Francesca Carrara/Chapter 30
CHAPTER III.
"For what will love's exalting not go through,
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness,
Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress?"
Leigh Hunt.
"A traveller sees many wonderful sights," said the Chevalier de Joinville, as he entered Madame de Mercœur's apartment; "And such have I seen at Fontainebleau—De Bethune and his Armida filant l'amour parfait, in a style which it would be worth Scuderi's while making a journey there to study. I was riding through the forest, when suddenly (pray correct my phraseology if too worldly—you know I am not well read in these epics of the heart) I saw a knight and his lady traversing one of the glades; the golden sunshine fell athwart the green leaves, and showed their white steeds and whiter plumes, while the air around grew musical with their gentle words and laughter."
"Gage!" exclaimed Madame de Mercœur, "that you have been rehearsing this description at the feet of Mademoiselle Scuderi herself. "
"Pardon me," replied De Joinville; "your presence has been my sole inspiration. But to return to my Amadis and Oriana; you know I am not a selfish person, so I could not keep the pleasure of my company to myself; and urging my horse into a more rapid pace, I overtook them, rich in all the news of Paris, garnered for a week or more."
"Well, in spite of le parfait amour, I can readily believe you were gratefully received. Ah! the country teaches us to appreciate people."
"For once in your life you are mistaken. By the by, is not the novelty of the sensation rather agreeable? But the case is sufficiently extraordinary to leave even your sagacity at fault. I was actually de trop."
"Pray," interrupted Francesca, "did you find the novelty of the sensation agreeable?"
The Chevalier laughed, and said, "Yes, one likes to add to one's experience, and to find that the impossible does sometimes occur. I began telling them the wonders of the world which they had quitted; but they had no smiles but for each other, no ears but for honied words—each sank into a tender silence, and had I come from the antipodes instead of Paris, they could not have listened with less interest to my tidings. I soon took pity upon them and on myself, and rode off; but before I had crossed the aforesaid green glade, I heard their voices and laughter rising gaily as before. Very impertinent!"
"I hear," said the Duc de Mercœur, "that they are extremely poor."
"Most imprudently so," replied De Joinville; "what a neglect of the future in them to marry!"
"Were there not some unusual circumstances connected with the marriage?" asked Francesca.
"Why, the chevalier, finding the parents on both sides inexorable, ran off with the fair lady; and really that was a degree of violent exertion to which now-a-days we are little accustomed. Both in the desperation before, and the love afterwards, they are at least a hundred years behind their age."
"I propose that they should be maintained," said Mercœur, "at the public expense, for setting so good an example."
"They certainly," continued De Joinville, "cannot be maintained at their own. Ah! the Roman emperor, who desired that his slavery might be alleviated by his fetters being made of gold, was a very rational person. I have always considered it an allegory, showing the necessity of marrying for money."
"I prefer lighter chains," said the Duc de Mercœur; "it is strange that we should affect, as we do, to undervalue that love which is at once the ideal of the heart, and the daily sweetener of common life."
"It were still more strange," replied De Joinville, looking for an instant towards the Duchesse, "were I to question your experience; but I was speaking of ordinary cases. Now, I hold that, in most matrimonial instances, it is as well to provide for repentance; and wealth has its advantages and its alleviations in affairs of the heart, as in all other affairs. It was by means of a golden bough that Æneas passed the evil spirits of Tartarus, and gained Elysium in safety."
"I believe," said Madame de Mercœur, "they will find in their own strong attachment the best resource against whatever evils may await their choice."
"That is," added De Joinville, "if they do not exhaust that resource en avant. But I consider that all individuals have but a certain portion of love in their composition, and it is a pity to exhaust it at once. Who are the persons with whom we remain on good terms to our old age? Why, those whom we never cared much about."
"What a selfish idea!" exclaimed Madame de Mercœur."
"I am only speaking the truth, which, to be sure, I might have put into finer words. Had I talked of inconstancy, the misery of unreciprocated feelings, of love enduring as love never yet endured, both yourself and Signora Carrara would have been equally charmed and touched. Ay, ay, merge the selfishness in the sentiment, and it will be sure to take; people will be so thankful to you for a decent excuse!"
"Have you, then, no belief," asked Madame de Mercœur, "in disinterested and lasting attachment?"
"Passe pour cela," exclaimed the Chevalier; "I will not answer for all the vain beliefs that may have passed through that receptacle of confusion called the human mind; but this I will say, that the causes of inconstancy are much misunderstood. It is commonly said that love never lasts. Now, that is not so much from change, or that it exhausts itself, as that it is mixed up with the paltry cares and daily interests of life; thus losing its ideality, which constitutes its great charm. Two lovers begin by reading poetry, and end by casting up bills together. The real reason why an unfortunate attachment outlasts the one more happy is, that it is less confounded with the commonplace of existence."
"I must say," cried the Duc de Mercœur, "you are the very last person I should have suspected of thus subtilising on sentiment."
"Ah!" replied De Joinville, "the truth is, that nobody knows anything about any body. Our nearest and dearest friends have a thousand thoughts and feelings which we have never even suspected. We look in them only for what reflects our own. Our very sympathy is egotism."
"Nay," said Francesca; "there is nothing which appears to me so much exaggerated as the common exclamations about the selfishness of human nature. We are a great deal better than we make ourselves out to be."
"If Mademoiselle Carrara speaks from her own personal experience, I for one will not contradict her."
"Nay," answered she, "I will not be complimented out of my position—mine was a general assertion. Kind and generous impulses are rife in our nature. Look at the pity which springs spontaneously at the sight of affliction—witness the admiration so ready to welcome any great action; and call to mind the thousand slight acts of kindness, almost unmarked, because of such daily occurrence."
"I felicitate you on your experience," said the Chevalier, rising, "and will now depart, and at least try to preserve so agreeable an impression."
True enough was the Chevalier's assertion, that we know but little of even our most intimate friends—and yet this does not originate from want of sympathy; it is rather owing to the extreme sensitiveness of all our more imaginative feelings. How many emotions rise in every heart which we never dream of communicating! They are too fine, too fragile, for expression, like those delicate hues of the atmosphere, which never yet could painter embody. Moreover, there is an odd sort of satisfaction which we all take in making ourselves other than we are. This is a species of deception which defies analysis, and is yet universally practised. Some make themselves out better, some worse, than they really are; but none give themselves their exact likeness. Perhaps it is that the ideal faculty is so strongly developed in us, that we cannot help exercising it even upon the reality of ourselves.