Philosophers, be not angry if I talk of freezing rays. It is no miracle, but a very natural phenomenon, which is happening every day. A great love, which elevates a man's whole nature, is a strong flame born out of a great cold, such as I then felt for a moment; it would have killed me if it had lasted longer.
The superior manner in which Clementine had applied the story of Hebe convinced me not only that she had a profound knowledge of mythology, but also that she had a keen and far-reaching intellect. She had given me more than a glimpse of her learning;
she had let me guess that I interested her, and that she thought of me.
These ideas, entering a heart which is already warm, speedily set all the senses in flames. In a moment all doubt was laid to rest;
Clementine loved me, and I was sure that we should be happy.
Clementine slipped away from the table to calm herself, and thus I
had time to escape from my astonishment.
"Pray where was that young lady educated?" I said to the countess.
"In the country. She was always present when my brother had his lessons, but the tutor, Sardini, never took any notice of her, and it was only she who gained anything; my brother only yawned.
Clementine used to make my mother laugh, and puzzle the old tutor sadly sometimes."
"Sardini wrote and published some poems which are not bad; but nobody reads them, because they are so full of mythology."
"Quite so. Clementine possesses a manuscript with which he presented her, containing a number of mythological tales verified.
Try and make her shew you her books and the verses she used to write; she won't shew them to any of us."
I was in a great state of admiration. When she returned I
complimented her upon her acquirements, and said that as I was a great lover of literature myself I should be delighted if she would shew me her verses.
"I should be ashamed. I had to give over my studies two years ago, when my sister married and we came to live here, where we only see honest folks who talk about the stable, the harvest, and the weather. You are the first person I have seen who has talked to me about literature. If our old Sardini had come with us I
should have gone on learning, but my sister did not care to have him here."
"But my dear Clementine," said the countess, "what do you think my husband could have done with an old man of eighty whose sole accomplishments are weighing the wind, writing verses, and talking mythology?"
"He would have been useful enough," said the husband, "if he could have managed the estate, but the honest old man will not believe in the existence of rascals. He is so learned that he is quite stupid."
"Good heavens!" cried Clementine. "Sardini stupid? It is certainly easy to deceive him, but that is because he is so noble.
I love a man who is easily deceived, but they call me silly."
"Not at all, my dear sister," said the countess. "On the contrary, there is wisdom in all you say, but it is wisdom out of place in a woman; the mistress of a household does not want to know anything about literature, poetry, or philosophy, and when it comes to marrying you I am very much afraid that your taste for this kind of thing will stand in your way."
"I know it, and I am expecting to die a maid; not that it is much compliment to the men."
To know all that such a dialogue meant for me, the reader must imagine himself most passionately in love. I thought myself unfortunate. I could have given her a hundred thousand crowns, and I would have married her that moment. She told me that Sardini was at Milan, very old and ill.
"Have you been to see him?" I asked.
"I have never been to Milan."
"Is it possible? It is not far from here."
"Distance is relative, you know."
This was beautifully expressed. It told me without any false shame that she could not afford to go, and I was pleased by her frankness. But in the state of mind I was in I should have been pleased with anything she chose to do. There are moments in a man's life when the woman he loves can make anything of him.
I spoke to her in a manner that affected her so that she took me into a closet next to her room to shew me her books. There were only thirty in all, but they were chosen, although somewhat elementary. A woman like Clementine needed something more.
"Do you know, my dear Hebe, that you want more books?"
"I have often suspected it, dear Iolas, without being able to say exactly what I want."
After spending an hour in glancing over Sardini's works, I begged her to spew me her own.
"No," said she, "they are too bad."
"I expect so; but the good will outweigh the bad."
"I don't think so."
"Oh, yes! you needn't be afraid. I will forgive the bad grammar, bad style, absurd images, faulty method, and even the verses that won't scan."
"That's too much, Iolas; Hebe doesn't need so vast a pardon as all that. Here, sir, these are my scribblings; sift the faults and the defaults. Read what you will."
I was delighted that my scheme of wounding her vanity had succeeded, and I began by reading aloud an anacreontic, adding to its beauties by the modulation of my voice, and keenly enjoying her pleasure at finding her work so fair. When I improved a line by some trifling change she noticed it, for she followed me with her eyes; but far from being humiliated, she was pleased with my corrections. The picture was still hers, she thought, though with my skilled brush I brought out the lights and darkened the shadows, and she was charmed to see that my pleasure was as great or greater than hers. The reading continued for two hours. It was a spiritual and pure, but a most intensely voluptuous, enjoyment. Happy, and thrice happy, if we had gone no farther;
but love is a traitor who laughs at us when we think to play with him without falling into his nets. Shall a man touch hot coals and escape the burning?
The countess interrupted us, and begged us to join the company.