Francesca Carrara/Chapter 34
CHAPTER VII.
"You know I am fond of the news, though I have as little curiosity as any man."—The Wife.
"We have always some reigning mania," said the Chevalier de Joinville, when, in common with others of the court, he came in to Madame de Mercœur's, on his way to a fête given by Madame de Soissons, whose hôtel was more than ever the rallying point of the court. "Every body now is making what they call portraits of themselves and of their friends. Pastoral phrases are called into requisition; and under some name just stepped out of an eclogue, our dames and cavaliers flatter themselves and their friends, and are tant soit peu maligne."
"I heard one or two of those candid confessions read the other evening," replied Francesca; "and I could not but smile at the modest avowal of one lady, that she had the very whitest teeth in the world! qualifying it, however, by the regret, that she really had not spirits enough to show them! While another takes up a graver tone, and thanks God, who gave her only inclinations conformable to her duty, and confesses to une grand passion for pictures, jewels, and furniture!"
"I could soon give my own portrait," said Madame de Mercœur; "I should candidly confess that I thought myself very pretty, very amiable, very good; and trust to my friends' kindness to take the assertion for granted."
"I would never," cried the Chevalier, "trust to my friends' kindness for any thing. We all in our hearts hate each other!"
"What a monstrous assertion!" exclaimed she.
"All profound truths startle you in their first announcement."
"I am sure," replied the Duchesse, "I hate no one."
"You are too young. But wait a little; have a few mortifications, a few disappointments—a few of those surprises of falsehood, slander, and treachery, with which all experience is well supplied—and you will be astonished to find what a stock of hate you have for use. But you are sitting quite absorbed," continued he, turning to Francesca; "Are you sketching portraits in your own mind?—I hope it is one of our cavaliers? What do you say to that of the Duc de Candale?"
The truth was, De Joinville, who took that constant interest in the affairs of others, called philanthropy or curiosity according to circumstances, had noted Francesca's tête-à-tête of the former evening, and wished to draw some conclusion of its results from her manner. He was disappointed—she was too indifferent for confusion; and, far above the singularly small vanity of conquests, she answered him with entire composure.
"I would describe him in three words—chivalresque, romanesque, and pittoresque. I heard Madame de Mercœur say that he was going to Spain, and he appears to me an admirable specimen of your court—he will do you credit."
"Have you seen Madame de Soissons' portrait of herself?" asked de Joinville, who now thought that the subject of the Duc de Candale was too uninteresting for further question.
"No," said Madame de Mercœur; "I suppose Marie felt that she could tell me nothing new."
"I have a copy; so, if you please, you can judge for yourself," and the Chevalier read as follows:—
"Portrait of Madame de Soissons, by herself.—Portraits are just now the rage, and as others are drawing theirs, I will also draw mine, for I hold it expedient to follow whatever may be the ruling fashion. Singularity is never forgiven; it is taken as a personal affront by all from whom we differ; it is an assumption of superiority; and why should the general taste not be good enough for the generality? I, for one, am content to do like the rest; thereby escaping that responsibility which is, at best, an invidious and, worse—a useless distinction.
"I am not pretty, though I pass for such; for my face always flatters whoever looks at it. I have a slight and manageable, rather than a positively good figure; and I dress to perfection.
"Why should so much skill in colouring, so much taste in arrangement, be bestowed on a picture, when half the same attention would produce a still more charming effect bestowed upon real life? A careful toilette is a perpetual flattery—it shows that you desire to please, and people like that; for we all attach an undue value to our own suffrage. I would here observe, as one of the results of my observation, that all gentlemen prefer bright colours in feminine attire; it is on the principle of contrast,—their taste is dictated by their vanity. A woman in sombre hues does not sufficiently throw out their own dark dress.
"I am franche coquette, and I confess it; and sometimes my adorateurs are disappointed, from an expectation of my constancy, which it is not in my nature to realise. Yet methinks their complaints are unreasonable; their worst reproach is that of being indebted to me for some agreeable hours. I beg to plead the excuse offered by some Athenian orator, who announcing a victory to the people, induced them to proclaim a fête, crown themselves with flowers, and to pour out libations both on the gods' account and their own. The next day, the tidings arrived of defeat, and loud were the exclamations against the deceitful Cleon. 'Nay, my friends,' replied he, 'can you blame me for making you pass a pleasant day?—rather give me your thanks.'
"I have very buoyant spirits, and hence am easily amused. This makes me a charming companion; for many seeing me entertained, set down the entertainment to their own powers, and admire me out of compliment to themselves.
"I am obliging and caressing, and really do like people very much when I see them. I own my memory is not good; the fact is, that life is too short to be occupied by aught but the present—hope and remembrance are equally a waste of time.
"I am given to flattery, not from any interested motive, but because I like to say agreeable things. My own vanity, which is great, makes me sensitive to that of others. And here I would observe, that love of admiration seems scarcely to be properly appreciated; it is the only bond of society—we could not otherwise endure each other. It is the true source of the sublime, and, my conscience obliges me to add, of the ridiculous. Still, it is the strong necessity of admiring each other, and the being admired in our turn, that has built cities, congregated multitudes, and organised what we call our present state of civilisation.
"I am lively—a sort of temper very popular, for it makes no troublesome demands upon our civility; and am entirely carried away by the impulse of the minute. Hence, I am incapable of every profound or lasting attachment. I should forget my own identity, could I be parted from myself for a week.
"I incline mostly to look at things on the ridiculous side, and this makes me an amusing companion; and I rarely think much of my trouble, for any body's applause is better than nobody's. Novelty has to me great attraction. A new acquaintance and a new silk alike rapidly lose their gloss. Unfortunately I am soon wearied; for most individuals, resembling short stories, are soon read to the end.
"I am more easily entertained than interested, and rather object to having my feelings much excited, emotion being bad both for constitution and complexion. I am heedless of getting into scrapes, but very ingenious at extricating myself. My genius is fertile in inventions, excuses, and remedies. I consider myself clever; have tact and shrewdness; and whatever wits I may possess, I have them always about me."
"Good," exclaimed Madame de Mercœur; "se non è vero, è ben trovato."
"After all," said the Chevalier, "these portraits—Madame de I'Hôpital's fortune-telling—the pleasure we take in a lover or a physician—may all be referred to the same cause,—we do so enjoy talking about ourselves; and yet we feel some sort of excuse necessary. It must be admitted, that we are ready in pretexts."
"Is this declaration," asked Francesca, "preparatory to sketching your own portrait?"
"Nay," said he, "I feel quite inadequate to my own merits; or, to be candid in my confession, I have a conversational reputation to support, and cannot venture upon paper. Half the character of wit must rely upon what is forgotten."