I do not, however, conceal from myself that, although I may reach to some reputation as an orator, such a course will never lead to a ministry, and that it does not bestow that reputation of being a practical man to which it is now the fashion to sacrifice so much.But if at arm's length in the tribune I have but little influence, I shall make my mark at a greater distance.I shall speak as it were from a window, beyond the close and narrow sphere of parliamentary discussion, and above the level of its petty passions and its petty interests.This species of success appears to meet the views of the mysterious paternal intentions toward me.What they seem to require is that I shall sound and resound.From that point of view, i' faith, politics have a poetic side which is not out of keeping with my past life.
Now, to take up your other warning: that of my passion born or to be born for Madame de l'Estorade.I quote your most judicious deductions for the purpose of answering them fully.
In 1837, when you left for Italy, Madame de l'Estorade was, you say, in the flower of her beauty; and the queer, audacious persistence which I have shown in deriving inspiration from her shows that it has not faded.Hence, if the evil be not already done, you warn me to be on my guard; from the admiration of an artist to the adoration of the man there is but a step, and the history of the late Pygmalion is commended to my study.
In the first place, learned doctor and mythologian, allow me this remark.Being on the spot and therefore much better placed than you to judge of the dangers of the situation, I can assure you that the principal person concerned does not appear to feel the least anxiety.
Monsieur de l'Estorade quarrels with me for one thing only: he thinks my visits too few, and my reserve misanthropy.
Parbleu! I hear you say, a husband is always the last to know that his wife is being courted.So be it.But the high renown of Madame de l'Estorade's virtue, her cold and rather calculating good sense, which often served to balance the ardent and passionate impetuosity of one you knew well,--what of that? And will you not grant that motherhood as it appears in that lady--pushed to a degree of fervor which I might almost call fanaticism--would be to her an infallible preservative?
So much for her.But it is not, I see, for her tranquillity, it is mine for which your friendship is concerned; if Pygmalion had not succeeded in giving life to his statue, a pretty life his love would have made him!
To your charitable solicitude I must answer, (1) by asserting my principles (though the word and the thing are utterly out of date);(2) by a certain stupid respect that I feel for conjugal loyalty; (3)by the natural preoccupation which the serious public enterprise I am about to undertake must necessarily give to my mind and imagination.Imust also tell you that I belong, if not by spiritual height, at least by all the tendencies of my mind and character, to that strong and serious school of artists of another age who, finding that art is long and life is short--ars longa et vita brevis--did not commit the mistake of wasting their time and lessening their powers of creation by silly and insipid intrigues.
But I have a better reason still to offer you.As Monsieur de l'Estorade has told you of the really romantic incidents of my first meeting with his wife, you know already that a memory was the cause of my studying her as a model.Well, that memory, while it attracted me to the beautiful countess, is the strongest of all reasons to keep me from her.This appears to you, I am sure, sufficiently enigmatical and far-fetched; but wait till I explain it.
If you had not thought proper to break the thread of our intercourse, I should not to-day be obliged to take up the arrears of our confidence; as it is, my dear boy, you must now take your part in my past history and listen to me bravely.
In 1835, the last year of my stay in Rome, I became quite intimate with a comrade in the Academy named Desroziers.He was a musician and a man of distinguished and very observing mind, who would probably have gone far in his art if malarial fever had not put an end to him the following year.Suddenly the idea took possession of us to go to Sicily, one of the excursions permitted by the rules of the school;but as we were radically "dry," as they say, we walked about Rome for some time endeavoring to find some means of recruiting our finances.
On one of these occasions we happened to pass before the Palazzo Braschi.Its wide-open doors gave access to the passing and repassing of a crowd of persons of all sorts.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed Desroziers, "here's the very thing for us."And without explaining his words or where he was taking me, he made me follow the crowd and enter the palace.
After mounting a magnificent marble staircase and crossing a very long suite of apartments rather poorly furnished,--which is customary in Italian palaces, all their luxury being put into ceilings, statues, paintings, and other objects of art,--we reached a room that was wholly hung with black and lighted by quantities of tapers.It was, of course, a chambre-ardente.In the middle of it on a raised platform surmounted by a baldaquin, lay a thing, the most hideous and grotesque thing you can possibly conceive.Imagine a little old man whose hands and face had reached such a stage of emaciation that a mummy would have seemed to you in comparison plump and comely.
Clothed in black satin breeches, a violet velvet coat cut a la Francaise, a white waistcoat embroidered in gold, from which issued an enormous shirt-frill of point d'Angleterre, this skeleton had cheeks covered with a thick layer of rouge which heightened still further the parchment tones of the rest of his skin.Upon his head was a blond wig frizzed into innumerable little curls, surmounted by an immense plumed hat jauntily perched to one side in a manner which irresistibly provoked the laughter of even the most respectful visitors.
