CHAPTER XVIII
ON WHAT THE WORLD SAID AND ON COQUETRY
There is nothing more difficult, not to say impossible, than to successfully defend in society a poor young woman, who is so unfortunate as not only to occupy a prominent position both as to name and fortune, but who is beautiful both in face and figure, has a remarkable mind, is talented and extremely well informed.
When once she has unchained the world's wrath, on account of this insolent reunion of advantages, her every action, the best as well as the most unimportant, her virtues, her graces, all are criticised with the most artistic perfidy, and people are only lenient in regard to her defects.
There is nothing more saddening than to observe the contrary effect of this persistent belittling. If the woman against whom such unanimous hatred is shown is the mistress of a splendid home, every one is eager to go there, no effort is too great to gain admittance to her circle of friends. Is she considered too fast? What does it matter? All the mothers take their daughters to call on her, no doubt in order to return good for the evil that they themselves have done, and to show that they pay no attention to the scandals they themselves have spread abroad.
These remarks are spoken apropos of Madame de Pënâfiel, whom I began to see quite frequently, and very soon saw every day.
As it usually happens, I found her totally different from the descriptions that had been given me. She had been described as haughty and imperious, I had found her only dignified; ironical and scornful, I had never seen her so except towards low-lived persons, who well deserved such treatment; unkind and hateful, she had seemed to me kind and pitiful; fantastic, capricious, and morose, I had seen her sad, but very rarely.
Now this marked dissimilarity between what I heard and what I saw, ought it to be credited to the deep dissimulation with which Madame de Pënâfiel was accused? I do not know.
I do not know even if I was in love with Madame de Pënâfiel, but I felt for her, as I became more and more intimate, a very lively interest, caused as much by her fascination, her mind, by the simplicity with which she admitted certain defects, as by the persistent way that she was continually attacked, a persistence that had cost me many violent discussions.
It is not without a certain amount of vainglory that I recall this circumstance, for nothing is more frequent than the cowardly way that we join the backbiters, when they tear our absent friends to pieces.
Besides, I had begun to discover the falseness of the many absurdities that at first I had given credence to.
Thus when I knew her well enough to speak confidentially, I told her frankly that her presence at that fatal race, where M. de Merteuil had been killed, had appeared strange to every one.
With a surprised look she asked me why?
I told her that, as M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre were both her intimate friends, her devoted admirers indeed—
But without giving me time to finish, she exclaimed that it was an outrageous falsehood, that she received M. de Merteuil and M. de Senneterre only on her days of reception; that she hardly ever saw them in the morning; that she was ignorant of the danger they ran. Knowing nothing of their wager, she went to the race as she had gone to many another, and only was prevented remaining until the finish because she was cold.
In reply, I told her of the rumour and the public opinion in consequence of it, which was as follows: "She had known both Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre to be in love with her, having inexcusably encouraged their rival attentions; she was thus responsible for this murderous challenge, and her careless departure from the ground before the end of the race had given as much offence as her presence on the race-course; finally, her appearing that night in a conspicuous box at the Opéra was the height of disdainful heartlessness."
Madame de Pënâfiel could not at first believe these miserable stories; when I had convinced her she was greatly distressed, and asked me how it was that well-bred persons could be so stupid or so blind as to think that a woman of her position and breeding could play such a part.
To this I answered that good society resigned itself with most Christian humility, and, forgetting all the experience that the world had taught it, was willing to descend to the most stupid and commonplace credulity, the moment there was any question of believing a slander.
I then told her the story of Ismaël. She said that she had in fact noticed and admired, as an artist might have done, his characteristic costume, and that for an instant she had been afraid of seeing the unfortunate man thrown from his horse. But when it came to the rest of the tale, and the conviction of the public that she had asked to have Ismaël presented to her, she burst out laughing and told me how she had said at the Opéra to M. de Cernay, who it seems was quite provoked, "Nothing nowadays is more vulgar than these Chasseurs and Heiduques; when you have shown off your lion sufficiently, and have had all the benefit you care for in parading him as a contrast to yourself, you can send him to me, and I will have him sit behind my carriage with a valet de pied; it will be very original and something new."
"Very well, madame," said I, laughing too, "here is the rest of the story: While Messieurs de Merteuil and de Senneterre were risking their lives to please you, with perfect indifference to their rash struggle, whose object you knew, you had no eyes for anything but the Turk, your admiration was expressed in a thousand signs and transports that were almost frenzied. When that evening you appeared at the Opéra, after the death of one of your devoted admirers, your first thought was to beg M. de Cernay to present Ismaël to you. Finally, taking the advice of your friends and wishing to escape the deep impression that this savage foreigner had made, you had the resolution to leave town suddenly, and take refuge way off in Brittany."
Madame de Pënâfiel asked me if it were not M. de Cernay who had started these false and slanderous reports. As I attempted to elude this question, though there was no reason why I should protect the count, she said, after an instant's reflection:
"Confession for confession. M. de Cernay, after having paid me some attention, ended by making me an offer of marriage, which was not accepted any more than a declaration of love would have been. For as I had no desire to do a foolish thing, I could not think seriously of committing such an irreparable mistake. As M. de Cernay had no more reason to be vain of my refusal than I had to be vain of his offer, the secret was scrupulously kept between us; now that he calumniates me it shall be a secret no longer; use it as you see fit and 'give your authority,' as my venerable friend, Arthur Young, would say. Now as to this hurried journey to Brittany, you may have noticed at the Opéra that night that I spoke rather sharply to that poor Cornelia, my lady companion. I had told her the day before that I meant to start for the country. She began to make a thousand objections, on the weather, the cold, etc., and ended by making me angry, because if the weather was good enough for me it was good enough for her. Now, it was not absolutely to escape the terrible Turk that I was going away, but simply to pay a last visit to the woman who had nursed me. She was ill and believed herself dying unless I would come to see her, which she thought was the only thing that would restore her to health. As I am very much attached to this excellent creature, I started off, and what is very strange is that now she is perfectly well again, so I am not at all sorry that I was courageous enough to undertake such a tiresome journey in midwinter."
I made Madame de Pënâfiel laugh when I told her how deeply I had pitied her companion for having to submit to such tyrannical treatment, etc., the night I saw the poor young girl's annoyance at the Opéra.
I only cite these particulars, as I believe them to be specimens of the absurd rumours which are often absolutely credited in the social world, and which are capable of doing so much injury.
I could not understand this perpetual resentment against a young woman who, the more intimately I became acquainted with her, the less I understood her character; for, although she was always agreeable, and possessed a singularly cultivated mind, she was frequently paradoxical, and had some pretensions to scientific knowledge (this was considered one of her failings). Moreover, she very rarely showed any genial cordiality or real enthusiasm.
As to her innermost sentiments, she appeared to be constrained or oppressed, as though weighed down by some sad secret; then, again, she would evince traits of deep-felt commiseration and kindness, which did not seem spontaneous or natural, but, rather, the result of comparison or the recollection of some great misfortune, as though she said, "I have suffered so much that I am worthy of compassion."
At other times she gave way to the most violent explosions of contempt for all these spiteful and envious persons, and would break forth with the most cutting sarcasms, sparing no one. This was one of the reasons of her having so many bitter enemies.
A circumstance that I thought strange was that, in spite of all that was said about her levity, I had never seen a single man who appeared to be on terms of intimacy with her, or any one in whom she could be supposed to take any affectionate interest.
If, then, I loved Madame de Pënâfiel, it was not with that fresh, pure, passionate love I had felt for Hélène, it was a sentiment in which love and curiosity were strangely allied to distrust; for, although I condemned the absurd calumnies of the world, I was often quite as foolish and quite as unjust as other people.
Although I had seen Madame de Pënâfiel constantly for nearly three months, I had never breathed a word of gallantry. This was as much through calculation as distrust. I had found her to be so essentially different from the portrait the world had drawn of her, that I could not help thinking at times of what I had heard, and wondering if she were as false as she was accused of being. Therefore, I wished to study her more fully, before allowing myself to be carried away on the current of a declaration, whose refusal I did not wish to risk, for I am ready to declare that Madame de Pënâfiel was very seductive.
Among her other delightful faults, what charmed me most was her coquetry, which was quite peculiar.
It was not shown by any pretended demonstrations of solicitude, or by a flattering way of receiving a friend, flattery which is usually as deceptive as it is encouraging. No; her nature was too proud and independent to permit her to stoop to such means of winning admirers.
Her coquetry was entirely in the perfect gracefulness that she wished, and knew how, to impart to her every motion, to those poses that were apparently the least studied. No doubt all that grace was calculated, reasoned out, if I may say so, but habit had so harmonised the enchanting art with the native elegance of her manners that it was impossible to gaze on anything more charming. Besides, when it is a question of exquisite manners, naturalness can never bear a comparison with studied politeness, any more than the pale wild flower of the eglantine can compare in size, colour, and perfume with the cultivated hothouse rose.
Madame de Pënâfiel admitted, with delightful sincerity, that she took the greatest pleasure in dressing beautifully and tastefully, so that she might look pretty; that she loved to see her graceful attitudes reflected in a mirror; and that she did not see why a woman should be ashamed any more of adorning her body than cultivating her mind,—that people should study how to take an elegant and proper pose as well as to speak properly and wittily.
She declared that she practised these graces more to please herself than others, who, she said, never knew how to flatter her properly, while she herself knew exactly how much she was entitled to; so she preferred her own admiration, and always craved it.
One would scarcely believe to what a point Madame de Pënâfiel carried this art of making pictures.
Thus, as she was very fond of painting, she had a sort of parlour, which was at the same time a salon, library, and studio. It was arranged with perfect taste, and here she preferred to receive. According to the way she felt, her toilet, or the events of the day, by means of shades and a clever combination of old stained glass windows, the room would be more or less lighted, and with the most admirable and poetical knowledge of light and shade and the many intelligent resources of artistically opposed colourings.
For example, if she were nervous and pale, and all clothed in white, her beautiful brown hair with its golden gloss arranged in bandeaux, if she happened to be seated in a half light, which fell from above, and threw great shadows in the apartment, you should have seen how this dim light, falling on her fair forehead, her pale pink cheeks, and her ivory throat, left all the rest of her face in a marvellous half-tone. Nothing could be lovelier to look at than such a white and vapoury figure, shining in soft light upon a very dark background.
Then, besides this, carefully arranged light would glitter here and there like sparks of fire, on the gilded carving of an armchair, on the glossy folds of some piece of satin, on the tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl of a piece of furniture, or on the polished surface of the porcelain vases that were filled with flowers. The light thus distributed not only gave the appearance of a charming picture to this elegant figure, but to all its surrounding accessories. This manner of lighting an apartment pleased me very much, because it coincided with my own ideas, for, if there is anything shocking, it is the complete ignorance, or the deplorable neglect architects show in this matter.
Thus, without taking into consideration the style or the epoch, or, if a woman is concerned, her appearance or the type of her beauty, an architect thinks he has done everything, and has done it to perfection, when, by means of two or three enormous windows, ten feet high, he has thrown a dazzling sheet of light from every side of a room, enough to blind one. Now in this prodigal and unskilful way light is neutralised, and loses its effect; it neither shows off pictures, materials, nor sculptures, because, shining indifferently on all, it gives value to none.
In a word, as résumé, it seems to me that an apartment—not a place of reception, but of intimacy—should be lighted with as careful study, as much art, as though it were a picture.
Therefore, a great many things must be sacrificed in the shadow and the half-tone, in order to bring out the high lights. Then the eye and the mind are refreshed and rested, as they gaze with pleasure, love, and a sort of poetic contemplation, on such an interior.
It is a real picture, a living picture, that we admire as though it were painted on canvas.
But it needs a certain elevation of the mind, a certain instinctive ideality, perhaps an exaggerated sense of the beautiful, to cultivate this domestic art, and find in it the constant sources of meditative enjoyment, which are incomprehensible to most people.
If I insist upon speaking of this peculiarity, it is because I was much pleased with this similarity in Madame de Pënâfiel's tastes with my own, and it showed her coquetry in such a way that I loved her to adoration.
I remember that nothing angered me more than the rudeness of all the men of her acquaintance, who were all perfectly furious on the subject of what they called her intolerable and hateful coquetry. It was, they said, with strange ill-nature, it was a ridiculous pretension on her part, a sort of wager that she had made with herself, to be always gracious and charming. Never was she to be seen unless she was exquisitely dressed; all was prearranged and studied out, from the dim light to the colouring of the curtains, which harmonised with her complexion as though she expected to clothe herself with them. And then, oh, horror! on her writing-table there were natural flowers in a vase, and, could you believe it? they were chosen to match the colour of her hair, as though she meant to wear a head-dress of natural flowers! But that was not all. She had a foot as small as a child's, the finest arms that ever were seen, and an exquisite hand. Well, was it not intolerable? No one could help noticing and admiring her foot, her arm, or her hand, for she was so clever that these charms were always in evidence. It was odious, scandalous, not to be put up with.
Now, even if all this were true,—and in a certain way it was true,—could there be anything in the world more absurd or idiotic than to hear a lot of men, dressed in the careless and even untidy way that is permissible nowadays for morning visits, and who went like caterpillars—an old expression that might be revived—to pass an hour at a lady's house, to hear them, I say, complaining bitterly because she had received them surrounded by all that taste, art, and refinement could add to her natural graces?
For my part, on the contrary, I took the greatest pleasure in these delightful coquetries of Madame de Pënâfiel, in the contemplation, even though it were simply as a work of art, of such a delicious living picture, which was sometimes so animated, sometimes so sad and languishing.
I forgot to say that among the most violent detractors of Madame de Pënâfiel were several young Christians of her acquaintance. Since I have written these words, they require some explanation; for the young Christian of the salon, a pretentious and grotesque type, that will soon be displaced by another equally ridiculous, deserves to be properly described, so that his exhilarating personality may be handed down to posterity.