She triumphed over everything, and I complacently told myself that the
woman who loses all, sacrifices the future, and makes love her only
virtue, is far above Catholic polemics.
"So she loves herself better than she loves you?" Arabella went on.
"She sets something that is not you above you. Is that love? how can
we women find anything to value in ourselves except that which you
value in us? No woman, no matter how fine a moralist she may be, is
the equal of a man. Tread upon us, kill us; never
embarrass your lives
on our
account. It is for us to die, for you to live, great and
honored. For us the
dagger in your hand; for you our pardoning love.
Does the sun think of the gnats in his beams, that live by his light?
they stay as long as they can and when he withdraws his face they
die--"
"Or fly somewhere else," I said interrupting her.
"Yes, somewhere else," she replied, with an in
difference that would
have piqued any man into using the power with which she invested him.
"Do you really think it is
worthy of womanhood to make a man eat his
bread buttered with
virtue, and to
persuade him that religion is
incompatible with love? Am I a reprobate? A woman either gives herself
or she refuses. But to refuse and moralize is a double wrong, and is
contrary to the rule of the right in all lands. Here, you will get
only excellent sandwiches prepared by the hand of your servant
Arabella, whose sole
morality is to imagine caresses no man has yet
felt and which the angels inspire."
I know nothing more
destructive than the wit of an Englishwoman; she
gives it the
eloquentgravity, the tone of pompous
conviction with
which the British hide the absurdities of their life of prejudice.
French wit and humor, on the other hand, is like a lace with which our
women adorn the joys they give and the quarrels they
invent; it is a
mental
jewelry, as
charming as their pretty dresses. English wit is an
acid which corrodes all those on whom it falls until it bares their
bones, which it scrapes and polishes. The tongue of a clever
Englishwoman is like that of a tiger tearing the flesh from the bone
when he is only in play. All-powerful
weapon of a sneering devil,
English
satire leaves a
deadlypoison in the wound it makes. Arabella
chose to show her power like the
sultan who, to prove his dexterity,
cut off the heads of un
offending beings with his own scimitar.
"My angel," she said, "I can talk
morality too if I choose. I have
asked myself whether I
commit a crime in
loving you; whether I violate
the
divine laws; and I find that my love for you is both natural and
pious. Why did God create some beings handsomer than others if not to
show us that we ought to adore them? The crime would be in not
lovingyou. This lady insults you by confounding you with other men; the laws
of
morality are not
applicable to you; for God has created you above
them. Am I not
drawing nearer to
divine love in
loving you? will God
punish a poor woman for seeking the
divine? Your great and luminous
heart so resembles the heavens that I am like the gnats which flutter
about the torches of a fete and burn themselves; are they to be
punished for their error? besides, is it an error? may it not be pure
worship of the light? They
perish of too much piety,--if you call it
perishing to fling one's self on the breast of him we love. I have the
weakness to love you,
whereas that woman has the strength to remain in
her Catholic
shrine. Now, don't frown. You think I wish her ill. No, I
do not. I adore the
morality which has led her to leave you free, and
enables me to win you and hold you forever--for you are mine forever,
are you not?"
"Yes."
"Forever and ever?"
"Yes."
"Ah! I have found favor in my lord! I alone have understood his worth!
She knows how to
cultivate her
estate, you say. Well, I leave that to
farmers; I
cultivate your heart."
I try to recall this intoxicating
babble, that I may picture to you
the woman as she is,
confirm all I have said of her, and let you into
the secret of what happened later. But how shall I describe the
accompaniment of the words? She sought to
annihilate by the
passion of
her
impetuous love the impressions left in my heart by the
chaste and
dignified love of my Henriette. Lady Dudley had seen the
countess as
plainly as the
countess had seen her; each had judged the other. The
force of Arabella's attack revealed to me the
extent of her fear, and
her secret
admiration for her rival. In the morning I found her with