The Opera-BouffeO how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of anApril day; Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And byand by a cloud takes all away!
SHAKESPEAREOccupied with thoughts of the future and of the singular part whichshe hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to look back with regret upon thedry, metaphysical discussions which she often had with Julien. Weariedwith keeping her thoughts on so high a plane, sometimes also she wouldsigh for the moments of happiness which she had found in his company;these memories were not untouched by remorse, which at certain moments overwhelmed her.
'But if one has a weakness,' she said to herself, 'it is incumbent upon agirl like myself to forget her duties only for a man of merit; people willnot be able to say that it was his handsome moustaches or his elegantseat on a horse that seduced me, but his profound discussions of the future in store for France, his ideas as to the resemblance the events thatare going to burst upon us may bear to the Revolution of 1688 in England. I have been seduced,' she answered the voice of remorse, 'I am aweak woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a puppet by outward advantages.
'If there be a Revolution, why should not Julien Sorel play the part ofRoland, and I that of Madame Roland? I prefer that to the part of Madame de Stael: immoral conduct will be an obstacle in our time. Certainly they shall not reproach me with a second lapse; I should die ofshame.'
Mathilde's meditations were not all as grave, it must be admitted, asthe thoughts we have just transcribed.
She would look at Julien, and found a charming grace in his most trivial actions.
'No doubt,' she said to herself, 'I have succeeded in destroying everyidea in his mind that he has certain rights.
'The air of misery and profound passion with which the poor boy addressed those words of love to me a week ago, is proof positive; I mustconfess that it was extraordinary in me to be vexed by a speech so fervent with respect and passion. Am I not his wife? That speech was onlynatural, and, I am bound to say, quite agreeable. Julien still loved meafter endless conversations, in which I had spoken to him, and with greatcruelty, I admit, only of the feelings of love which the boredom of the lifeI lead had inspired in me for the young men in society of whom he is sojealous. Ah, if he knew how little danger there is in them for me! Howlifeless they seem to me when compared with him, all copies of eachother.'
As she made these reflections, Mathilde was tracing lines with a pencilat random on a page of her album. One of the profiles as she finished itstartled and delighted her: it bore a striking resemblance to Julien. 'It isthe voice of heaven! This is one of the miracles of love,' she cried in atransport, 'quite unconsciously I have drawn his portrait.'
She fled to her room, locked herself in, set to work, tried seriously tomake a portrait of Julien, but could not succeed; the profile drawn at random was still the best likeness. Mathilde was enchanted; she saw in it aclear proof of her grand passion.
She did not lay aside her album until late in the evening, when theMarquise sent for her to go to the Italian opera. She had only one idea, tocatch Julien's eye, so as to make her mother invite him to join them.
He did not appear; the ladies had only the most commonplace peoplein their box. During the whole of the first act of the opera, Mathilde satdreaming of the man whom she loved with transports of the most intense passion; but in the second act a maxim of love sung, it must be admitted, to a melody worthy of Cimarosa, penetrated her heart. Theheroine of the opera said: 'I must be punished for all the adoration that Ifeel for him, I love him too well!'
The moment she had heard this sublime cantilena, everything that existed in the world vanished from Mathilde's ken. People spoke to her; shedid not answer; her mother scolded her, it was all she could do to look ather. Her ecstasy reached a state of exaltation and passion comparable tothe most violent emotions that, during the last few days, Julien had felt for her. The cantilena, divinely graceful, to which was sung the maximthat seemed to her to bear so striking an application to her own situation,occupied every moment in which she was not thinking directly of Julien.
Thanks to her love of music, she became that evening as Madame deRenal invariably was when thinking of him. Love born in the brain ismore spirited, doubtless, than true love, but it has only flashes of enthusiasm; it knows itself too well, it criticises itself incessantly; so far frombanishing thought, it is itself reared only upon a structure of thought.
On her return home, in spite of anything that Madame de La Molemight say, Mathilde alleged an attack of fever, and spent part of thenight playing over the cantilena on her piano. She sang the words of thefamous aria which had charmed her:
Devo punirmi, devo punirmi, Se troppo amai.
The result of this night of madness was that she imagined herself tohave succeeded in conquering her love. (This page will damage the unfortunate author in more ways than one. The frigid hearts will accuse itof indecency. It does not offer the insult to the young persons who shinein the drawing-rooms of Paris, of supposing that a single one of theirnumber is susceptible to the mad impulses which degrade the characterof Mathilde. This character is wholly imaginary, and is indeed imaginedquite apart from the social customs which among all the ages will assureso distinguished a place to the civilisation of the nineteenth century.
It is certainly not prudence that is lacking in the young ladies whohave been the ornament of the balls this winter.
Nor do I think that one can accuse them of unduly despising a brilliantfortune, horses, fine properties, and everything that ensures an agreeableposition in society. So far from their seeing nothing but boredom in allthese advantages, they are as a rule the object of their most constant desires, and if there is any passion in their hearts it is for them.
Neither is it love that provides for the welfare of young men endowedwith a certain amount of talent like Julien; they attach themselves inseparably to a certain set, and when the set 'arrives', all the good things ofsociety rain upon them. Woe to the student who belongs to no set, evenhis minute and far from certain successes will be made a reproach tohim, and the higher virtue will triumph over him as it robs him. Ah, Sir,a novel is a mirror carried along a high road. At one moment it reflects toyour vision the azure skies, at another the mire of the puddles at yourfeet. And the man who carries this mirror in his pack will be accused byyou of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you blame the mirror! Rather blame that high road upon which the puddle lies, stillmore the inspector of roads who allows the water to gather and thepuddle to form.
Now that it is quite understood that the character of Mathilde is impossible in our age, no less prudent than virtuous, I am less afraid ofcausing annoyance by continuing the account of the follies of this charming girl.)Throughout the whole of the day that followed she looked out for opportunities to assure herself that she had indeed conquered her insanepassion. Her main object was to displease Julien in every way; but noneof her movements passed unperceived by him.
Julien was too wretched and above all, too greatly agitated, to interpret so complicated a stratagem of passion, still less could he discern allthe promise that it held out to himself: he fell a victim to it; never perhaps had his misery been so intense. His actions were so little under thecontrol of his mind that if some morose philosopher had said to him:
'Seek to take advantage rapidly of a disposition which for the moment isfavourable to you; in this sort of brain-fed love, which we see in Paris,the same state of mind cannot continue for more than a couple of days,'
he would not have understood. But, excited as he might be, Julien had asense of honour. His first duty was discretion; so much he did understand. To ask for advice, to relate his agony to the first comer wouldhave been a happiness comparable to that of the wretch who, crossing aburning desert, receives from the sky a drop of ice-cold water. He wasaware of the danger, he was afraid of answering with a torrent of tearsthe indiscreet person who should question him; he closeted himself inhis room.
He saw Mathilde strolling late and long in the garden; when at lengthshe had left it, he went down there; he made his way to a rose tree fromwhich she had plucked a rose.
The night was dark, he could indulge the full extent of his miserywithout fear of being seen. It was evident to him that Mademoiselle deLa Mole was in love with one of those young officers to whom she hadbeen chattering so gaily. He himself had been loved by her, but she hadseen how slight were his merits.
'And indeed, they are slight!' Julien told himself with entire conviction;'I am, when all is said, a very dull creature, very common, very tediousto others, quite insupportable to myself.' He was sick to death of all hisown good qualities, of all the things that he had loved with enthusiasm; and in this state of inverted imagination he set to work to criticise lifewith his imagination. This is an error that stamps a superior person.
More than once the idea of suicide occurred to him; this image was fullof charm, it was like a delicious rest; it w............