkers; they see him attended by a generation of sufferers whose pains are stifled27 by his hand.”
That Ernest should give utterance28 to this opinion was enough to make Modeste oppose it.
“If that be so, monsieur,” she said, “then the man who could discover a way to mow29 wheat without injuring the straw, by a machine that could do the work of ten men, would be a man of genius.”
“Yes, my daughter,” said Madame Mignon; “and the poor would bless him for cheaper bread — he that is blessed by the poor is blessed of God.”
“That is putting utility above art,” said Modeste, shaking her head.
“Without utility what would become of art?” said Charles Mignon. “What would it rest on? what would it live on? Where would you lodge30, and how would you pay the poet?”
“Oh! my dear papa, such opinions are fearfully flat and antediluvian31! I am not surprised that Gobenheim and Monsieur de La Briere, who are interested in the solution of social problems should think so; but you, whose life has been the most useless poetry of the century, — useless because the blood you shed all over Europe, and the horrible sufferings exacted by your colossus, did not prevent France from losing ten departments acquired under the Revolution — how can you give in to such excessively pig-tail notions, as the idealists say? It is plain you’ve just come from China.”
The impertinence of Modeste’s speech was heightened by a little air of contemptuous disdain32 which she purposely put on, and which fairly astounded33 Madame Mignon, Madame Latournelle, and Dumay. As for Madame Latournelle, she opened her eyes so wide she no longer saw anything. Butscha, whose alert attention was comparable to that of a spy, looked at Monsieur Mignon, expecting to see him flush with sudden and violent indignation.
“A little more, young lady, and you will be wanting in respect for your father,” said the colonel, smiling, and noticing Butscha’s look. “See what it is to spoil one’s children!”
“I am your only child,” she said saucily34.
“Child, indeed,” remarked the notary35, significantly.
“Monsieur,” said Modeste, turning upon him, “my father is delighted to have me for his governess; he gave me life and I give him knowledge; he will soon owe me something.”
“There seems occasion for it,” said Madame Mignon.
“But mademoiselle is right,” said Canalis, rising and standing36 before the fireplace in one of the finest attitudes of his collection. “God, in his providence37, has given food and clothing to man, but he has not directly given him art. He says to man: ‘To live, thou must bow thyself to earth; to think, thou shalt lift thyself to Me.’ We have as much need of the life of the soul as of the life of the body — hence, there are two utilities. It is true we cannot be shod by books or clothed by poems. An epic38 song is not, if you take the utilitarian39 view, as useful as the broth40 of a charity kitchen. The noblest ideas will not sail a vessel41 in place of canvas. It is quite true that the cotton-gin gives us calicoes for thirty sous a yard less than we ever paid before; but that machine and all other industrial perfections will not breathe the breath of life into a people, will not tell futurity of a civilization that once existed. Art, on the contrary, Egyptian, Mexican, Grecian, Roman art, with their masterpieces — now called useless! — reveal the existence of races back in the vague immense of time, beyond where the great intermediary nations, denuded42 of men of genius, have disappeared, leaving not a line nor a trace behind them! The works of genius are the ‘summum’ of civilization, and presuppose utility. Surely a pair of boots are not as agreeable to your eyes as a fine play at the theatre; and you don’t prefer a windmill to the church of Saint–Ouen, do you? Well then, nations are imbued43 with the same feelings as the individual man, and the man’s cherished desire is to survive himself morally just as he propagates himself physically44. The survival of a people is the work of its men of genius. At this very moment France is proving, energetically, the truth of that theory. She is, undoubtedly45, excelled by England in commerce, industry, and navigation, and yet she is, I believe, at the head of the world — by reason of her artists, her men of talent, and the good taste of her products. There is no artist and no superior intellect that does not come to Paris for a diploma. There is no school of painting at this moment but that of France; and we shall reign46 far longer and perhaps more securely by our books than by our swords. In La Briere’s system, on the other hand, all that is glorious and lovely must be suppressed — woman’s beauty, music, painting, poetry. Society will not be overthrown47, that is true, but, I ask you, who would willingly accept such a life? All useful things are ugly and forbidding. A kitchen is indispensable, but you take care not to sit there; you live in the salon, which you adorn48, like this, with superfluous49 things. Of what use, let me ask you, are these charming wall-paintings, this carved wood-work? There is nothing beautiful but that which seems to us useless. We called the sixteenth century the Renascence with admirable truth of language. That century was the dawn of a new era. Men will continue to speak of it when all remembrance of anterior50 centuries had passed away — their only merit being that they once existed, like the million beings who count as the rubbish of a generation.”
“Rubbish! yes, that may be, but my rubbish is dear to me,” said the Duc d’Herouville, laughing, during the silent pause which followed the poet’s pompous51 oration52.
“Let me ask,” said Butscha, attacking Canalis, “does art, the sphere in which, according to you, genius is required to evolve itself, exist at all? Is it not a splendid lie, a delusion53, of the social man? Do I want a landscape scene of Normandy in my bedroom when I can look out and see a better one done by God himself? Our dreams make poems more glorious than Iliads. For an insignificant54 sum of money I can find at Valogne, at Carentan, in Provence, at Arles, many a Venus as beautiful as those of Titian. The police gazette publishes tales, differing somewhat from those of Walter Scott, but ending tragically55 with blood, not ink. Happiness and virtue56 exist above and beyond both art and genius.”
“Bravo, Butscha!” cried Madame Latournelle.
“What did he say?” asked Canalis of La Briere, failing to gather from the eyes and attitude of Mademoiselle Mignon the usual signs of artless admiration57.
The contemptuous indifference58 which Modeste had exhibited toward La Briere, and above all, her disrespectful speeches to her father, so depressed59 the young man that he made no answer to Canalis; his eyes, fixed60 sorrowfully on Modeste, were full of deep meditation61. The Duc d’Herouville took up Butscha’s argument and reproduced it with much intelligence, saying finally that the ecstasies62 of Saint–Theresa were far superior to the creations of Lord Byron.
“Oh, Monsieur le duc,” exclaimed Modeste, “hers was a purely63 personal poetry, whereas the genius of Lord Byron and Moliere benefit the world.”
“How do you square that opinion with those of Monsieur le baron?” cried Charles Mignon, quickly. “Now you are insisting that genius must be useful, and benefit the world as though it were cotton — but perhaps you think logic64 as antediluvian as your poor old father.”
Butscha, La Briere, and Madame Latournelle exchanged glances that were more than half derisive65, and drove Modeste to a pitch of irritation66 that kept her silent for a moment.
“Mademoiselle, do not mind them,” said Canalis, smiling upon her, “we are neither beaten, nor caught in a contradiction. Every work of art, let it be in literature, music, painting, sculpture, or architecture, implies a positive social utility, equal to that of all other commercial products. Art is pre-eminently commerce; presupposes it, in short. An author pockets ten thousand francs for his book; the making of books means the manufactory of paper, a foundry, a printing-office, a bookseller — in other words, the employment of thousands of men. The execution of a symphony of Beethoven or an opera by Rossini requires human arms and machinery67 and manufactures. The cost of a monument is an almost brutal68 case in point. In short, I may say that the works of genius have an extremely costly69 basis and are, necessarily, useful to the workingman.”
Astride of that theme, Canalis spoke70 for some minutes with a fine luxury of metaphor71, and much inward complacency as to his phrases; but it happened with him, as with many another great speaker, that he found himself at last at the point from which the conversation started, and in full agreement with La Briere without perceiving it.
“I see with much pleasure, my dear baron,” said the little duke, slyly, “that you will make an admirable constitutional minister.”
“Oh!” said Canalis, with the gesture of a great man, “what is the use of all these discussions? What do they prove? — the eternal verity72 of one axiom: All things are true, all things are false. Moral truths as well as human beings change their aspect according to their surroundings, to the point of being actually unrecognizable.”
“Society exists through settled opinions,” said the Duc d’Herouville.
“What laxity!” whispered Madame Latournelle to her husband.
“He is a poet,” said Gobenheim, who overheard her.
Canalis, who was ten leagues above the heads of his audience, and who may have been right in his last philosophical73 remark, took the sort of coldness which now overspread the surrounding faces of a symptom of provincial74 ignorance; but seeing that Modeste understood him, he was content, being wholly unaware75 that monologue76 is particularly disagreeable to country-folk, whose principal desire it is to exhibit the manner of life and the wit and wisdom of the provinces to Parisians.
“It is long since you have seen the Duchesse de Chaulieu?” asked the duke, addressing Canalis, as if to change the conversation.
“I left her about six days ago.”
“Is she well?” persisted the duke.
“Perfectly well.”
“Have the kindness to remember me to her when you write.”
“They say she is charming,” remarked Modeste, addressing the duke.
“Monsieur le baron can speak more confidently than I,” replied the grand equerry.
“More than charming,” said Canalis, making the best of the duke’s perfidy77; “but I am partial, mademoiselle; she has been a friend to me for the last ten years; I owe all that is good in me to her; she has saved me from the dangers of the world. Moreover, Monsieur le Duc de Chaulieu launched me in my present career. Without the influence of that family the king and the princesses would have forgotten a poor poet like me; therefore my affection for the duchess must always be full of gratitude78.”
His voice quivered.
“We ought to love the woman who has led you to write those sublime79 poems, and who inspires you with such noble feelings,” said Modeste, quite affected80. “Who can think of a poet without a muse81!”
“He would be without a heart,” replied Canalis. “He would write barren verses like Voltaire, who never loved any one but Voltaire.”
“I thought you did me the honor to say, in Paris,” interrupted Dumay, “that you never felt the sentiments you expressed.”
“The shoe fits, my soldier,” replied the poet, smiling; “but let me tell you that it is quite possible to have a great deal of feeling both in the intellectual life and in real life. My good friend here, La Briere, is madly in love,” continued Canalis, with a fine show of generosity82, looking at Modeste. “I, who certainly love as much as he, — that is, I think so unless I delude83 myself — well, I can give to my love a literary form in harmony with its character. But I dare not say, mademoiselle,” he added, turning to Modeste with too studied a grace, “that tomorrow I may not be without inspiration.”
Thus the poet triumphed over all obstacles. In honor of his love he rode a-tilt at the hindrances84 that were thrown in his way, and Modeste remained wonder-struck at the Parisian wit that scintillated85 in his declamatory discourse86, of which she had hitherto known little or nothing.
“What an acrobat87!” whispered Butscha to Latournelle, after listening to a magnificent tirade88 on the Catholic religion and the happiness of having a pious89 wife — served up in response to a remark by Madame Mignon.
Modeste’s eyes were blindfolded90 as it were; Canalis’s elocution and the close attention which she was predetermined to pay to him prevented her from seeing that Butscha was carefully noting the declamation91, the want of simplicity92, the emphasis that took the place of feeling, and the curious incoherencies in the poet’s speech which led the dwarf93 to make his rather cruel comment. At certain points of Canalis’s discourse, when Monsieur Mignon, Dumay, Butscha, and Latournelle wondered at the man’s utter want of logic, Modeste admired his suppleness94, and said to herself, as she dragged him after her through the labyrinth95 of fancy, “He loves me!” Butscha, in common with the other spectators of what we must call a stage scene, was struck with the radiant defect of all egoists, which Canalis, like many men accustomed to perorate, allowed to be too plainly seen. Whether he understood beforehand what the person he was speaking to meant to say, whether he was not listening, or whether he had the faculty of listening when he was thinking of something else, it is certain that Melchior’s face wore an absent-minded look in conversation, which disconcerted the ideas of others and wounded their vanity. Not to listen is not merely a want of politeness, it is a mark of disrespect. Canalis pushed this habit too far; for he often forgot to answer a speech which required an answer, and passed, without the ordinary transitions of courtesy, to the subject, whatever it was, that preoccupied96 him. Though such impertinence is accepted without protest from a man of marked distinction, it stirs a leaven97 of hatred98 and vengeance99 in many hearts; in those of equals it even goes so far as to destroy a friendship. If by chance Melchior was forced to listen, he fell into another fault; he merely lent his attention, and never gave it. Though this may not be so mortifying100, it shows a kind of semi-concession which is almost as unsatisfactory to the hearer and leaves him dissatisfied. Nothing brings more profit in the commerce of society than the small change of attention. He that heareth let him hear, is not only a gospel precept101, it is an excellent speculation102; follow it, and all will be forgiven you, even vice103. Canalis took a great deal of trouble in his anxiety to please Modeste; but though he was compliant104 enough with her, he fell back into his natural self with the others.
Modeste, pitiless for the ten martyrs105 she was making, begged Canalis to read some of his poems; she wanted, she said, a specimen106 of his gift for reading, of which she had heard so much. Canalis took the volume which she gave him, and cooed (for that is the proper word) a poem which is generally considered his finest — an imitation of Moore’s “Loves of the Angels,” entitled “Vitalis,” which Monsieur and Madame Dumay, Madame Latournelle, and Gobenheim welcomed with a few yawns.
“If you are a good whist-player, monsieur,” said Gobenheim, flourishing five cards held like a fan, “I must say I have never met a man as accomplished107 as you.”
The remark raised a laugh, for it was the translation of everybody’s thought.
“I play it sufficiently108 well to live in the provinces for the rest of my days,” replied Canalis. “That, I think, is enough, and more than enough literature and conversation for whist-players,” he added, throwing the volume impatiently on a table.
This little incident serves to show what dangers environ a drawing-room hero when he steps, like Canalis, out of his sphere; he is like the favorite actor of a second-rate audience, whose talent is lost when he leaves his own boards and steps upon those of an upper-class theatre.
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1
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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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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economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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47
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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48
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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49
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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50
anterior
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| adj.较早的；在前的 | |
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51
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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52
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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53
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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54
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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55
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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56
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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acrobat
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| n.特技演员，杂技演员 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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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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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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102
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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103
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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108
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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