the magic skin-第37节

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poet；　and　so　must　needs　pit　Greece　against　Mahmoud。



〃In　war；　is　not　man　an　angel　of　extirpation；　a　sort　of　executioner　on

a　gigantic　scale？　Must　not　the　spell　be　strong　indeed　that　makes　us

undergo　such　horrid　sufferings　so　hostile　to　our　weak　frames；

sufferings　that　encircle　every　strong　passion　with　a　hedge　of　thorns？

The　tobacco　smoker　is　seized　with　convulsions；　and　goes　through　a　kind

of　agony　consequent　upon　his　excesses；　but　has　he　not　borne　a　part　in

delightful　festivals　in　realms　unknown？　Has　Europe　ever　ceased　from

wars？　She　has　never　given　herself　time　to　wipe　the　stains　from　her

feet　that　are　steeped　in　blood　to　the　ankle。　Mankind　at　large　is

carried　away　by　fits　of　intoxication；　as　nature　has　its　accessions　of

love。



〃For　men　in　private　life；　for　a　vegetating　Mirabeau　dreaming　of　storms

in　a　time　of　calm；　Excess　comprises　all　things；　it　perpetually

embraces　the　whole　sum　of　life；　it　is　something　better　stillit　is　a

duel　with　an　antagonist　of　unknown　power；　a　monster；　terrible　at　first

sight；　that　must　be　seized　by　the　horns；　a　labor　that　cannot　be

imagined。



〃Suppose　that　nature　has　endowed　you　with　a　feeble　stomach　or　one　of

limited　capacity；　you　acquire　a　mastery　over　it　and　improve　it；　you

learn　to　carry　your　liquor；　you　grow　accustomed　to　being　drunk；　you

pass　whole　nights　without　sleep；　at　last　you　acquire　the　constitution

of　a　colonel　of　cuirassiers；　and　in　this　way　you　create　yourself

afresh；　as　if　to　fly　in　the　face　of　Providence。



〃A　man　transformed　after　this　sort　is　like　a　neophyte　who　has　at　last

become　a　veteran；　has　accustomed　his　mind　to　shot　and　shell　and　his

legs　to　lengthy　marches。　When　the　monster's　hold　on　him　is　still

uncertain；　and　it　is　not　yet　known　which　will　have　the　better　of　it；

they　roll　over　and　over；　alternately　victor　and　vanquished；　in　a　world

where　everything　is　wonderful；　where　every　ache　of　the　soul　is　laid　to

sleep；　where　only　the　shadows　of　ideas　are　revived。



〃This　furious　struggle　has　already　become　a　necessity　for　us。　The

prodigal　has　struck　a　bargain　for　all　the　enjoyments　with　which　life

teems　abundantly；　at　the　price　of　his　own　death；　like　the　mythical

persons　in　legends　who　sold　themselves　to　the　devil　for　the　power　of

doing　evil。　For　them；　instead　of　flowing　quietly　on　in　its　monotonous

course　in　the　depths　of　some　counting…house　or　study；　life　is　poured

out　in　a　boiling　torrent。



〃Excess　is；　in　short；　for　the　body　what　the　mystic's　ecstasy　is　for

the　soul。　Intoxication　steeps　you　in　fantastic　imaginings　every　whit

as　strange　as　those　of　ecstatics。　You　know　hours　as　full　of　rapture　as

a　young　girl's　dreams；　you　travel　without　fatigue；　you　chat　pleasantly

with　your　friends；　words　come　to　you　with　a　whole　life　in　each；　and

fresh　pleasures　without　regrets；　poems　are　set　forth　for　you　in　a　few

brief　phrases。　The　coarse　animal　satisfaction；　in　which　science　has

tried　to　find　a　soul；　is　followed　by　the　enchanted　drowsiness　that　men

sigh　for　under　the　burden　of　consciousness。　Is　it　not　because　they　all

feel　the　need　of　absolute　repose？　Because　Excess　is　a　sort　of　toll

that　genius　pays　to　pain？



〃Look　at　all　great　men；　nature　made　them　pleasure…loving　or　base；

every　one。　Some　mocking　or　jealous　power　corrupted　them　in　either　soul

or　body；　so　as　to　make　all　their　powers　futile；　and　their　efforts　of

no　avail。



〃All　men　and　all　things　appear　before　you　in　the　guise　you　choose；　in

those　hours　when　wine　has　sway。　You　are　lord　of　all　creation；　you

transform　it　at　your　pleasure。　And　throughout　this　unceasing　delirium；

Play　may　pour；　at　your　will；　its　molten　lead　into　your　veins。



〃Some　day　you　will　fall　into　the　monster's　power。　Then　you　will　have；

as　I　had；　a　frenzied　awakening；　with　impotence　sitting　by　your　pillow。

Are　you　an　old　soldier？　Phthisis　attacks　you。　A　diplomatist？　An

aneurism　hangs　death　in　your　heart　by　a　thread。　It　will　perhaps　be

consumption　that　will　cry　out　to　me；　'Let　us　be　going！'　as　to　Raphael

of　Urbino；　in　old　time；　killed　by　an　excess　of　love。



〃In　this　way　I　have　existed。　I　was　launched　into　the　world　too　early

or　too　late。　My　energy　would　have　been　dangerous　there；　no　doubt；　if　I

had　not　have　squandered　it　in　such　ways　as　these。　Was　not　the　world

rid　of　an　Alexander；　by　the　cup　of　Hercules；　at　the　close　of　a

drinking　bout？



〃There　are　some；　the　sport　of　Destiny；　who　must　either　have　heaven　or

hell；　the　hospice　of　St。　Bernard　or　riotous　excess。　Only　just　now　I

lacked　the　heart　to　moralize　about　those　two；〃　and　he　pointed　to

Euphrasia　and　Aquilina。　〃They　are　types　of　my　own　personal　history；

images　of　my　life！　I　could　scarcely　reproach　them；　they　stood　before

me　like　judges。



〃In　the　midst　of　this　drama　that　I　was　enacting；　and　while　my

distracting　disorder　was　at　its　height；　two　crises　supervened；　each

brought　me　keen　and　abundant　pangs。　The　first　came　a　few　days　after　I

had　flung　myself；　like　Sardanapalus；　on　my　pyre。　I　met　Foedora　under

the　peristyle　of　the　Bouffons。　We　both　were　waiting　for　our　carriages。



〃　'Ah！　so　you　are　living　yet？'



〃That　was　the　meaning　of　her　smile；　and　probably　of　the　spiteful　words

she　murmured　in　the　ear　of　her　cicisbeo；　telling　him　my　history　no

doubt；　rating　mine　as　a　common　love　affair。　She　was　deceived；　yet　she

was　applauding　her　perspicacity。　Oh；　that　I　should　be　dying　for　her；

must　still　adore　her；　always　see　her　through　my　potations；　see　her

still　when　I　was　overcome　with　wine；　or　in　the　arms　of　courtesans；　and

know　that　I　was　a　target　for　her　scornful　jests！　Oh；　that　I　should　be

unable　to　tear　the　love　of　her　out　of　my　breast　and　to　fling　it　at　her

feet！



〃Well；　I　quickly　exhausted　my　funds；　but　owing　to　those　three　years　of

discipline；　I　enjoyed　the　most　robust　health；　and　on　the　day　that　I

found　myself　without　a　penny　I　felt　remarkably　well。　In　order　to　carry

on　the　process　of　dying；　I　signed　bills　at　short　dates；　and　the　day

came　when　they　must　be　met。　Painful　excitements！　but　how　they　quicken

the　pulses　of　youth！　I　was　not　prematurely　aged；　I　was　young　yet；　and

full　of　vigor　and　life。



〃At　my　first　debt　all　my　virtues　came　to　life；　slowly　and　despairingly

they　seemed　to　pace　towards　me；　but　I　could　compound　with　themthey

were　like　aged　aunts　that　begin　with　a　scolding　and　end　by　bestowing

tears　and　money　upon　you。



〃Imagination　was　less　yielding；　I　saw　my　name　bandied　about　through

every　city　in　Europe。　'One's　name　is　oneself'　says　Eusebe　Salverte。

After　these　excursions　I　returned　to　the　room　I　had　never　quitted；

like　a　doppelganger　in　a　German　tale；　and　came　to　myself　with　a　start。



〃I　used　to　see　with　indifference　a　banker's　messenger　going　on　his

errands　through　the　streets　of　Paris；　like　a　commercial　Nemesis；

wearing　his　master's　liverya　gray　coat　and　a　silver　badge；　but　now　I

hated　the　species　in　advance。　One　of　them　came　one　morning　to　ask　me

to　meet　some　eleven　bills　that　I　had　scrawled　my　name　upon。　My

signature　was　worth　three　thousand　francs！　Taking　me　altogether；　I

myself　was　not　worth　that　amount。　Sheriff's　deputies　rose　up　before

me；　turning　their　callous　faces　upon　my　despair；　as　the　hangman

regards　the　criminal　to　whom　he　says；　'It　has　just　struck　half…past

three。'　I　was　in　the　power　of　their　clerks；　they　could　scribble　my

name；　drag　it　through　the　mire；　and　jeer　at　it。　I　was　a　defaulter。　Has

a　debtor　any　right　to　himself？　Could　not　other　men　call　me　to　account

for　my　way　of　living？　Why　had　I　eaten　puddings　a　la　chipolata？　Why　had

I　iced　my　wine？　Why　had　I　slept；　or　walked；　or　thought；　or　amused

myself　when　I　had　not　paid　them？



〃At　any　moment；　in　the　middle　of　a　poem；　during　some　train　of　thought；

or　while　I　was　gaily　breakfasting　in　the　pleasant　company　of　my

friends；　I　might　look　to　see　a　gentleman　enter　in　a　coat　of　chestnut…

brown；　with　a　shabby　hat　in　his　hand。　This　gentleman's　appearance

would　signify　my　debt；　the　bill　I　had　drawn；　the　spectre　would　compel

me　to　leave　the　table　to　speak　to　him；　blight　my　spirits；　despoil　me

of　my　cheerfulness；　of　my　mistress；　of　all　I　possessed；　down　to　my

very　bedstead。



〃Remorse　itself　is　more　easily　endured。　Remorse　does　not　drive　us　into

the　street　nor　into　the　prison　of　Sainte…Pelagie；　it　does　not　force　us

into　the　detestable　sink　of　vice。　Remorse　only　brings　us　to　the

scaffold；　where　the　executioner　invests　us　with　a　certain　dignity；　as

we　pay　the　extreme　penalty；　everybody　believes　in　our　innocence；　but

people　will　not　credit　a　penniless　prodigal　with　a　single　virtue。



〃My　debts　had　other　incarnations。　There　is　the　kind　that　goes　about　on

two　feet；　in　a　green　cloth　coat；　and　blue　spectacles；　carrying

umbrellas　of　various　hues；　you　come　face　to　face　with　him　at　the

corner　of　some　street；　in　the　midst　of　your　mirth。　These　have　the

detestable　prerogative　of　saying；　'M。　de　Valentin　owes　me　something；

and　does　not　pay。　I　have　a　hold　on　him。　He　had　better　not　show　me　any

offensive　airs！'　You　must　bo