CHAPTER III.
FROM ISAURA CICOGNA TO MADAME DE GRANTMESNIL.
The day after I posted my last, Mr. Vane called on us. I was in our
little garden at the time. Our conversation was brief, and soon
interrupted by visitors,--the Savarins and M. Rameau. I long for your
answer. I wonder how he impressed you, if you have met him; how he would
impress, if you met him now. To me he is so different from all others;
and I scarcely know why his words ring in my ears, and his image rests in
my thoughts. It is strange altogether; for though he is young, he speaks
to me as if he were so much older than I,--so kindly, so tenderly, yet as
if I were a child, and much as the dear Maestro might do, if he thought I
needed caution or counsel. Do not fancy, Eulalie, that there is any
danger of my deceiving myself as to the nature of such interest as he may
take in me. Oh, no! There is a gulf between us there which he does not
lose sight of, and which we could not pass. How, indeed, I could
interest him at all, I cannot guess. A rich, high-born Englishman,
intent on political life; practical, prosaic--no, not prosaic; but still
with the kind of sense which does not admit into its range of vision that
world of dreams which is familiar as their daily home to Romance and to
Art. It has always seemed to me that for love, love such as I conceive
it, there must be a deep and constant sympathy between two persons,--not,
indeed, in the usual and ordinary trifles of taste and sentiment, but in
those essentials which form the root of character, and branch out in all
the leaves and blooms that expand to the sunshine and shrink from the
cold,--that the worldling should wed the worldling, the artist the
artist. Can the realist and the idealist blend together, and hold
together till death and beyond death? If not, can there be true love
between them?
By true love, I mean the love which interpenetrates the soul, and once
given can never die. Oh, Eulalie, answer me, answer!
P. S.--I have now fully made up my mind to renounce all thought of the
stage.
FROM MADAME DE GRANTMESNIL TOISAURA CICOGNA.
MY DEAR CHILD,--how your mind has grown since you left me, the sanguine
and aspiring votary of an art which, of all arts, brings the most
immediate reward to a successful cultivator, and is in itself so divine
in its immediate effects upon human souls! Who shall say what may be the
after-results of those effects which the waiters on posterity presume to
despise because they are immediate? A dull man, to whose mind a ray of
that vague starlight undetected in the atmosphere of workday life has
never yet travelled; to whom the philosopher, the preacher, the poet
appeal in vain,--nay, to whom the conceptions of the grandest master of
instrumental music are incomprehensible; to whom Beethoven unlocks no
portal in heaven; to whom Rossini has no mysteries on earth unsolved by
the critics of the pit,--suddenly hears the human voice of the human
singer, and at the sound of that voice the walls which enclosed him fall.
The something far from and beyond the routine of his commonplace
existence becomes known to him. He of himself, poor man, can make
nothing of it. He cannot put it down on paper, and say the next morning,
"I am an inch nearer to heaven than I was last night;" but the feeling
that he is an inch nearer to heaven abides with him. Unconsciously he is
gentler, he is less earthly, and, in being nearer to heaven, he is
stronger for earth. You singers do not seem to me to understand that you
have--to use your own word, so much in vogue that it has become abused
and trite--a mission! When you talk of missions, from whom comes the
mission? Not from men. If there be a mission from man to men, it must
be appointed from on high.
Think of all this; and in being faithful to your art, be true to
yourself. If you feel divided between that art and the art of the
writer, and acknowledge the first to be too exacting to admit a rival,
keep to that in which you are sure to excel. Alas, my fair child! do not
imagine that we writers feel a happiness in our pursuits and aims more
complete than that which you can command. If we care for fame (and, to
be frank, we all do), that fame does not come up before us face to face,
a real, visible, palpable form, as it does to the singer, to the actress.
I grant that it may be more enduring, but an endurance on the length of
which we dare not reckon. A writer cannot be sure of immortality till
his language itself be dead; and then he has but a share in an uncertain
lottery. Nothing but fragments remains of the Phrynichus who rivalled
AEschylus; of the Agathon who perhaps excelled Euripides; of the Alcaeus,
in whom Horace acknowledged a master and a model; their renown is not in
their works, it is but in their names. And, after all, the names of
singers and actors last perhaps as long. Greece retains the name of
Polus, Rome of Roscius, England of Garrick, France of Talma, Italy of
Pasta, more lastingly than posterity is likely to retain mine. You
address to me a question, which I have often put to myself,--"What is the
distinction between the writer and the reader, when the reader says,
'These are my thoughts, these are my feelings; the writer has stolen
them, and clothed them in his own words'?" And the more the reader says
this, the more wide is the audience, the more genuine the renown, and,
paradox though it seems, the more consummate the originality, of the
writer. But no, it is not the mere gift of expression, it is not the
mere craft of the pen, it is not the mere taste in arrangement of word
and cadence, which thus enables the one to interpret the mind, the heart,
the soul of the many. It is a power breathed into him as he lay in his
cradle, and a power that gathered around itself, as he grew up, all the
influences he acquired, whether from observation of external nature, or
from study of men and books, or from that experience of daily life which
varies with every human being. No education could make two intellects
exactly alike, as no culture can make two leaves exactly alike. How
truly you describe the sense of dissatisfaction which every writer of
superior genius communicates to his admirers! how truly do you feel that
the greater is the dissatisfaction in proportion to the writer's genius,
and the admirer's conception of it! But that is the mystery which makes
--let me borrow a German phrase--the cloud-land between the finite and
the infinite. The greatest philosopher, intent on the secrets of Nature,
feels that dissatisfaction in Nature herself. The finite cannot reduce
into logic and criticism the infinite.
Let us dismiss these matters, which perplex the reason, and approach that
which touches the heart, which in your case, my child, touches the heart
of woman. You speak of love, and deem that the love which lasts--the
household, the conjugal love--should be based upon such sympathies of
pursuit that the artist should wed the artist.
This is one of the questions you do well to address to me; for whether
from my own experience, or from that which I have gained from observation
extended over a wide range of life, and quickened and intensified by the
class of writing that I cultivate, and which necessitates a calm study of
the passions, I am an authority on such subjects, better than most women
can be. And alas, my child, I come to this result: there is no
prescribing to men or to women whom to select, whom to refuse. I cannot
refute the axiom of the ancient poet, "In love there is no wherefore."
But there is a time--it is often but a moment of time--in which love is
not yet a master, in which we can say, "I will love, I will not love."
Now, if I could find you in such a moment, I would say to you, "Artist,
do not love, do not marry, an artist." Two artistic natures rarely
combine. The artistic nature is wonderfully exacting. I fear it is
supremely egotistical,--so jealously sensitive that it writhes at the
touch of a rival. Racine was the happiest of husbands; his wife adored
his genius, but could not understand his plays. Would Racine have been
happy if he had married a Corneille in petticoats? I who speak have
loved an artist, certainly equal to myself. I am sure that he loved me.
That sympathy in pursuits of which you speak drew us together, and became
very soon the cause of antipathy. To both of us the endeavour to
coalesce was misery.
I don't know your M. Rameau. Savarin has sent me some of his writings;
from these I judge that his only chance of happiness would be to marry a
commonplace woman, with _separation de biens_. He is, believe me, but
one of the many with whom New Paris abounds, who because they have the
infirmities of genius imagine they have its strength.
I come next to the Englishman. I see how serious is your questioning
about him. You not only regard him as a being distinct from the crowd of
a salon; he stands equally apart in the chamber of your thoughts,--you do
not mention him in the same letter as that which treats of Rameau and
Savarin. He has become already an image not to be lightly mixed up with
others. You would rather not have mentioned him at all to me, but you
could not resist it. The interest you feel in him so perplexed you, that
in a kind of feverish impatience you cry out to me, "Can you solve the
riddle? Did you ever know well Englishmen? Can an Englishman be
understood out of his island?" etc. Yes, I have known well many
Englishmen; in affairs of the heart they are much like all other men.
No; I do not know this Englishman in particular, nor any one of his name.
Well, my child, let us frankly grant that this foreigner has gained some
hold on your thoughts, on your fancy, perhaps also on your heart. Do not
fear that he will love you less enduringly, or that you will become
alienated from him, because he is not an artist. If he be a strong
nature, and with some great purpose in life, your ambition will fuse
itself in his; and knowing you as I do, I believe you would make an
excellent wife to an Englishman whom you honoured as well as loved; and
sorry though I should be that you relinquished the singer's fame, I
should be consoled in thinking you safe in the woman's best sphere,--
a contented home, safe from calumny, safe from gossip. I never had that
home; and there has been no part in my author's life in which I would
not have given all the celebrity it won for the obscure commonplace of
such woman-lot. Could I move human beings as pawns on a chessboard, I
should indeed say that the most suitable and congenial mate for you, for
a woman of sentiment and genius, would be a well-born and well-educated
German; for such a German unites, with domestic habits and a strong sense
of family ties, a romance of sentiment, a love of art, a predisposition
towards the poetic side of life, which is very rare among Englishmen of
the same class. But as the German is not forthcoming, I give my vote for
the Englishman, provided only you love him. Ah, child, be sure of that.
Do not mistake fancy for love. All women do not require love in
marriage, but without it that which is best and highest in you would
wither and die. Write to me often and tell me all. M. Savarin is right.
My book is no longer my companion. It is gone from me, and I am once
more alone in the world.
Yours affectionately.
P. S.--Is not your postscript a woman's? Does it not require a woman's
postscript in reply? You say in yours that you have fully made up your
mind to renounce all thoughts of the stage. I ask in mine, "What has the
Englishman to do with that determination?"
