Notre Coeur. Guy de MaupassantЧитать онлайн книгу.
seems inherent in the French. Mariolle had overdone his eulogy; she let him know that she was not a fool.
“Mon Dieu!” she said, “I will confess to you that I am not quite certain whether it is art or artists that I love.”
He replied: “How could one love artists without being in love with art?”
“Because they are sometimes more comical than men of the world.”
“Yes, but they have more unpleasant failings.”
“That is true.”
“Then you do not love music?”
She suddenly dropped her bantering tone. “Excuse me! I adore music; I think that I am more fond of it than of anything else. And yet Massival is convinced that I know nothing at all about it.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No, but he thinks so.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh! we women guess at almost everything that we don’t know.”
“So Massival thinks that you know nothing of music?”
“I am sure of it. I can see it only by the way that he has of explaining things to me, by the way in which he underscores little niceties of expression, all the while saying to himself: ‘That won’t be of any use, but I do it because you are so nice.’”
“Still he has told me that you have the best music in your house of any in Paris, no matter whose the other may be.”
“Yes, thanks to him.”
“And literature, are you not fond of that?”
‘ “I am very fond of it; and I am even so audacious as to claim to have a very good perception of it, notwithstanding Lamarthe’s opinion.”
“Who also decides that you know nothing at all about it?”
“Of course.”
“But who has not told you so in words, any more than the other.”
“Pardon me; he is more outspoken. He asserts that certain women are capable of showing a very just and delicate perception of the sentiments that are expressed, of the truthfulness of the characters, of psychology in general, but that they are totally incapable of discerning the superiority that resides in his profession, its art. When he has once uttered this word, Art, all that is left one to do is to show him the door.”
Mariolle smiled and asked:
“And you, Madame, what do you think of it?” She reflected for a few seconds, then looked him straight in the face to see if he was in a frame of mind to listen and to understand her.
“I believe that sentiment, you understand — sentiment — can make a woman’s mind receptive of everything; only it is frequently the case that what enters does not remain there. Do you follow me?”
“No, not fully, Madame.”
“Very well! To make us comprehensive to the same degree as you, our woman’s nature must be appealed to before addressing our intelligence. We take no interest in what a man has not first made sympathetic to us, for we look at all things through the medium of sentiment. I do not say through the medium of love; no, — but of sentiment, which has shades, forms, and manifestations of every sort. Sentiment is something that belongs exclusively to our domain, which you men have no conception of, for it befogs you while it enlightens us. Oh! I know that all this is incomprehensible to you, the more the pity! In a word, if a man loves us and is agreeable to us, for it is indispensable that we should feel that we are loved in order to become capable of the effort — and if this man is a superior being, by taking a little pains he can make us feel, know, and possess everything, everything, I say, and at odd moments and by bits impart to us the whole of his intelligence. That is all often blotted out afterward; it disappears, dies out, for we are forgetful. Oh! we forget as the wind forgets the words that are spoken to it. We are intuitive and capable of enlightenment, but changeable, impressionable, readily swayed by our surroundings. If I could only tell you how many states of mind I pass through that make of me entirely different women, according to the weather, my health, what I may have been reading, what may have been said to me! Actually there are days when I have the feelings of an excellent mother without children, and others when I almost have those of a cocotte without lovers.”
Greatly pleased, he asked: “Is it your opinion that intelligent women generally are gifted with this activity of thought?”
“Yes,” she said. “Only they allow it to slumber, and then they have a life shaped for them which draws them in one direction or the other.”
Again he questioned: “Then in your heart of hearts it is music that you prefer above all other distractions?”
“Yes! But what I was telling you just now is so true! I should certainly never have enjoyed it as I do enjoy it, adored it as I do adore it, had it not been for that angelic Massival. He seems to have given me the soul of the great masters by teaching me to play their works, of which I was passionately fond before. What a pity that he is married!”
She said these last words with a sprightly air, but so regretfully that they threw everything else into shadow, her theories upon women and her admiration for art.
Massival was, in fact, married. Before the days of his success he had contracted one of those unions that artists make and afterward trail after them through their renown until the day of their death. He never mentioned his wife’s name, never presented her in society, which he frequented a great deal; and although he had three children the fact was scarcely known.
Mariolle laughed. She was decidedly nice, was this unconventional woman, pretty, and of a type not often met with. Without ever tiring, with a persistency that seemed in no wise embarrassing to her, he kept gazing upon that face, grave and gay and a little self-willed, with its audacious nose and its sensual coloring of a soft, warm blonde, warmed by the midsummer of a maturity so tender, so full, so sweet that she seemed to have reached the very year, the month, the minute of her perfect flowering. He wondered: “Is her complexion false?” And he looked for the faint telltale line, lighter or darker, at the roots of her hair, without being able to discover it.
Soft footsteps on the carpet behind him made him start and turn his head. It was two servants bringing in the tea-table. Over the blue flame of the little lamp the water bubbled gently in a great silver receptacle, as shining and complicated as a chemist’s apparatus.
“Will you have a cup of tea?” she asked.
Upon his acceptance she arose, and with a firm step in which there was no undulation, but which was rather marked by stiffness, proceeded to the table where the water was simmering in the depths of the machine, surrounded by a little garden of cakes, pastry, candied fruits, and bonbons. Then, as her profile was presented in clear relief against the hangings of the salon, Mariolle observed the delicacy of her form and the thinness of her hips beneath the broad shoulders and the full chest that he had been admiring a moment before. As the train of her light dress unrolled and dragged behind her, seemingly prolonging upon the carpet a body that had no end, this blunt thought arose to his mind: “Behold, a siren! She is altogether promising.” She was now going from one to another, offering her refreshments with gestures of exquisite grace. Mariolle was following her with his eyes; but Lamarthe, who was walking about with his cup in his hand, came up to him and said:
“Shall we go, you and I?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“We will go at once, shall we not? I am tired.”
“At once. Come.”
They left the house. When they were in the street, the novelist asked:
“Are you going home or to the club?”
“I think that I will go and spend an hour at the club.”
“At the Tambourins?”
“Yes.”