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pubOne.info present you this new edition. An affectionate remembrance from the Author.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819934011
Langue	English

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HONORINE
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Clara Bell
DEDICATION
To Monsieur Achille Deveria
An affectionate remembrance from the Author.
HONORINE
If the French have as great an aversion fortraveling as the English have a propensity for it, both English andFrench have perhaps sufficient reasons. Something better thanEngland is everywhere to be found; whereas it is excessivelydifficult to find the charms of France outside France. Othercountries can show admirable scenery, and they frequently offergreater comfort than that of France, which makes but slow progressin that particular. They sometimes display a bewilderingmagnificence, grandeur, and luxury; they lack neither grace nornoble manners; but the life of the brain, the talent forconversation, the “Attic salt” so familiar at Paris, the promptapprehension of what one is thinking, but does not say, the spiritof the unspoken, which is half the French language, is nowhere elseto be met with. Hence a Frenchman, whose raillery, as it is, findsso little comprehension, would wither in a foreign land like anuprooted tree. Emigration is counter to the instincts of the Frenchnation. Many Frenchmen, of the kind here in question, have owned topleasure at seeing the custom-house officers of their native land,which may seem the most daring hyperbole of patriotism.
This preamble is intended to recall to suchFrenchmen as have traveled the extreme pleasure they have felt onoccasionally finding their native land, like an oasis, in thedrawing-room of some diplomate: a pleasure hard to be understood bythose who have never left the asphalt of the Boulevard desItaliens, and to whom the Quais of the left bank of the Seine arenot really Paris. To find Paris again! Do you know what that means,O Parisians? It is to find— not indeed the cookery of the Rocherde Cancale as Borel elaborates it for those who can appreciateit, for that exists only in the Rue Montorgueil— but a meal whichreminds you of it! It is to find the wines of France, which out ofFrance are to be regarded as myths, and as rare as the woman ofwhom I write! It is to find— not the most fashionable pleasantry,for it loses its aroma between Paris and the frontier— but thewitty understanding, the critical atmosphere in which the Frenchlive, from the poet down to the artisan, from the duchess to theboy in the street.
In 1836, when the Sardinian Court was residing atGenoa, two Parisians, more or less famous, could fancy themselvesstill in Paris when they found themselves in a palazzo, taken bythe French Consul-General, on the hill forming the last fold of theApennines between the gate of San Tomaso and the well-knownlighthouse, which is to be seen in all the keepsake views of Genoa.This palazzo is one of the magnificent villas on which Genoesenobles were wont to spend millions at the time when thearistocratic republic was a power.
If the early night is beautiful anywhere, it surelyis at Genoa, after it has rained as it can rain there, in torrents,all the morning; when the clearness of the sea vies with that ofthe sky; when silence reigns on the quay and in the groves of thevilla, and over the marble heads with yawning jaws, from whichwater mysteriously flows; when the stars are beaming; when thewaves of the Mediterranean lap one after another like the avowal ofa woman, from whom you drag it word by word. It must be confessed,that the moment when the perfumed air brings fragrance to the lungsand to our day-dreams; when voluptuousness, made visible andambient as the air, holds you in your easy-chair; when, a spoon inyour hand, you sip an ice or a sorbet, the town at your feet andfair woman opposite— such Boccaccio hours can be known only inItaly and on the shores of the Mediterranean.
Imagine to yourself, round the table, the Marquis diNegro, a knight hospitaller to all men of talent on their travels,and the Marquis Damaso Pareto, two Frenchmen disguised as Genoese,a Consul-General with a wife as beautiful as a Madonna, and twosilent children— silent because sleep has fallen on them— theFrench Ambassador and his wife, a secretary to the Embassy whobelieves himself to be crushed and mischievous; finally, twoParisians, who have come to take leave of the Consul's wife at asplendid dinner, and you will have the picture presented by theterrace of the villa about the middle of May— a picture in whichthe predominant figure was that of a celebrated woman, on whom alleyes centered now and again, the heroine of this improvisedfestival.
One of the two Frenchmen was the famous landscapepainter, Leon de Lora; the other a well known critic Claude Vignon.They had both come with this lady, one of the glories of the fairsex, Mademoiselle des Touches, known in the literary world by thename of Camille Maupin.
Mademoiselle des Touches had been to Florence onbusiness. With the charming kindness of which she is prodigal, shehad brought with her Leon de Lora to show him Italy, and had goneon as far as Rome that he might see the Campagna. She had come bySimplon, and was returning by the Cornice road to Marseilles. Shehad stopped at Genoa, again on the landscape painter's account. TheConsul-General had, of course, wished to do the honors of Genoa,before the arrival of the Court, to a woman whose wealth, name, andposition recommend her no less than her talents. Camille Maupin,who knew her Genoa down to its smallest chapels, had left herlandscape painter to the care of the diplomate and the two Genoesemarquises, and was miserly of her minutes. Though the ambassadorwas a distinguished man of letters, the celebrated lady had refusedto yield to his advances, dreading what the English call anexhibition; but she had drawn in the claws of her refusals when itwas proposed that they should spend a farewell day at the Consul'svilla. Leon de Lora had told Camille that her presence at the villawas the only return he could make to the Ambassador and his wife,the two Genoese noblemen, the Consul and his wife. So Mademoiselledes Touches had sacrificed one of those days of perfect freedom,which are not always to be had in Paris by those on whom the worldhas its eye.
Now, the meeting being accounted for, it is easy tounderstand that etiquette had been banished, as well as a greatmany women even of the highest rank, who were curious to knowwhether Camille Maupin's manly talent impaired her grace as apretty woman, and to see, in a word, whether the trousers showedbelow her petticoats. After dinner till nine o'clock, when acollation was served, though the conversation had been gay andgrave by turns, and constantly enlivened by Leon de Lora's sallies—for he is considered the most roguish wit of Paris to-day— and bythe good taste which will surprise no one after the list of guests,literature had scarcely been mentioned. However, the butterflyflittings of this French tilting match were certain to come to it,were it only to flutter over this essentially French subject. Butbefore coming to the turn in the conversation which led theConsul-General to speak, it will not be out of place to give someaccount of him and his family.
This diplomate, a man of four-and-thirty, who hadbeen married about six years, was the living portrait of LordByron. The familiarity of that face makes a description of theConsul's unnecessary. It may, however, be noted that there was noaffectation in his dreamy expression. Lord Byron was a poet, andthe Consul was poetical; women know and recognize the difference,which explains without justifying some of their attachments. Hishandsome face, thrown into relief by a delightful nature, hadcaptivated a Genoese heiress. A Genoese heiress! the expressionmight raise a smile at Genoa, where, in consequence of theinability of daughters to inherit, a woman is rarely rich; butOnorina Pedrotti, the only child of a banker without heirs male,was an exception. Notwithstanding all the flattering advancesprompted by a spontaneous passion, the Consul-General had notseemed to wish to marry. Nevertheless, after living in the town fortwo years, and after certain steps taken by the Ambassador duringhis visits to the Genoese Court, the marriage was decided on. Theyoung man withdrew his former refusal, less on account of thetouching affection of Onorina Pedrotti than by reason of an unknownincident, one of those crises of private life which are soinstantly buried under the daily tide of interests that, at asubsequent date, the most natural actions seem inexplicable.
This involution of causes sometimes affects the mostserious events of history. This, at any rate, was the opinion ofthe town of Genoa, where, to some women, the extreme reserve, themelancholy of the French Consul could be explained only by the wordpassion. It may be remarked, in passing, that women never complainof being the victims of a preference; they are very ready toimmolate themselves for the common weal. Onorina Pedrotti, whomight have hated the Consul if she had been altogether scorned,loved her sposo no less, and perhaps more, when she knowthat he had loved. Women allow precedence in love affairs. All iswell if other women are in question.
A man is not a diplomate with impunity: the sposo was as secret as the grave— so secret that themerchants of Genoa chose to regard the young Consul's attitude aspremeditated, and the heiress might perhaps have slipped throughhis fingers if he had not played his part of a love-sick maladeimaginaire . If it was real, the women thought it too degradingto be believed.
Pedrotti's daughter gave him her love as aconsolation; she lulled these unknown griefs in a cradle oftenderness and Italian caresses.
Il Signor Pedrotti had indeed no reason to complainof the choice to which he was driven by his beloved child. Powerfulprotectors in Paris watched over the young diplomate's fortunes. Inaccordance with a promise made by the Ambassador to theConsul-General's father-in-law, the young man was created Baron andCommander of the Legion of Honor. Signor Pedrot