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the crime of sylvestre bonnard-第46章

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; he will be sure to laugh at the way that bell keeps ringing through my narrative; without ever announcing the arrival of a new personage or introducing any unexpected incident。  On the stage things are managed on the reverse principle。  Monsieur Scribe never has the curtain raised without good reason; and for the greater enjoyment of ladies and young misses。  That is art!  I would rather hang myself than write a play;not that I despise life; but because I should never be able to invent anything amusing。  Invent!  In order to do that one must have received the gift of inspiration。 It would be a very unfortunate thing for me to possess such a gift。 Suppose I were to invent some monkling in my history of the Abbey of Saint…Germain…des…Pres!  What would our young erudites say? What a scandal for the School!  As for the Institute; it would say nothing and probably not even think about the matter either。  Even if my colleagues still write a little sometimes; they never read。 They are of the opinion of Parny; who said;

     〃Une paisible indifference       Est la plus sage des vertus。〃      '〃The most wise of the virtues is a calm indifference。〃'

To be the least wise in order to become the most wisethis is precisely what those Buddhists are aiming at without knowing it。 If there is any wiser wisdom than that I will go to Rome to report upon it。。。。  And all this because Monsieur Gelis happened to ring the bell!

This young man has latterly changed his manner completely with Jeanne。  He is now quite as serious as he used to be frivolous; and quite as silent as he used to be chatty。  And Jeanne follows his example。  We have reached the phase of passionate love under constraint。  For; old as I am; I cannot be deceived about it: these two children are violently and sincerely in love with each other。  Jeanne now avoids himshe hides herself in her room when he comes into the librarybut how well she knows how to reach him when she is alone! alone at her piano!  Every evening she talks to him through the music she plays with a rich thrill of passional feeling which is the new utterance of her new soul。

Well; why should I not confess it?  Why should I not avow my weakness? Surely my egotism would not become any less blameworthy by keeping it hidden from myself?  So I will write it。  Yes!  I was hoping for something else;yes! I thought I was going to keep her all to myself; as my own child; as my own daughternot always; of course; not even perhaps for very long; but just for a few short years more。  I am so old!  Could she not wait?  And; who knows?  With the help of the gout; I would not have imposed upon her patience too much。  That was my wish; that was my hope。  I had made my plansI had not reckoned upon the coming of this wild young man。  But the mistake is none the less cruel because my reckoning happened to be wrong。 And yet it seems to me that you are condemning yourself very rashly; friend Sylvestre Bonnard:  if you did want to keep this young girl a few years longer; it was quite as much in her own interest as in yours。  She has a great deal to learn yet; and you are not a master to be despised。  When that miserable notary Mouchewho subsequently committed his rascalities at so opportune a momentpaid you the honour of a visit; you explained to him your ideas of education with all the fervour of high enthusiasm。  Then you attempted to put that system of yours into practice;Jeanne is certainly an ungrateful girl; and Gelis a much too seductive young man!

But still;unless I put him out of the house; which would be a detestably ill…mannered and ill…natured thing to do;I must continue to receive him。  He has been waiting ever so long in my little parlour; in front of those Sevres vases with which King Louis Philippe so graciously presented me。  The Moissonneurs and the Pecheurs of Leopold Robert are painted upon those porcelain vases; which Gelis nevertheless dares to call frightfully ugly; with the warm approval of Jeanne; whom he has absolutely bewitched。

〃My dear lad; excuse me for having kept you waiting so long。  I had a little bit of work to finish。〃

I am telling the truth。  Meditation is work; but of course Gelis does not know what I mean; he thinks I am referring to something archaeological; and; his question in regard to the health of Mademoiselle Jeanne having been answered by a 〃Very well indeed;〃 uttered in that extremely dry tone which reveals my moral authority as guardian; we begin to converse about historical subjects。  We first enter upon generalities。  Generalities are sometimes extremely serviceable。  I try to inculcate into Monsieur Gelis some respect for that generation of historians to which I belong。  I say to him;

〃History; which was formerly an art; and which afforded place for the fullest exercise of the imagination; has in our time become a science; the study of which demands absolute exactness of knowledge。〃

Gelis asks leave to differ from me on this subject。  He tells me he does not believe that history is a science; or that it could possibly ever become a science。

〃In the first place;〃 he says to me; 〃what is history?  The written representation of past events。  But what is an event?  Is it merely a commonplace fact?  It is any fact?  No!  You say yourself it is a noteworthy fact。  Now; how is the historian to tell whether a fact is noteworthy or not?  He judges it arbitrarily; according to his tastes and his caprices and his ideasin short; as an artist?  For facts cannot by reason of their own intrinsic character be divided into historical facts and non…historical facts。  But any fact is something exceedingly complex。  Will the historian represent facts in all their complexity?  No; that is impossible。  Then he will represent them stripped of the greater part of the peculiarities which constituted them; and consequently lopped; mutilated; different from what they really were。  As for the inter…relation of facts; needless to speak of it!  If a so…called historical fact be brought into noticeas is very possibleby one or more facts which are not historical at all; and are for that very reason unknown; how is the historian going to establish the relation of these facts one to another?  And in saying this; Monsieur Bonnard; I am supposing that the historian has positive evidence before him; whereas in reality he feels confidence only in such or such a witness for sympathetic reasons。  History is not a science; it is an art; and one can succeed in that art only through the exercise of his faculty of imagination。〃

Monsieur Gelis reminds me very much at this moment of a certain young fool whom I heard talking wildly one day in the garden of the Luxembourg; under the statue of Marguerite of Navarre。  But at another turn of the conversation we find ourselves face to face with Walter Scott; whose work my disdainful young friend pleases to term 〃rococo; troubadourish; and only fit to inspire somebody engaged in making designs for cheap bronze clocks。〃  Those are his very words!

〃Why!〃 I exclaim; zealous to defend the magnificent creator of 'The Bride of Lammermoor' and 'The Fair Maid of Perth;' 〃the whole past lives in those admirable novels of his;that is history; that is epic!〃

〃It is frippery;〃 Gelis answers me。

And;will you believe it?this crazy boy actually tells me that no matter how learned one may be; one cannot possibly know just how men used to live five or ten centuries ago; because it is only with the very greatest difficulty that one can picture them to oneself even as they were only ten or fifteen years ago。  In his opinion; the historical poem; the historical novel; the historical painting; are all; according to their kind; abominably false as branches of art。

〃In all the arts;〃 he adds; 〃the artist can only reflect his own soul。  His work; no matter how it may be dressed up; is of necessity contemporary with himself; being the reflection of his own mind。 What do we admire in the 'Divine  Comedy' unless it be the great soul of Dante?  And the marbles of Michael Angelo; what do they represent to us that is at all extraordinary unless it be Michael Angelo himself?  The artist either communicates his own life to his creations; or else merely whittles out puppets and dresse
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