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The Magic Skin-Part15_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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overtopped my desire.

"How often have I set satin shoes on Pauline's tiny feet, confined her



form, slender as a young poplar, in a robe of gauze, and thrown a

loose scarf about her as I saw her tread the carpets in her mansion



and led her out to her splendid carriage! In such guise I should have

adored her. I endowed her with all the pride she lacked, stripped her



of her virtues, her natural simple charm, and frank smile, in order to

plunge her heart in our Styx of depravity that makes invulnerable,



load her with our crimes, make of her the fantastical doll of our

drawing-rooms, the frail being who lies about in the morning and comes



to life again at night with the dawn of tapers. Pauline was fresh-

hearted and affectionate--I would have had her cold and formal.



"In the last days of my frantic folly, memory brought Pauline before

me, as it brings the scenes of our childhood, and made me pause to



muse over past delicious moments that softened my heart. I sometimes

saw her, the adorable girl who sat quietly sewing at my table, wrapped



in her meditations; the faint light from my window fell upon her and

was reflected back in silvery rays from her thick black hair;



sometimes I heard her young laughter, or the rich tones of her voice

singing some canzonet that she composed without effort. And often my



Pauline seemed to grow greater, as music flowed from her, and her face

bore a strikingresemblance to the noble one that Carlo Dolci chose



for the type of Italy. My cruel memory brought her back athwart the

dissipations of my existence, like a remorse, or a symbol of purity.



But let us leave the poor child to her own fate. Whatever her troubles

may have been, at any rate I protected her from a menacing tempest--I



did not drag her down into my hell.

"Until last winter I led the uneventful studious life of which I have



given you some faint picture. In the earliest days of December 1829, I

came across Rastignac, who, in spite of the shabby condition of my



wardrobe, linked his arm in mine, and inquired into my affairs with a

quite brotherly interest. Caught by his engaging manner, I gave him a



brief account of my life and hopes; he began to laugh, and treated me

as a mixture of a man of genius and a fool. His Gascon accent and



knowledge of the world, the easy life his clever management procured

for him, all produced an irresistible effect upon me. I should die an



unrecognized failure in a hospital, Rastignac said, and be buried in a

pauper's grave. He talked of charlatanism. Every man of genius was a



charlatan, he plainly showed me in that pleasant way of his that makes

him so fascinating. He insisted that I must be out of my senses, and



would be my own death, if I lived on alone in the Rue des Cordiers.

According to him, I ought to go into society, to accustom people to



the sound of my name, and to rid myself of the simple title of

'monsieur' which sits but ill on a great man in his lifetime.



" 'Those who know no better,' he cried, 'call this sort of business

SCHEMING, and moral people condemn it for a "dissipated life." We need



not stop to look at what people think, but see the results. You work,

you say? Very good, but nothing will ever come of that. Now, I am



ready for anything and fit for nothing. As lazy as a lobster? Very

likely, but I succeed everywhere. I go out into society, I push myself



forward, the others make way before me; I brag and am believed; I

incur debts which somebody else pays! Dissipation, dear boy, is a



methodical policy. The life of a man who deliberately runs through his

fortune often becomes a business speculation; his friends, his






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