eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780897338646 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Chicago Review Press, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 10/01/1993 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 230 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Lucrezia Floriani
By George Sand, Julius Eker
Chicago Review Press Incorporated
Copyright © 1985 Betsy WingAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-89733-864-6
CHAPTER 1
Young Prince Karol de Roswald had just lost his mother when he first met Madame Floriani.
He was still plunged in utter grief and nothing could distract him from it. Princess de Roswald had been a tender and perfect mother. As a child Karol was weak and ailing and she had lavished on him the most constant care and devotion. Brought up under the eye of this good and noble woman the young man had only one real passion in his entire life: filial love. This mutual love between son and mother had made them as it were exclusive, and possibly a little too absolute in their way of seeing and feeling things. It must be said that the Princess was highly educated and possessed a superior mind; the lessons she gave him and her conversations with him seemed capable of satisfying every one of young Karol's needs. His delicate health had resisted the toil, rigour and harshness of classical studies which in themselves are not always as valuable as the lessons of an enlightened mother, but they have the indispensable merit of teaching us to work and are, so to speak, the key to knowledge of life. Acting on the advice of her son's doctors Princess de Roswald had dismissed the idea both of tutors and books and had resolved to form the mind and heart of her son by her conversation, by the stories she narrated, by a kind of insufflation of his moral being which the young man had absorbed with great delight. Thus he had succeeded in acquiring much knowledge without ever having studied anything.
But nothing can replace experience; and the box on the ear which, when I was a child, was given to youngsters to impress on their memories a great emotion, a historical fact, a notorious crime or any other example to follow or avoid, was not so stupid a practice as it appears to us nowadays. We no longer give this box on the ear to our children; they have to seek it elsewhere, and the heavy hand of experience applies it much more harshly than ours would.
So young Karol de Roswald became acquainted with people and life early, possibly too early, – but only in theory.
With the praiseworthy object of elevating his mind his mother only allowed the proximity of distinguished people, whose words and actions could only be salutary to him. He was fully aware that outside there existed knaves and fools, but he was only taught to avoid them, never to get to know them. Of course he had learned to succour the unfortunate; the doors of the palace where he spent his youth were always open to the needy; but while helping them he grew accustomed to despising the cause of their condition and regarding it as an affliction of humanity which was incurable. Disorderliness, idleness, ignorance or lack of judgement, – the fatal causes of aberration and destitution – struck him as being obviously beyond remedy in the individual. He had not been taught to believe that the masses must and can gradually rid themselves of these ills and that by grappling with humanity, chiding and caressing it in turn, like a beloved child, by forgiving it for many lapses so as to gain some little progress, one does more for it than by dropping the limited succour of compassion before its crippled or gangrened limbs.
But it was not so in Karol's case. He learned that the giving of alms was a duty; and one which no doubt will have to be performed as long as the social order makes alms necessary. But this is only one of the duties imposed on us by our concern for this immense human family of ours. There are many others, the principal one being not to pity but to love. He fervently embraced the maxim which told him to detest evil; but he clung to the letter of the law and merely pitied those who commit evil.
But again it must be said: pity is not enough. Above all one must love in order to be just and not to despair of the future. One must not be too delicate in one's sensibilities, nor be lulled to sleep by the flattery of a clear, self-satisfied conscience. This good young man was sufficiently warmhearted not to enjoy his wealth without a feeling of guilt when he remembered that the majority of men lack the necessities of life; but he never applied this pity to the moral destitution of his fellows. He did not possess sufficient mental enlightenment to tell himself that vice can rebound on the innocent, too, and that to wage war on the ills of mankind is the foremost duty of those who have not been afflicted by them.
On the one hand he saw innate aristocracy, distinction of intelligence, purity of morals and nobility of instincts, and he said to himself "Let me be with them." On the other hand he saw degradation, baseness, mental instability, but he did not say "Let me join them, to redeem them, if possible." No, he had been taught to say "They are doomed. Let us give them food and clothes, but let us not compromise ourselves by contact with them. They are hardened and sullied; let us abandon their souls to the mercy of God."
In the long run this habit of self-preservation becomes a kind of egoism and there was indeed a hint of coldness hidden in the princess' heart She employed it on her son's account far more than for herself Skilfully, she isolated him from young men of his own age when once she suspected they were irresponsible or merely frivolous. She feared associations for him with natures which were different from his; yet it is this contact which makes us men, gives us strength and results in the fact that instead of being led astray from the very outset, we can resist the example of evil and retain the power to bring about the triumph of good.
Without being narrowly and aggressively devout, the princess was somewhat rigid in her piety. A sincere and staunch Catholic, she was not blind to certain abuses, but she knew of no other remedy than to tolerate them for the sake of the great cause of the Church. "The Pope may err," she would say, "he is a man; but the Papacy cannot fail; it is a divine institution." As a result, her mind was hardly receptive to ideas on human progress and her son soon learned not to question them and to refuse to hope that the salvation of the human race could be accomplished on earth. Without being as punctual as his mother in the performance of his religious duties (for in spite of everything the youth of to-day soon bursts such bonds) he remained an adherent of the doctrine which saves men of good will and is unable to destroy the ill will of the rest; which is content with a few chosen and is reconciled to the sight of the many called falling into the Gehenna of eternal evil: a sad and dismal belief which agrees perfectly with the concept of nobility and the privileges of fortune. In heaven as on earth, paradise for the few, hell for the majority. Glory, happiness and rewards for the exceptions; shame, abjectness and chastisement for nearly all.
When characters which are naturally kind and noble fall into this error, they are punished for it by being eternally sad It is only the insensitive and the stupid who resign themselves to the inevitable. The Princess de Roswald suffered for this Catholic fatalism whose cruel decrees she could not shake off She had acquired a habit of solemn and sententious gravity which she gradually communicated to her son, inwardly if not outwardly. Thus it was that young Karol knew nothing of the gaiety, the abandon, the blind beneficent confidence of childhood Indeed, he had had no childhood; his thoughts turned towards melancholy, and even when he came to the age of being romantic, his imagination was nourished only by gloomy and mournful novels.
Yet in spite of the false track that it was pursuing the spirit of Karol was by nature delightful. Gentle, sensitive, exquisite in all things, at the age of fifteen he had all the graces of adolescence combined with the gravity of maturity. He remained physically delicate, as he was spiritually. But this very absence of muscular development had the advantage of preserving in him a charming beauty, an exceptional physiognomy which, so to speak, was without age or sex. It did not have the boldness and virility of one descended from that race of ancient grandees who knew of nothing but drinking, hunting and fighting nor was it the effeminate prettiness of a pink cherub. It was something like those ideal beings created by the poetic imagination of the Middle Ages to adorn Christian places of worship: an angel with the beautiful face of a sad woman, tall, perfect and slim of figure like a young Olympian god, and to add to all this, an expression both tender and severe, chaste yet ardent.
And in that lay the very root of his nature. Nothing was purer yet more impassioned than his thoughts; nothing was more tenacious, more exclusive and more scrupulously devoted than his affections. If one could have forgotten the existence of the human race and believed that it had been concentrated and personified in a single being, he was the one whom one would have adored over the ruins of the world.
But this being had insufficient contact with his fellows. He only understood what was identical with himself, his mother, whose pure, brilliant reflection he was; God, of whom he had a strange conception, appropriate to his particular kind of mind, and finally the vision of a woman whom he had created in his own image, whom he had not yet met, but would love one day.
All else only existed for him in a kind of wearisome dream from which he tried to escape by living alone in the midst of the world Forever lost in his reveries, he had no sense of reality. As a child, he could not go near a sharp instrument without cutting himself, when he grew up he could not face a man different from himself without coming into painful collision with this living contradiction of himself.
What saved him from perpetual antagonism was the deliberate and later confirmed habit of not seeing or hearing anything which broadly displeased him. People who did not think as he did became like phantoms to him and as he was always charmingly polite, the cold disdain or even unconquerable aversion he really felt could be easily mistaken for courtesy and amiability.
It is very strange that with such a character the young prince could have any friends at all. Yet he did have some, not only his mother's who esteemed him as the worthy son of a noble man, but also young men of his own age, who loved him ardently and who thought themselves loved by him. He himself thought he loved them greatly, but it was with his imagination rather than his heart. He possessed a high conception of friendship, and at the age of youth's illusions he was apt to think that his friends and he, reared in the same manner and with the same principles, would never change their opinions and would never reach a situation in which they would find themselves in positive disagreement.
This did happen, however, and at twenty-four, which was his age when his mother died, he had already grown weary of nearly all of them. One only had remained very faithful to him, and that was a young Italian, somewhat older than himself, noble of features and generous of heart; ardent, enthusiastic. Very different in all other aspects from Karol, he had at least two things in common with him, namely, a passionate love for beauty in art and a devotion to the knightly ideal of loyalty. This friend it was who dragged him away from his mother's grave and carried him off to the bracing skies of Italy. Here, introduced by this friend, the prince saw Madame Floriani for the first time.
CHAPTER 2You may indeed ask "Who is this Madame Floriani twice mentioned in the previous chapter, yet without moving a single step in her direction?"
I beg my reader to be patient. Just as I am about to knock at my heroine's door I realise that I have not yet made you sufficiently acquainted with my hero and that there are still certain tedious facts which I must ask you to accept.
There is nobody with a greater sense of urgency and impatience than the reader of novels; but that is a matter of indifference to me. I have a complete man to reveal to you, that is, a world, an ocean boundless in its contradictions, diversities, heights and depths, logic and inconsistency, and you expect a single small chapter to be sufficient for that! By no means. I cannot do justice to it without entering into some detail and I shall take my time. If this wearies you, omit, and if, later, you make nothing of his behaviour, the fault will be yours, not mine.
The man whom I introduce to you is himself, and no other. I cannot make you understand him by telling you that he was young, handsome, well proportioned and well bred. All heroes in novels are so, and mine is a being whom I know thoroughly in my thoughts since, whether he is real or fictitious, I am attempting to portray him. He has a very specific character and one cannot apply to the instincts of a man the standard words used by naturalists to describe the perfume of a plant or a mineral by saying that this being exhales an aroma sui generis.
This sui generis explains nothing and I maintain that Prince de Roswald possessed a character sui generis which it is possible to explain.
In consequence of his good education and his natural grace, he was so affectionate externally, that he had the gift of pleasing even those who did not know him well His charming face predisposed one in his favour; his physical frailty made him interesting in the eyes of women; the richness and ease of his intellectual gifts, the suave and attractive originality of his conversation, won him the attention of educated men. As for those of lesser metal, they liked his exquisite politeness and they were all the more appreciative of it as they could not imagine, in their simple goodheartedness, that he was merely performing a duty and that sympathy did not enter into it at all.
Had people been able to penetrate his character they would have said that he was more lovable than loving and as far as they were concerned this would have been the truth. But how could they have guessed it when his rare attachments were so intense, so deep and so unshakable?
And so he was always loved if not with the certainty, at least with the hope of some return of affection. His young companions when they saw him feeble and lethargic in the performance of physical exercises, did not dream of despising this rather frail person, because Karol did not set great store by his own performance in this respect When he sat down quietly on the grass, in the midst of their games, he would say to them with a sad smile, "Enjoy yourselves, dear friends, I can neither wrestle nor run. You will come and rest by my side," and as the strong are the natural protectors of the weak, it sometimes happened that the sturdiest generously abandoned their energetic sport to come and keep him company.
Among all those who were fascinated and as it were spellbound by the poetic colouring of his thoughts and the grace of his mind Salvator Albani was the most steadfast This excellent young man was frankness itself yet Karol exercised such influence over him that he dared not contradict him openly, even when he observed exaggeration in his principles and eccentricity in his behaviour. He was afraid of displeasing him and seeing him grow cool towards him, as had happened to so many others. He tended him like a child when Karol, not so much ill as highly strung and over-sensitive, withdrew to his room to conceal his indisposition from his mother's eyes, because it distressed her too much. Thus Salvator Albani had become necessary to the young prince. And Salvator sensed this, so that when youth and its passions urged him to amuse himself elsewhere he sacrificed his pleasures or hid them from his friend, saying to himself that if Karol happened to cease loving him, he would no longer tolerate his attentions and would decline into a solitude, deliberate and fatal.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Lucrezia Floriani by George Sand, Julius Eker. Copyright © 1985 Betsy Wing. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.