August 20, 1859.
"I, that please some, try all; both joy and terror Of good and bad; that make and unfold error-- Now take upon me, in the name of Time To use my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage, that I slide O'er years."
Who speaks thus? 'Tis an old man whom I know too well. It is Time.
Shakespeare, after having terminated the third act of the "Winter'sTale," pauses in order to leave time for little Perdita to grow up inwisdom and in beauty; and when he raises the curtain again he evokes theancient Scythe-bearer upon the stage to render account to the audienceof those many long days which have weighted down upon the head of thejealous Leontes.
Like Shakespeare in his play, I have left in this diary of mine a longinterval to oblivion; and after the fashion of the poet, I make Timehimself intervene to explain the omission of ten whole years. Ten wholeyears, indeed, have passed since I wrote one single line in this diary;and now that I take up the pen again, I have not the pleasure, alas!to describe a Perdita "now grown in grace." Youth and beauty are thefaithful companions of poets; but those charming phantoms scarcely visitthe rest of us, even for the space of a season. We do not know how toretain them with us. If the fair shade of some Perdita should ever,through some inconceivable whim, take a notion to traverse my brain, shewould hurt herself horribly against heaps of dog-eared parchments. Happythe poets!--their white hairs never scare away the hovering shades ofHelens, Francescas, Juliets, Julias, and Dorotheas! But the nose aloneof Sylvestre Bonnard would put to flight the whole swarm of love'sheroines.
Yet I, like others, have felt beauty; I have known that mysterious charmwhich Nature has lent to animate form; and the clay which lives hasgiven to me that shudder of delight which makes the lover and the poet.But I have never known either how to love or how to sing. Now in mymemory--all encumbered as it is with the rubbish of old texts--I candiscern again, like a miniature forgotten in some attic, a certainbright young face, with violet eyes.... Why, Bonnard, my friend, whatan old fool you are becoming! Read that catalogue which a Florentinebookseller sent you this very morning. It is a catalogue of Manuscripts;and he promises you a description of several famous ones, long preservedby the collectors of Italy and Sicily. There is something better suitedto you, something more in keeping with your present appearance.
I read; I cry out! Hamilcar, who has assumed with the approach of age anair of gravity that intimidates me, looks at me reproachfully, and seemsto ask me whether there is any rest in this world, since he cannot enjoyit beside me, who am old also like himself.
In the sudden joy of my discovery, I need a confidant; and it is to thesceptic Hamilcar that I address myself with all the effusion of a happyman.
"No, Hamilcar! no," I said to him; "there is no rest in this world, andthe quietude which you long for is incompatible with the duties oflife. And you say that we are old, indeed! Listen to what I read in thiscatalogue, and then tell me whether this is a time to be reposing:
"'LA LEGENDE DOREE DE JACQUES DE VORAGINE;--traduction francaise duquatorzieme sicle, par le Clerc Alexandre.
"'Superb MS., ornamented with two miniatures, wonderfully executed, andin a perfect state of preservation:--one representing the Purificationof the Virgin; the other the Coronation of Proserpine.
"'At the termination of the "Legende Doree" are the Legends of SaintsFerreol, Ferrution, Germain, and Droctoveus (xxxviii pp.) and theMiraculous Sepulture of Monsieur Saint-Germain d'Auxerre (xii pp.).
"'This rare manuscript, which formed part of the collection of SirThomas Raleigh, is now in the private study of Signor Michel-AngeloPolizzi, of Girgenti.'"
"You hear that, Hamilcar? The manuscript of the Clerk Alexander is inSicily, at the house of Michel-Angelo Polizzi. Heaven grant he may be afriend of learned men! I am going to write him!"
Which I did forthwith. In my letter I requested Signor Polizzi to allowme to examine the manuscript of Clerk Alexander, stating on what groundsI ventured to consider myself worthy of so great a favour. I offered atthe same time to put at his disposal several unpublished texts in myown possession, not devoid of interest. I begged him to favour me witha prompt reply, and below my signature I wrote down all my honorarytitles.
"Monsieur! Monsieur! where are you running like that?" cried Therese,quite alarmed, coming down the stairs in pursuit of me, four steps at atime, with my hat in her hand.
"I am going to post a letter, Therese."
"Good God! is that a way to run out in the street, bareheaded, like acrazy man?"
"I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not? Give me my hat, quick!"
"And your gloves, Monsieur! and your umbrella!"
I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still heard her protestingand lamenting.
The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Page 6
