Letters to an Unknown. Prosper Merimee

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СКАЧАТЬ of Adrianople. I will tell you this Oriental story.

      There was once a dervish who seemed to a baker to be a saint. The baker one day promised to give him white bread the rest of his life. At this the dervish was enchanted. But after awhile the baker said to him, “We agreed on brown bread, did we not? I have first-class brown bread. It is my specialty, is brown bread.” The dervish replied, “I have already more brown bread than I can eat, but——”

      Right here my cat jumped on the table, and I have had all I could do to keep her from lying down on my paper. She has made me forget the rest of the story, which is a pity, for it was very pretty. Do you know that, with my other air-castles, I have built this one: to meet you in Marseilles in September, to show you the lions there, and have you eat figs and fish soup. But I am obliged to be in Paris by August 15, to write a report for my minister; consequently, you will eat fish soup by yourself, and you will visit the Museum and the caves of Saint-Victor without me. On the other hand, when you reach Paris you may, if you like, receive from my own hand the directions I have made for your trip to Italy.

      Since your wishes always are realised, I pray you humbly to wish that I may become an Academician. This would be a great gratification to me, provided that you were not present at my reception. However, you have abundant time for the realisation of your wishes. It will be necessary for an epidemic to break out among those gentlemen before my chances are advanced; and to improve them, I should be obliged to borrow a little of that hypocrisy in which you are now so skilled. I am too old to reform; if I should try, I should be still worse than I am at present.

      I am curious to know what you think of me, but how shall I ever find it out? You will never tell me, either the best or the worst that you think. Formerly I had not much of an opinion of my precious self, but now I have a little more self-esteem; not that I think I have improved, but it is the world that has grown worse.

      In a week I start for Arles, where I intend to drive out a lot of beggars who live in the old theater. A fine occupation, is it not? It would be kind of you, before I go, to send me a letter brimful of sweet things. I am fond of being spoiled; besides, I am horribly sad and discouraged. I must tell you that I am spending my evenings revising my books, which are to be reprinted. I find them very immoral, and sometimes stupid. I am trying to reduce the immorality and the stupidity without going to too much trouble. The consequence is, a bad attack of the blue devils. I say good-bye, and kiss your hands most humbly. Can you guess what I found among my papers? A short blue thread, twice knotted. I have put it away in the purse.

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      Châlon-sur-Saône, June 30, 1842.

      You guessed correctly the end of the story: the dervish was imposed upon by the baker, but, all the same, the holy man did not like brown bread.

      I am in a city which is particularly odious to me, alone in an inn, listening to a frightful south-east wind. It parches everything it touches, and the harmonies produced as it whistles down the corridors are enough to bring the devil up to earth. The result is that I am furious with all nature. I am writing to you in order to cheer me a little, and I am comforted by the thought that in your approaching journey you will have many such days as this. I saw in Saint Vincent’s church an exceedingly pretty young girl making stations. Isn’t that what you call the prayers, or something of the sort, that are said before a series of pictures representing the principal scenes of the Passion? Her mother was near, watching over her with strict attention. While taking notes on ancient Byzantine columns, I asked myself what this young girl could have done to merit such a penance. The case must have been one of deep gravity.

      Have you become deeply pious, following the general fashion of the day? You must be pious for the same reason that you must wear a blue cashmere. I should be sorry, however, if this were so. Our piety here in France is repugnant to me. It is a sort of mediocre philosophy, which springs not from the heart, but from the mind. When you have seen the devotion of the common people in Italy, you will agree with me, I hope, that theirs is the only genuine religion; only one must be born beyond the Alps or the Pyrenees to believe this.

      You can not conceive of the disgust which I feel for our society of the present day. One would suppose that it has tried in every way possible to add to the burden of suffering necessary to the management of society. I shall await your return from Italy; you will have seen there a state of society where, on the contrary, everything contributes to render existence more agreeable and more tolerable. We shall then resume our discussions on the subject of hypocrisy, and it is possible that we shall come to an understanding.

      I have spent almost the entire winter studying mythology from old Latin and Greek archives. It has proved to be extremely entertaining, and if there should ever come into your head the desire to know the record of the thoughts of men, which is vastly more interesting than the history of their deeds, inquire of me, and I will recommend three or four books for your reading which will make you as wise as I—and this is saying no little!

      How are you employing your time? I sometimes ask myself this question, without being able to give a satisfactory answer. If I had to cast your horoscope I should predict that you would end by writing a book; it is the inevitable result of the sort of life you lead, and which all the women of France are leading. First, there is imagination, and sometimes affection; then follows hypocrisy, after which one attains to the pious stage; and finally, one becomes an author. God grant that you may never reach that point!

      I hope to see Madame de M. in Paris this year. If she comes, I should like to have you meet her. You would then discover that brown bread is more difficult to make than you seem to think. If you are willing, nothing will be easier than to make the acquaintance of this baker.

      Good-bye. The wind continues to blow. I am obliged to remain a month in the country, and if you have any time to spare, and wish to give me a great deal of pleasure, you have only to write to me at Avignon, where I shall call for your letter.

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      Avignon, July 20, 1842.

      Since you take that view of it, upon my word, I capitulate. Give me brown bread; it is better than none at all. Only, allow me to say that it is brown, and continue to write to me. You will observe how humble and submissive I am!

      Your letter reached me when I was steeped in melancholy, caused by the sad news of the death of the duc d’Orleans, which I had just learned upon returning from a trip into the mountains. I was sadly in need of a letter of another character; such as it was, your letter has at any rate proved a diversion.

      I shall reply to it item by item. The figure of rhetoric of which you think yourself the inventor, has been known for a long time. With the aid of Greek, one might give it a new and whimsical name. In French it is called by the less stately name of a lie. Employ it with me as little as you can. Do not overtax it with others. It should be kept for unusual occasions. Do not make too great an effort to find the world silly and ridiculous. It is, alas! only too much so. You ought, on the contrary, to endeavour to imagine it as it is not. It is better to have too many illusions than not to have any at all. I still have a few, some of which are not very sound, but I make strenuous efforts to retain them.

      Your story is very familiar. “There was once an idol.” Read Daniel; but he was mistaken—the head was not of gold; it was of clay, like the feet. But the idolater held a lamp in his hand, and the reflection from СКАЧАТЬ