The Purse
by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Clara Bell
To Sofka
"Have you observed,
mademoiselle, that the
painters and
sculptors of the Middle Ages, when they placed two figures in
adoration, one on each side of a fair Saint, never failed to
give them a family
likeness? When you here see your name among
those that are dear to me, and under whose auspices I place my
works, remember that
touchingharmony, and you will see in
this not so much an act of
homage as an expression of the
brotherly
affection of your
devoted servant,
"DE BALZAC."
For souls to whom effusiveness is easy there is a
delicious hour
that falls when it is not yet night, but is no longer day; the
twilight gleam throws softened lights or tricksy reflections on
every object, and favors a
dreamy mood which
vaguely weds itself
to the play of light and shade. The silence which generally
prevails at that time makes it particularly dear to artists, who
grow contemplative, stand a few paces back from the pictures on
which they can no longer work, and pass
judgement on them, rapt
by the subject whose most recondite meaning then flashes on the
inner eye of
genius. He who has never stood
pensive by a friend's
side in such an hour of
poetic dreaming can hardly understand its
inexpressible soothingness. Favored by the clear-obscure, the
material skill employed by art to produce
illusion entirely
disappears. If the work is a picture, the figures represented
seem to speak and walk; the shade is shadow, the light is day;
the flesh lives, eyes move, blood flows in their veins, and
stuffs have a changing sheen. Imagination helps the
realism of
every detail, and only sees the beauties of the work. At that
hour
illusion reigns despotically; perhaps it wakes at nightfall!
Is not
illusion a sort of night to the mind, which we people with
dreams? Illusion then unfolds its wings, it bears the soul aloft
to the world of fancies, a world full of voluptuous imaginings,
where the artist forgets the real world,
yesterday and the
morrow, the future--everything down to its miseries, the good and
the evil alike.
At this magic hour a young
painter, a man of
talent, who saw in
art nothing but Art itself, was perched on a step-ladder which
helped him to work at a large high
painting, now nearly finished.
Criticising himself,
honestly admiring himself, floating on the
current of his thoughts, he then lost himself in one of those
meditative moods which ravish and elevate the soul,
soothe it,
and comfort it. His reverie had no doubt lasted a long time.
Night fell. Whether he meant to come down from his perch, or
whether he made some ill-judged
movement, believing himself to be
on the floor--the event did not allow of his remembering exactly
the cause of his accident--he fell, his head struck a footstool,
he lost
consciousness and lay
motionless during a space of time
of which he knew not the length.
A sweet voice roused him from the stunned condition into which he
had sunk. When he opened his eyes the flash of a bright light
made him close them again immediately; but through the mist that
veiled his senses he heard the whispering of two women, and felt
two young, two timid hands on which his head was resting. He soon
recovered
consciousness, and by the light of an old-fashioned
Argand lamp he could make out the most
charming girl's face he
had ever seen, one of those heads which are often
supposed to be
a freak of the brush, but which to him suddenly realized the
theories of the ideal beauty which every artist creates for
himself and
whence his art proceeds. The features of the unknown
belonged, so to say, to the
refined and
delicate type of
Prudhon's school, but had also the
poeticsentiment which Girodet
gave to the inventions of his phantasy. The
freshness of the
temples, the regular arch of the eyebrows, the
purity of outline,
the virginal
innocence so
plainly stamped on every feature of her
countenance, made the girl a perfect creature. Her figure was
slight and
graceful, and frail in form. Her dress, though simple
and neat, revealed neither
wealth nor penury.
As he recovered his senses, the
painter gave expression to his
admiration by a look of surprise, and stammered some confused
thanks. He found a
handkerchief pressed to his
forehead, and
above the smell
peculiar to a
studio, he recognized the strong
odor of ether,
applied no doubt to
revive him from his fainting
fit. Finally he saw an old woman, looking like a marquise of the
old school, who held the lamp and was advising the young girl.
"Monsieur," said the younger woman in reply to one of the
questions put by the
painter during the few minutes when he was
still under the influence of the vagueness that the shock had
produced in his ideas, "my mother and I heard the noise of your
fall on the floor, and we fancied we heard a groan. The silence
following on the crash alarmed us, and we
hurried up. Finding the
key in the latch, we happily took the liberty of entering, and we
found you lying
motionless on the ground. My mother went to fetch
what was needed to bathe your head and
revive you. You have cut
your
forehead--there. Do you feel it?"
"Yes, I do now," he replied.
"Oh, it will be nothing," said the old mother. "Happily your head
rested against this lay-figure."
"I feel
infinitely better," replied the
painter. "I need nothing
further but a hackney cab to take me home. The
porter's wife will
go for one."
He tried to repeat his thanks to the two strangers; but at each
sentence the elder lady interrupted him,
saying, "Tomorrow,
monsieur, pray be careful to put on leeches, or to be bled, and
drink a few cups of something healing. A fall may be dangerous."
The young girl stole a look at the
painter and at the pictures in
the
studio. Her expression and her glances revealed perfect
propriety; her
curiosity seemed rather
absence of mind, and her
eyes seemed to speak the interest which women feel, with the most
engaging spontaneity, in everything which causes us suffering.
The two strangers seemed to forget the
painter's works in the
painter's
mishap. When he had reassured them as to his condition
they left, looking at him with an
anxiety that was
equally free
from
insistence and from
familiarity, without asking any
indiscreet questions, or
trying to incite him to any wish to
visit them. Their proceedings all bore the hall-mark of natural
refinement and good taste. Their noble and simple manners at
first made no great
impression on the
painter, but subsequently,
as he recalled all the details of the
incident, he was greatly
struck by them.
When they reached the floor beneath that occupied by the
painter's
studio, the old lady
gently observed, "Adelaide, you
left the door open."
"That was to come to my assistance," said the
painter, with a
grateful smile.
"You came down just now, mother," replied the young girl, with a
blush.
"Would you like us to accompany you all the way downstairs?"
asked the mother. "The stairs are dark."
"No, thank you, indeed, madame; I am much better."
"Hold
tightly by the rail."
The two women remained on the
landing to light the young man,
listening to the sound of his steps.
In order to set forth clearly all the exciting and unexpected
interest this scene might have for the young
painter, it must be
told that he had only a few days since established his
studio in
the attics of this house,
situated in the darkest and,
therefore,
the most muddy part of the Rue de Suresnes, almost opposite the
Church of the Madeleine, and quite close to his rooms in the Rue
des Champs-Elysees. The fame his
talent had won him having made
him one of the artists most dear to his country, he was beginning