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The Magic Skin-Part9_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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"We owe our arts and monuments to the Pater noster, and our knowledge,



too, perhaps; and a still greater benefit--modern government--whereby

a vast and teeming society is wondrously represented by some five



hundred intellects. It neutralizes opposing forces and gives free play

to CIVILIZATION, that Titan queen who has succeeded the ancient



terrible figure of the KING, that sham Providence, reared by man

between himself and heaven. In the face of such achievements, atheism



seems like a barrenskeleton. What do you say?"

"I am thinking of the seas of blood shed by Catholicism." Emile



replied, quite unimpressed. "It has drained our hearts and veins dry

to make a mimic deluge. No matter! Every man who thinks must range



himself beneath the banner of Christ, for He alone has consummated the

triumph of spirit over matter; He alone has revealed to us, like a



poet, an intermediate world that separates us from the Deity."

"Believest thou?" asked Raphael with an unaccountable drunken smile.



"Very good; we must not commit ourselves; so we will drink the

celebrated toast, Diis ignotis!"



And they drained the chalice filled up with science, carbonic acid

gas, perfumes, poetry, and incredulity.



"If the gentlemen will go to the drawing-room, coffee is ready for

them," said the major-domo.



There was scarcely one of those present whose mind was not floundering

by this time in the delights of chaos, where every spark of



intelligence is quenched, and the body, set free from its tyranny,

gives itself up to the frenetic joys of liberty. Some who had arrived



at the apogee of intoxication were dejected, as they painfully tried

to arrest a single thought which might assure them of their own



existence; others, deep in the heavy morasses of indigestion, denied

the possibility of movement. The noisy and the silent were oddly



assorted.

For all that, when new joys were announced to them by the stentorian



tones of the servant, who spoke on his master's behalf, they all rose,

leaning upon, dragging or carrying one another. But on the threshold



of the room the entire crew paused for a moment, motionless, as if

fascinated. The intemperate pleasures of the banquet seemed to fade



away at this titillating spectacle, prepared by their amphitryon to

appeal to the most sensual of their instincts.



Beneath the shining wax-lights in a golden chandelier, round about a

table inlaid with gilded metal, a group of women, whose eyes shone



like diamonds, suddenly met the stupefied stare of the revelers. Their

toilettes were splendid, but less magnificent than their beauty, which



eclipsed the other marvels of this palace. A light shone from their

eyes, bewitching as those of sirens, more brilliant and ardent than



the blaze that streamed down upon the snowy marble, the delicately

carved surfaces of bronze, and lit up the satin sheen of the tapestry.



The contrasts of their attitudes and the slight movements of their

heads, each differing in character and nature of attraction, set the



heart afire. It was like a thicket, where blossoms mingled with

rubies, sapphires, and coral; a combination of gossamer scarves that



flickered like beacon-lights; of black ribbons about snowy throats; of

gorgeous turbans and demurely enticing apparel. It was a seraglio that



appealed to every eye, and fulfilled every fancy. Each form posed to

admiration was scarcely concealed by the folds of cashmere, and half



hidden, half revealed by transparent gauze and diaphanous silk. The

little slender feet were eloquent, though the fresh red lips uttered



no sound.

Demure and fragile-looking girls, pictures of maidenly innocence, with



a semblance of conventional unction about their heads, were there like

apparitions that a breath might dissipate. Aristocratic beauties with



haughty glances, languid, flexible, slender, and complaisant, bent

their heads as though there were royal protectors still in the market.



An English-woman seemed like a spirit of melancholy--some coy, pale,

shadowy form among Ossian's mists, or a type of remorse flying from






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