beatrix-第19部分

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age；　I　shall　tell　you　that　I　was　ever　faithful　to　Conti；　and　should
have　been　till　death；　and　yet　I　/know　him/。　His　nature　is　charming；
apparently；　and　detestable　beneath　its　surface。　He　is　a　charlatan　in
matters　of　the　heart。　There　are　some　men；　like　Nathan；　of　whom　I　have
already　spoken　to　you；　who　are　charlatans　externally；　and　yet　honest。
Such　men　lie　to　themselves。　Mounted　on　their　stilts；　they　think　they
are　on　their　feet；　and　perform　their　jugglery　with　a　sort　of
innocence；　their　humbuggery　is　in　their　blood；　they　are　born
comedians；　braggarts；　extravagant　in　form　as　a　Chinese　vase；　perhaps
they　even　laugh　at　themselves。　Their　personality　is　generous；　like
Murat's　kingly　garments；　it　attracts　danger。　But　Conti's　duplicity
will　be　known　only　to　the　women　who　love　him。　In　his　art　he　has　that
deep　Italian　jealousy　which　led　the　Carlone　to　murder　Piola；　and　stuck
a　stiletto　into　Paesiello。　That　terrible　envy　lurks　beneath　the
warmest　comradeship。　Conti　has　not　the　courage　of　his　vice；　he　smiles
at　Meyerbeer　and　flatters　him；　when　he　fain　would　tear　him　to　bits。　He
knows　his　weakness；　and　cultivates　an　appearance　of　sincerity；　his
vanity　still　further　leads　him　to　play　at　sentiments　which　are　far
indeed　from　his　real　heart。　He　represents　himself　as　an　artist　who
receives　his　inspirations　from　heaven；　Art　is　something　saintly　and
sacred　to　him；　he　is　fanatic；　he　is　sublime　in　his　contempt　for
worldliness；　his　eloquence　seems　to　come　from　the　deepest　convictions。
He　is　a　seer；　a　demon；　a　god；　an　angel。　Calyste；　although　I　warn　you
about　him；　you　will　be　his　dupe。　That　Southern　nature；　that
impassioned　artist　is　cold　as　a　well…rope。　Listen　to　him：　the　artist
is　a　missionary。　Art　is　a　religion；　which　has　its　priests　and　ought　to
have　its　martyrs。　Once　started　on　that　theme；　Gennaro　reaches　the　most
dishevelled　pathos　that　any　German　professor　of　philosophy　ever
spluttered　to　his　audience。　You　admire　his　convictions；　but　he　hasn't
any。　Bearing　his　hearers　to　heaven　on　a　song　which　seems　a　mysterious
fluid　shedding　love；　he　casts　an　ecstatic　glance　upon　them；　he　is
examining　their　enthusiasm；　he　is　asking　himself：　'Am　I　really　a　god
to　them？'　and　he　is　also　thinking：　'I　ate　too　much　macaroni　to…day。'
He　is　insatiable　of　applause；　and　he　wins　it。　He　delights；　he　is
beloved；　he　is　admired　whensoever　he　will。　He　owes　his　success　more　to
his　voice　than　to　his　talent　as　a　composer；　though　he　would　rather　be
a　man　of　genius　like　Rossini　than　a　performer　like　Rubini。　I　had
committed　the　folly　of　attaching　myself　to　him；　and　I　was　determined
and　resigned　to　deck　this　idol　to　the　end。　Conti；　like　a　great　many
artists；　is　dainty　in　all　his　ways；　he　likes　his　ease；　his　enjoyments；
he　is　always　carefully；　even　elegantly　dressed。　I　do　respect　his
courage；　he　is　brave；　bravery；　they　say；　is　the　only　virtue　into　which
hypocrisy　cannot　enter。　While　we　were　travelling　I　saw　his　courage
tested；　he　risked　the　life　he　loved；　and　yet；　strange　contradiction！　I
have　seen　him；　in　Paris；　commit　what　I　call　the　cowardice　of　thought。
My　friend；　all　this　was　known　to　me。　I　said　to　the　poor　marquise：　'You
don't　know　into　what　a　gulf　you　are　plunging。　You　are　the　Perseus　of　a
poor　Andromeda；　you　release　me　from　my　rock。　If　he　loves　you；　so　much
the　better！　but　I　doubt　it；　he　loves　no　one　but　himself。'　Gennaro　was
transported　to　the　seventh　heaven　of　pride。　I　was　not　a　marquise；　I
was　not　born　a　Casteran；　and　he　forgot　me　in　a　day。　I　then　gave　myself
the　savage　pleasure　of　probing　that　nature　to　the　bottom。　Certain　of
the　result；　I　wanted　to　see　the　twistings　and　turnings　Conti　would
perform。　My　dear　child；　I　saw　in　one　week　actual　horrors　of　sham
sentiment；　infamous　buffooneries　of　feeling。　I　will　not　tell　you　about
them；　you　shall　see　the　man　here　in　a　day　or　two。　He　now　knows　that　I
know　him；　and　he　hates　me　accordingly。　If　he　could　stab　me　with　safety
to　himself　I　shouldn't　be　alive　two　seconds。　I　have　never　said　one
word　of　all　this　to　Beatrix。　The　last　and　constant　insult　Geranno
offers　me　is　to　suppose　that　I　am　capable　of　communicating　my　sad
knowledge　of　him　to　her；　but　he　has　no　belief　in　the　good　feeling　of
any　human　being。　Even　now　he　is　playing　a　part　with　me；　he　is　posing
as　a　man　who　is　wretched　at　having　left　me。　You　will　find　what　I　may
call　the　most　penetrating　cordiality　about　him；　he　is　winning；　he　is
chivalrous。　To　him；　all　women　are　madonnas。　One　must　live　with　him
long　before　we　get　behind　the　veil　of　this　false　chivalry　and　learn
the　invisible　signs　of　his　humbug。　His　tone　of　conviction　about
himself　might　almost　deceive　the　Deity。　You　will　be　entrapped；　my　dear
child；　by　his　catlike　manners；　and　you　will　never　believe　in　the
profound　and　rapid　arithmetic　of　his　inmost　thought。　But　enough；　let
us　leave　him。　I　pushed　indifference　so　far　as　to　receive　them　together
in　my　house。　This　circumstance　kept　that　most　perspicacious　of　all
societies；　the　great　world　of　Paris；　ignorant　of　the　affair。　Though
intoxicated　with　pride；　Gennaro　was　compelled　to　dissimulate；　and　he
did　it　admirably。　But　violent　passions　will　have　their　freedom　at　any
cost。　Before　the　end　of　the　year；　Beatrix　whispered　in　my　ear　one
evening：　'My　dear　Felicite；　I　start　to…morrow　for　Italy　with　Conti。'　I
was　not　surprised；　she　regarded　herself　as　united　for　life　to　Gennaro；
and　she　suffered　from　the　restraints　imposed　upon　her；　she　escaped　one
evil　by　rushing　into　a　greater。　Conti　was　wild　with　happiness；the
happiness　of　vanity　alone。　'That's　what　it　is　to　love　truly；'　he　said
to　me。　'How　many　women　are　there　who　would　sacrifice　their　lives；
their　fortune；　their　reputation？''Yes；　she　loves　you；'　I　replied；
'but　you　do　not　love　her。'　He　was　furious；　and　made　me　a　scene；　he
stormed；　he　declaimed；　he　depicted　his　love；　declaring　that　he　had
never　supposed　it　possible　to　love　as　much。　I　remained　impassible；　and
lent　him　money　for　his　journey；　which；　being　unexpected；　found　him
unprepared。　Beatrix　left　a　letter　for　her　husband　and　started　the　next
day　for　Italy。　There　she　has　remained　two　years；　she　has　written　to　me
several　times；　and　her　letters　are　enchanting。　The　poor　child　attaches
herself　to　me　as　the　only　woman　who　will　comprehend　her。　She　says　she
adores　me。　Want　of　money　has　compelled　Gennaro　to　accept　an　offer　to
write　a　French　opera；　he　does　not　find　in　Italy　the　pecuniary　gains
which　composers　obtain　in　Paris。　Here's　the　letter　I　received
yesterday　from　Beatrix。　Take　it　and　read　it；　you　can　now　understand
it；that　is；　if　it　is　possible；　at　your　age；　to　analyze　the　things　of
the　heart。〃

So　saying；　she　held　out　the　letter　to　him。

At　this　moment　Claude　Vignon　entered　the　room。　At　his　unexpected
apparition　Calyste　and　Felicite　were　both　silent　for　a　moment；she
from　surprise；　he　from　a　vague　uneasiness。　The　vast　forehead；　broad
and　high；　of　the　new…comer；　who　was　bald　at　the　age　of　thirty…seven；
now　seemed　darkened　by　annoyance。　His　firm；　judicial　mouth　expressed　a
habit　of　chilling　sarcasm。　Claude　Vignon　is　imposing；　in　spite　of　the
precocious　deteriorations　of　a　face　once　magnificent；　and　now　grown
haggard。　Between　the　ages　of　eighteen　and　twenty…five　he　strongly
resembled　the　divine　Raffaelle。　But　his　nose；　that　feature　of　the
human　face　that　changes　most；　is　growing　to　a　point；　the　countenance
is　sinking　into　mysterious　depressions；　the　outlines　are　thickening；
leaden　tones　predominate　in　the　complexion；　giving　tokens　of
weariness；　although　the　fatigues　of　this　young　man　are　not　apparent；
perhaps　some　bitter　solitude　has　aged　him；　or　the　abuse　of　his　gift　of
comprehension。　He　scrutinizes　the　thought　of　every　one；　yet　without
definite　aim　or　system。　The　pickaxe　of　his　criticism　demolishes；　it
never　constructs。　Thus　his　lassitude　is　that　of　a　mechanic；　not　of　an
architect。　The　eyes；　of　a　pale　blue；　once　brilliant；　are　clouded　now
by　some　hidden　pain；　or　dulled　by　gloomy　sadness。　Excesses　have　laid
dark　tints　above　the　eyelids；　the　temples　have　lost　their　freshness。
The　chin；　of　incomparable　distinction；　is　getting　doubled；　but　without
dignity。　His　voice；　never　sonorous；　is　weakening；　without　being　either
hoarse　or　extinct；　it　touches　the　confines　of　hoarseness　and
extinction。　The　impassibility　of　that　fine　head；　the　fixity　of　that
glance；　cover　irresolution　and　weakness；　which　the　keenly　intelligent
and　sarcastic　smile　belies。　The　weakness　lies　wholly　in　action；　not　in
thought；　there　are　traces　of　an　encyclopedic　comprehension　on　that
brow；　and　in　the　habitual　movement　of　a　face　that　is　childlike　and
splendid　both。　The　man　is　tall；　slightly　bent　already；　like　all　those
who　bear　the　weight　of　a　world　of　thought。　Such　long；　tall　bodies　are
never　remarkable　for　continuous　effort　or　creative　activity。
Charlemagne；　Belisarious；　and　Constantine　are　noted　exceptions　to　this
rule。

Certainly　Claude　Vignon　presents　a　variety　of　mysteries　to　be　solved。
In　the　first　place；　he　is　very　simple　and　very　wily。　Though　he　falls
into　excesses　with　the　readiness　of　a　courtesan；　his　powers　of　thought
remain　untouched。　Yet　his　intellect；　which　is　competent　to　criticise
art；　science；　literature；　and　politics；　is　incompetent　to　guide　his
external　life。　Claude　contemplates　himself　within　the　domain　of　his
intellectual　kingdom；　and　abandons　his　outer　man　with　Diogenic
indifference。　Satisfied　to　penetrate　all；　to　comprehend　all　by
thought；　he　despises　materialities；　and　yet；　if　it　becomes　a　question
of　creating；　doubt　assails　him；　he　sees　obstacles；　he　is　not　inspired
by　beauties；　and　while　he　is　debating　means；　he　sits　with　his　arms
pendant；　accomplishing　nothing。　He　is　the　Turk　of　the　intellect　made
somnolent　by　meditation。　Criticism　is　his　opium；　his　harem　of　books　to
read　disgusts　him　with　real　work。　Indifferent　to　small　things　as　well
as　great　things；　he　is　sometimes　compelled；　by　the　very　weight　of　his
head；　to　fall　into　a　debauch；　and　abdicate　for　a　few　hours　the　fatal
power　of　omnipotent　analysis。　He　is　far　too　preoccupied　with　the　wrong
side　of　genius；　and　Camille　Maupin's　desire　to　put　him　back　on　the
right　side　is　easily　conceivable。　The　task　was　an　attractive　one。
Claude　Vignon　thinks　himself　a　great　politician　as　well　as　a　great
writer；　but　this　unp