CHAPTER VII. THE VENUSBERG AGAIN
If I were a jeweler and had in stock a pearl necklace that I wished togive a friend, it seems to me I should take great pleasure in placing itabout her neck with my own hands; but were I that friend, I would ratherdie than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seen manymen hasten to give themselves to the woman they love, but I havealways done the contrary, not through calculation, but through naturalinstinct. The woman who loves a little and resists does not love enough,and she who loves enough and resists knows that she is not sincerelyloved.
Madame Pierson gave evidence of more confidence in me, confessing thatshe loved me when she had never shown it in her actions. The respect Ifelt for her inspired me with such joy that her face looked to me like abudding rose. At times she would abandon herself to an impulse of suddengayety, then she would suddenly check herself; treating me like a child,and then look at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in a thousandpleasantries as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, she wouldsuddenly leave me, go aside and abandon herself to revery. Was ever amore beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting forher in the same spot where I had remained watching her.
"Oh! my friend!" I said, "Heaven itself rejoices to see how you areloved."
Yet I could conceal neither the violence of my desires nor the pain Iendured struggling against them. One evening I told her that I hadjust learned of the loss of an important case, which would involve aconsiderable change in my affairs.
"How is it," she asked, "that you make this announcement and smile atthe same time?"
"There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet," I replied: "'He who isloved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow.'"
Madame Pierson made no reply; all that evening she was even morecheerful than usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost shewas merciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, andshe bet against me with so much success that she won all I had in mypurse. When the old lady retired, she stepped out on the balcony and Ifollowed her in silence.
The night was beautiful; the moon was setting and the stars shonebrightly in a field of deep azure. Not a breath of wind stirred thetrees; the air was warm and freighted with the perfume of spring.
She was leaning on her elbow, her eyes in the heavens; I leaned over herand watched her as she dreamed. Then I raised my own eyes; a voluptuousmelancholy seized us both. We breathed together the warm perfume waftedto us from the garden; we followed, in its lingering course, the palelight of the moon which glinted through the chestnut-trees. I thought ofa certain day when I had looked up at the broad expanse of heaven withdespair; I trembled at the recollection of that hour; life was so richnow! I felt a hymn of praise welling up in my heart. Around the form ofmy dear mistress I slipped my arm; she gently turned her head; her eyeswere bathed in tears. Her body yielded as does the rose, her open lipsfell on mine, and the universe was forgotten.
Eternal angel of happy nights, who shall interpret thy silence?Mysterious vintage that flows from lips that meet as from a stainlesschalice! Intoxication of the senses! O, supremest joy! Yes, likeGod, thou art immortal! Sublime exaltation of the creature, universalcommunion of beings, thrice sacred pleasure, what have they sung whohave celebrated thy praise? They have called thee transitory, O thou whodost create! And they have said that thy passing beams have illuminedtheir fugitive life. Words that are as feeble as the dying breath! Wordsof a sensual brute who is astonished that he should live for an hour,and who mistakes the rays of the eternal lamp for the spark which isstruck from the flint!
O love! thou principle of life! Precious flame over which all nature,like a careful vestal, incessantly watches in the temple of God! Centreof all, by whom all exists, the spirit of destruction would itselfdie, blowing at thy flame! I am not astonished that thy name should beblasphemed, for they do not know who thou art, they who think they haveseen thy face because they have opened their eyes; and when thou findestthy true prophets, united on earth with a kiss, thou closest their eyeslest they look upon the face of perfect joy.
But you, O rapturous delights, languishing smiles, and first caressing,stammering utterance of love, you who can be seen, who are you? Are youless in God's sight than all the rest, beautiful cherubim who soarin the alcove and who bring to this world man awakened from the dreamdivine! Ah! dear children of pleasure, how your mother loves you! Itis you, curious prattlers, who behold the first mysteries, touches,trembling yet chaste, glances that are already insatiable, who beginto trace on the heart, as a tentative sketch, the ineffaceable image ofcherished beauty! O royalty! O conquest! It is you who make lovers.And thou, true diadem, serenity of happiness! The first true concept ofman's life, and first return of happiness in the many little things oflife which are seen only through the medium of joy, first steps made bynature in the direction of the well-beloved! Who will paint you? Whathuman word will ever express thy slightest caress?
He who, in the freshness of youth, has taken leave of an adoredmistress; he who has walked through the streets without hearing thevoices of those who speak to him; he who has sat in a lonely spot,laughing and weeping without knowing why; he who has placed his hands tohis face in order to breathe the perfume that still clings to them; hewho has suddenly forgotten what he had been doing on earth; he who hasspoken to the trees along the route and to the birds in their flight;finally, he who, in the midst of men, has acted the madman, and thenhas fallen on his knees and thanked God for it; let him die withoutcomplaint: he has known the joy of love.
PART IV
La confession d'un enfant du siècle. English Page 22