My Neighbor Raymond Part 33

"You're a good one to talk about prudence, Monsieur Raymond! What are you doing with Agathe?"

"Oh! I don't see her any more; that's all over, we are parted forever! I don't propose ever to be caught by one of those little hussies again; you spend an enormous amount of money, and sometimes you don't make your expenses. And they don't know how to appreciate a man; they don't know the difference between a poet and a gudgeon! So long as you have money in your pocket, and can stuff them from morning till night with bonbons, sweetmeats, ices, and syrups, and tell them they're adorable, take them to drive and to the theatre and to the country, and buy them all the fal-lals they happen to want, oh! bless my soul, then they're satisfied.

You may be as stupid as a goose, as coa.r.s.e as a street porter, as conceited as an Italian virtuoso, yet you're none the less delightful in the eyes of those girls."

"There's a great deal of truth in what you say, neighbor; but, as a general rule, it is adulation and flattery that spoil both men and women; if we didn't kneel at their feet, they wouldn't look down on us from such a height. Flatterers, courtiers, low-lived sycophants, creep in everywhere and sometimes corrupt the most happily endowed nature.

Kings, unfortunately, are more encompa.s.sed than other men by this servile swarm, which constantly hums in their ears a concert of exaggerated and insipid praise; it is when men tremble that they stoop lower than at any other time. Louis XI had more courtiers than Louis XII, Charles IX more than Henri IV. Richelieu and Mazarin did not take a step without being surrounded by a mult.i.tude of courtiers; they were feared, people trembled before them, but humiliated themselves and scribbled verses in their honor. Sully and Colbert had their admirers, but they knew how to repel flattery; they were too great to surround themselves with people whom they despised. If too frequent adulation did not increase our vanity, if the familiar atmosphere of praise did not give us too great confidence in our own deserts, how many shortcomings would those heroes and great captains have escaped, who, under difficult circ.u.mstances, have rejected the counsels of wisdom because they were accustomed only to the language of flattery, and deemed themselves invincible because a thousand voices had declared that they were, and because the man who has been exalted to the rank of a demiG.o.d does not readily decide to take the advice of his creatures! The pernicious effects of adulation date from a very early period: the serpent seduced the first woman by flattery. Almost always by the same means have women since then been seduced. Flattery destroyed Antiochus and Nebuchadnezzar, Semiramis and Mary Stuart, Cinq-Mars, Monmouth, Cleopatra, and Marion Delorme; Samson allowed his hair to be cut off while listening to the compliments of Delilah; Holofernes lost his head while listening to Judith's soft voice; Charles XII of Sweden, blinded by his victories, buried his army in the plains of Pultowa; the Marechal de Villeroi, relying always on luck, insisted on joining battle at Ramillies. Excessive praise, by blinding us to our faults, causes us to remain in the path of mediocrity, when nature has given us faculties calculated to raise us above the vulgar; by tempting us to close our ears to the harsh counsels of truth, it leads us to mistake self-esteem for genius, vanity for merit, facility for talent. How many artists, even when they seek advice, refuse to receive anything but compliments!

But they have been persuaded that all their works are masterpieces, that no defect can be found in them! And people who have attained that end no longer take the pains to study; everything that comes from their hands must necessarily be perfect. But civility demands that we must not always say what we think. Suppose a poet reads us some of his verses: if they are bad, you must not tell him so unless you are his friend; for you do not desire to be looked upon in society as an Alcestis, forever growling about the vagaries and absurdities of everyone else; that role would raise up too many enemies to be endured, except on the stage. In society, we choose to overlook one another's failings rather than to set ourselves up as censors; mutual intercourse is pleasanter thus, and we find more pleasure in living for ourselves than in wasting our time trying to correct other people. But although courtesy may compel us to conceal what we think, it does not compel us to say what we do not think; when I listen to the reading of execrable poetry, I will hold my peace, but I won't say that it is charming; nay, more, I will try to summon courage to make some suggestions to the author. I can never make up my mind to say that a portrait resembles its subject, when I think it a wretched failure; I cannot tell a person that he sings true, when he has just been torturing my ears. With nascent talents, above all, we should be sparing of praise, even while we encourage them; flattery is responsible for very many such coming to naught, because it arrests the flight of a genius, which, deeming itself perfect already, no longer cares to take the trouble to acquire what it lacks. Doubtless a father is excusable for considering his son a prodigy of beauty, wit, and talent; paternal love naturally misleads us; but let us at least keep our conviction to ourselves; let us not force strangers to go into ecstasies over the story of a mischievous trick, to listen in religious silence to a fable often directly at variance with common sense, and to gaze in admiration at a flat nose, turned-up chin, and inflamed eyes, which can never delight any glance but a father's. If there were fewer flatterers, how many men, who are simply unendurable now because they have been spoiled, would be ornaments of society! Let us reserve our enthusiasm for those poets and artists whose talents exalt them above all praise. Doubtless the contemporaries of Moliere and Voltaire rendered to those sublime geniuses the homage they deserved; but one does not display his admiration for such men by insipid compliments and empty praise: great talents are proud of the applause of people of taste; they despise the base fawning of which fools are so vain.

"When Voltaire lived at Ferney, those travellers who, by virtue of their rank or their merit, could hope to gain access to him, never failed, even though they were obliged to go far out of their way, to visit the philosopher's retreat. Everyone was curious to see that extraordinary man, who astounded the whole universe by his genius. Men of intellect and of taste thought only of the pleasure that was in store for them; but the fools--and they too were anxious to converse with Voltaire--gave all their attention to the posture and expression they proposed to a.s.sume at sight of the philosopher, the better to manifest their admiration of him. Voltaire was affable with the former; but when a lady, on catching sight of the great poet, deemed it advisable to shriek and to swoon, the philosopher shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel.

"Great geniuses are rare; great talents are affable and modest; they who might have acquired great talents but have failed inhale with delight the incense people are good enough to lavish on them. How can a young man whose voice is rather pleasant and nothing more fail to consider himself a Las or a Martin when people seem to be so infatuated with him? They urge him, entreat him, implore him to sing; all the women are in a flutter of excitement before hearing him; they belaud him to their neighbors in antic.i.p.ation. 'Delicious!' 'Divine!' 'Charming!' are the only words that reach the ears of the virtuoso, who condescends at last to comply with the wishes of the a.s.semblage, and, after all the inevitable monkey tricks, sings just pa.s.sably a ballad of which it is well understood that he will not p.r.o.nounce the words intelligibly; and he has hardly finished before the concert of praise begins anew, while the impartial auditor, who had been led to expect something very different, asks himself if he can believe his ears. Look you, my dear neighbor, I confess that I have never been able to persuade myself to increase the crowd that hovers about these social prodigies, in whom I find nothing except inordinate self-esteem; or to swell the number of adorers of a woman of fashion, whose coquetry is carried to such a point that I blush for her and for those who surround her. Unquestionably, I am as fond of a pretty woman as any other man; I will be the first to do homage to her charms; but does that necessitate my exalting her to the skies at all times and seasons, and overwhelming her with compliments which, even if they are not extravagant, must none the less be tiresome to the person to whom they are addressed? Must it be that she cannot take a step without my praising her dress, her figure, her gait, her foot, her grace? Can she not smile without my going into ecstasies over her teeth, her mouth, and the expression of her eyes? Can she not utter a word without my extolling her wit, her shrewdness, her tact, her penetration, and the sweet tones of her voice? I may think it all, but I won't say it; I should be afraid of bringing a blush to her cheek. I know that I am considered far from gallant; that may injure me with some ladies, but I have neither the power nor the desire to change. If everybody did as I do, perhaps we should see less self-conceit and arrogance in men, less coquetry and caprice in women; they would take more trouble to be affable and agreeable, and everybody would be the gainer.--What do you think about it, neighbor?"

I saw that Raymond was not listening; he was examining the bunches of orange blossoms that adorned my mantel, and seemed to be puzzled by the old bouquets which I had collected on my commode, after taking out the flowers that would not live.

"You seem to be very fond of orange blossoms?" he said at last.

"Very."

"They have a very pleasant odor.--You must have twenty bunches of them here."

"I haven't counted them.--But will you do me the favor to tell me what brings you to my rooms this morning? for I presume that you came for some purpose."

"True; I forgot it while looking at these bouquets. I have received an invitation from Madame de Marsan for a party she is giving at her country house the day after to-morrow; I suppose you are going, and I came to suggest that we go together."

"With pleasure; you know the way and you can be my guide."

"With the greatest pleasure. By the way, how shall we go?"

"We will hire a cabriolet, and keep it, so that we can return when we choose."

"That's the idea. I thought at first of going in the saddle--I am very fond of riding; I have a very fine seat."

"I have no doubt of your grace as a horseman; but we can't go to a party at Madame de Marsan's in top-boots, so we won't go in the saddle."

"True; I will undertake to provide a nice cabriolet; I know a liveryman.

At what time shall we start?"

"At seven o'clock; we shall arrive at eight, which is the proper hour in the country."

"That's settled, then. I fancy we shall have some fun; I know the whole party, so I can tell you who's who."

"I thought you had been only twice to Madame de Marsan's."

"Oh! that doesn't make any difference! once is enough for me to know everybody; I have a certain amount of tact, of penetration--it's all a matter of habit. In case they should want to give a theatrical performance, I have an opera that I have just finished; I'll read it to you on the road."

"That will give me great pleasure."

"I must take a look over it. Until Thursday, neighbor!"

"Until Thursday!"

Raymond left me, and I went to see Caroline. I found her at the window.

For several days past she had spent much time there, especially when she was alone. Doubtless it was so that she could watch for my coming. It seemed to me that she was gayer, more amiable, more fascinating, than usual; pleasure gleamed in her eyes.

"Ah! she loves me," I thought; "she loves me truly; she is grateful, she has a feeling heart; she is coquettish only to please me. Before forming a lasting attachment, she wanted to find someone worthy of her love; her heart chose me, and I am sure that she will be true to me. I knew that, with a little patience, I should find such a woman."

XIX

THE TRIP TO THE COUNTRY

The day came when I was to go to Madame de Marsan's. I had told Caroline that she would not see me that evening, and she had seemed greatly disappointed, although we had had a little dispute the night before concerning a certain cashmere shawl, which I saw that she ardently coveted, and which I did not propose to give her. I had given her to understand, in fact, that she did not need a cashmere shawl to be charming; that she was more attractive to me in a simple and refined costume; and we had parted on the most friendly terms.

The clock struck seven; my toilet was completed. The concierge came to inform me that the cabriolet had arrived and was waiting in the courtyard. When it suited Raymond's convenience, we might start; but what in the deuce was he still doing in his room? I concluded to investigate.

I found my neighbor just putting on his breeches.

"What, Monsieur Raymond! haven't you got any further than that?"

"Oh! I'll be ready in a moment, I a.s.sure you."

"I'll bet that you won't be ready in half an hour."

"Pshaw! you'll see how quick I am! While you are waiting, amuse yourself by looking over my little water colors--my sketches; there are some very good little things there, as you'll see. If I had more time to myself, I'd go into oils and exhibit at the Salon, but I am never at liberty."

"I advise you to stick to water colors; yours are quite remarkable."

"Aren't they? There's true burlesque, originality for you; the Calot sort of thing. Do you notice that _Suzanna at the Bath_?"

"I thought it was a _Temptation of Saint Anthony_."

"Oh! that's because it isn't finished. And that little _Hop-o'-my-Thumb_--what do you say to that?"

"I thought it was _Bluebeard_."

"That's because he has on his seven-league boots."

"Come, come, neighbor! You haven't got into your breeches yet!"

"Ah! they're a delicate part of the costume, you know."

"But nothing but long trousers are worn now, even at b.a.l.l.s."

"When a fellow has, as I have, a fine leg and a calf fit for a model, he isn't sorry to show them.--Would you like to read my last verses, on the Marquise Desormeaux's favorite dog?"

"No, thanks, much obliged!"