CHAPTER III. AFRICAN HOSPITALITY
Desgenais had planned a reunion of young people at his country house.The best wines, a splendid table, gaming, dancing, hunting, nothingwas lacking. Desgenais was rich and generous. He combined an antiquehospitality with modern ways. Moreover one could always find in hishouse the best books; his conversation was that of a man of learning andculture. He was a problem.
I took with me a taciturn humor that nothing could overcome; herespected it scrupulously. I did not reply to his questions and hedropped the subject; he was satisfied that I had forgotten my mistress.I went to the chase and appeared at the table, and was as convivial asthe best; he asked no more.
One of the most unfortunate tendencies of inexperienced youth is tojudge of the world from first impressions; but it must be confessed thatthere is a race of men who are also very unhappy; a race which says toyouth: "You are right in believing in evil, for we know what it is."I have heard, for example, a curious thing spoken of, a medium betweengood and evil, a certain arrangement between heartless women and menworthy of them--apparently love, but in reality a passing sentiment.They speak of love as of an engine constructed by a wagon-builder or abuilding-contractor. They said to me: "This and that are agreed upon,such and such phrases are spoken, and certain others are repeatedin reply; letters are written in a prescribed manner, you kneel in acertain attitude." All is regulated as in a parade.
This made me laugh. Unfortunately for me, I can not tell a woman whom Idespise that I love her, even when I know that it is only a conventionand that she will not be deceived by it. I have never bent my knee tothe ground when my heart did not go with it. So that class of womenknown as facile is unknown to me, or if I allow myself to be taken withthem, it is without knowing it, and through innate simplicity.
I can understand that one's soul can be put aside, but not that itshould be handled. That there is some pride in this, I confess, but Ido not intend either to boast or abase myself. Above all things I hatethose women who laugh at love, and I permit them to reciprocate thesentiment; there will never be any dispute between us.
Such women are beneath courtesans, for courtesans may lie as well asthey; but courtesans are capable of love, and these women are not. Iremember a woman who loved me, and who said to a man many times richerthan I, with whom she was living: "I am weary of you, I am going to mylover." That woman is worth more than many others who are not despisedby society.
I passed the entire season with Desgenais, and learned that my mistresshad left France; that news left in my heart a feeling of languor which Icould not overcome.
At the sight of that world which surrounded and was so new to me,I experienced at first a kind of bizarre curiosity, at once sad andprofound, which made me look timorously at things as does a restlesshorse. Then an incident occurred which made a deep impression on me.
Desgenais had with him a very beautiful woman who loved him much. Oneevening as I was walking with him I told him that I considered heradmirable, as much on account of her attachment for him as because ofher beauty. In short, I praised her highly and with warmth, giving himto understand that he ought to be happy.
He made no reply. It was his manner, for he was the dryest of men. Thatnight when all had retired, and I had been in bed some fifteen minutesI heard a knock at my door. I supposed it was some one of my friends whocould not sleep, and invited him to enter.
There appeared before my astonished eyes a woman, very pale, carryinga bouquet in her hands, to which was attached a piece of paper bearingthese words "To Octave, from his friend Desgenais."
I had no sooner read these words than a flash of light came to me. Iunderstood the meaning of this action of Desgenais in making me thisAfrican gift. It made me think. The poor woman was weeping and did notdare dry her tears for fear I would see them. I said to her: "You mayreturn and fear nothing."
She replied that if she should return Desgenais would send her backto Paris. "Yes," I replied, "you are beautiful and I am susceptible totemptation, but you weep, and your tears not being shed for me, I carenothing for the rest. Go, therefore, and I will see to it that you arenot sent back to Paris."
One of my peculiarities is that meditation, which with many is a firmand constant quality of the mind, is in my case an instinct independentof the will, and seizes me like a fit of passion. It comes to me atintervals in its own good time, regardless of my will and in almostany place. But when it comes I can do nothing against it. It takes mewhither it pleases by whatever route seems good to it.
When the woman had left, I sat up.
"My friend," I said to myself, "behold what has been sent you. IfDesgenais had not seen fit to send you his mistress he would not havebeen mistaken, perhaps, in supposing that you might fall in love withher.
"Have you well considered it? A sublime and divine mystery isaccomplished. Such a being costs nature the most vigilant maternal care;yet man, who would cure you, can think of nothing better than to offeryou lips which belong to him in order to teach you how to cease to love.
"How was it accomplished? Others than you have doubtless admired her,but they ran no risk. She might employ all the seduction she pleased;you alone were in danger.
"It must be that Desgenais has a heart, since he lives. In what respectdoes he differ from you. He is a man who believes in nothing, fearsnothing, who knows no care or ennui, perhaps, and yet it is clear thata scratch on the finger would fill him with terror, for if his bodyabandons him, what becomes of him? He lives only in the body. What sortof creature is he who treats his soul as the flagellants treat theirbodies? Can one live without a head?
"Think of it. Here is a man who possesses one of the most beautifulwomen in the world; he is young and ardent; he finds her beautiful andtells her so; she replies that she loves him. Some one touches him onthe shoulder and says to him: 'She is unfaithful.' Nothing more, he issure of himself. If some one had said: 'She is a poisoner,' he would,perhaps have continued to love her, he would not have given her a kissless; but she is unfaithful, and it is no more a question of love withhim than of the star of Saturn.
"What is there in that word? A word that is merited, positive,withering, at will. But why? It is still but a word. Can you kill a bodywith a word?
"And if you love that body? Some one pours a glass of wine and says toyou: 'Do not love that, for you can get four for six francs.' And it mayintoxicate you!
"But Desgenais loves his mistress, since he keeps her; he must,therefore, have a peculiar fashion of loving? No, he has not; hisfashion of loving is not love, and he cares no more for the woman whomerits affection than for her who is unworthy. He loves no one, simplyand truly.
"What has led him to this? Was he born thus? To love is as natural asto eat and to drink. He is not a man. Is he a dwarf or a giant? Ishe always so impassive? Upon what does he feed, what beverage doeshe drink? Behold him at thirty like old Mithridates; poisons are hisfamiliar friends.
"There is the great secret, my child, the key you must grasp. Bywhatever process of reasoning debauchery may be defended, it willbe proven that it is natural at a given day, hour, or night, but notto-morrow nor every day. There is not a nation on earth which has notconsidered woman either the companion and consolation of man or thesacred instrument of life, and has not under either of these two formshonored her. And yet here is an armed warrior who leaps into the abyssthat God has dug with His own hands between man and brute; as well mighthe deny that fact. What mute Titan is this who dares repress under thekisses of the body the love of the soul, and place on human lips thestigma of the brute, the seal of eternal silence?
"There is a word that should be studied. In it you hear the faint moanof those dismal labyrinths we know as secret societies, mysteries thatthe angels of destruction whisper in the ear of night as it descendsupon the earth. That man is better or worse than God has made him. Heis like a sterile woman, in whom nature has not completed her work, orthere is distilled in the shadow of his life some venomous poison.
"Ah! yes, neither occupation nor study has been able to cure you, myfriend. To forget and to learn, that is your device. You turn the leavesof dead books; you are too young for antiquities. Look about you, thepale throng of men surrounds you. The eyes of life's sphynx glitter inthe midst of divine hieroglyphics; decipher the book of life! Courage,scholar, launch out on the Styx, the deathless flood, and let the wavesof sorrow waft you to oblivion or to God."
La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English Page 13