Paul Bourget - A LOVE CRIME

"At my age, ought I not to write in this book: 'O divine fate! that has

caused me so speedily to light upon the unique, the ideal woman, the

sister-soul,' &c. (It would call for some of Gounod's music). Not

exactly, Monsieur de Querne, but rather a lady of experience, who has

had five or six lovers, who has retained sufficient taste to give the

title of 'sentiment' to what belongs to fair and fitting and the most

brutal sensation; a lady of tact, who has given herself a good deal of

trouble to persuade you that you have seduced her. And the deuce take me

if I am angry with her for such charming hypocrisy! Besides, what is the

good of being angry with anyone for anything? Every human being is a

pretentious little watch, which, seeing its hands go round, fancies that

it is itself the cause of the motion. Foolishness and vanity! There is a

delicate mechanism inside, and this mechanism has it that Madame ----

shall be a sentimental prostitute, her daughter a future quean, and I a

mirthless debauchee, who parch my soul by setting forth all this instead

of enjoying what is granted to me."

"PARIS, _22nd May_ 1877.

"An evening of folly yesterday and debauchery, but debauchery that was

gay and healthy which is undoubtedly the truth. Nothing but this remains

to me that does not leave disgust behind.

"I went to see Duret, the painter, with that sad dog René W----, who

first stopped in the Rue de la Tour-Auvergne to ask for Marie, a tall

brunette.

"I have a Marie here," said the doorkeeper, "but she is a tall blonde,

red even," and in fact at a window in the first floor I saw a head of

warm, golden hair, a dress of clear, bright blue, and a made complexion

as extravagantly pink as a doll's. In my dark hours I have had

sufficient knowledge of the degrading and consolatory fascination of

these painted charms, of these slain bodies, of these ringed eyes, of

all this lying!

"At Duret's found Léonie, the model who stood to him for his _Delilah_

in the last Salon: a somewhat wearied face, with a refined and arched

nose, eyes of gleaming blackness, a strongly marked chin, with a

slightly masculine appearance in the profile--the masculine appearance

of theatrical women who act in burlesque--and a long countenance. But

that is but the skeleton of the face. The slight moustache was tinged

with black, the patch on the cheek underlined with black, the eyes made

still larger with black, the complexion covered with powder, and the

powder blending with the pale pink of the blood gave the woman an

extravagant and sophisticated look which was completed by the

brilliantly nacreous teeth that twinkled with the splendour of moist

imitation pearls.

"The toilet completed the woman. She had some black, gauzy material

round her neck, a hat trimmed with gauze and flowers, a dress of

variegated and friezed material, with a huge, red rose blooming on her

left breast.

"'She's a luxurious woman,' said René ironically, and, indeed, with the

material of her dress, her gauze and her flower, she looked like a

creature that lived on nothing but superfluity. I paid my addresses to

her, pleased her, and did not leave her house until this morning.

"O enchantment of the senses when the surcharge of thought comes not to

mar physical intoxication! O enchantment of prostitutes, seen thus as

dispensers of pleasure free from disquiet of heart! No asking whether or

how one loves or is loved, no measuring of sensation with an ideal type

of feeling that is perceived, and striven after, and that never can be

felt! I write these lines, and see! already my enjoyment has evaporated.

I write these lines and yet would that on a solitary terrace fronting a

landscape of trees and waters a woman might appear having the eyes of

which I long have dreamed--eyes which I know without having ever met

them--and might swear to me that this life has been nothing but an evil

dream! And she should tell me _all_, and by that all be made the dearer

to me;--and then I should love!"

"PARIS, _June_ 1879.

"Luncheons and dinners; dinners and luncheons. Assignations and evening

parties. Ah! how empty my life is! I do nothing that I like; nothing;

for I like nothing.

"In presence of the living creature, nothing at heart but pity for him

who suffers, if he does suffer--who will suffer since he endures the

evil of existence.

"If death, inevitable death, were neither physically painful in the

passage thither from life, nor terrible in its sequel to our imagining,

ah! how I would seek that which has prompted thoughts to mar my life!

"We live on--and why? We think--and why? Why between two glasses of

delicate wine and amid naked shoulders does there come to me ceaselessly

at table the image of the grave, and the insoluble question concerning

the meaning of this deadly farce of nature, and the world, and life?

"I muse on the sweets of mutual love, an absurd dream that civilisation

grafts upon the simple need of coupling. Ah! for a simple passion that

might apply my entire sensibility to another being, like wet paper

against a window-pane.

"And all this declamatory philosophy due to the fact that yesterday I

saw Madame de Rugle again at the Théâtre Français, and that the sight

did not move me one whit. What does logic say? That a man should not

force himself to tenderness when his lack of feeling is self-admitted,

but turn on his heel, whistling that polonaise of Chopin's which she

used to play to me sometimes in the evening with so much intention and

sentimentality. And of that passion this is all that is left."

"PARIS, _January_ 1881.

"I am aware that I have become horribly, fiercely egoistic, and the

external manifestations of this egoism are now offensive to me, whereas

formerly I used to surrender myself to it without scruple, at a time,

however, when I was of more worth than I am now by reason of the dream

that I cherished concerning myself.

"Philosophising truthfully about oneself is as great a relief as the

vomiting of bile. I look for the history of my temperament from the days

of my childhood. I see that my imagination has been excessive,

destroying my sensibility by raising a fore-fashioned idea between

myself and reality. I expected to feel in a certain way--and then, I

never did so. This same imagination, darkened by my uncle's harsh

treatment, has turned also to mistrust. I have always dreaded every

creature. The loss of my father and mother prevented the correction of

this early fault. College life and modern literature stained my thought

before I had lived. The same literature separated me from religion at

fifteen. Impiety, to my shame, acted like refinement to seduce me! The

massacres of the Commune showed me the true nature of man, and the

intrigues of the ensuing years the true nature of politics. I longed to

link myself to some great idea--but to which? When quite young I had

measured the wretchedness of an artist's existence. There must be genius

or far better leave it alone. To rank as fiftieth among writers or

musicians--thank you, no. My fortune exempted me from the necessity of a

profession. Enter a Council of State for foreign affairs, or a public

office--and why? There are only too many officials already. Get married?

The thought of chaining down my life never tempted me. I should have

done the same as B---- who, on the day of his wedding, took train to