The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗
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his life. For this reason, as a set-off against his hen-pecked
cowardice, and that I might the more easily swallow this bitter
dose, he gave me fifty ducats, and took me with him next morning
to the Marchioness of Chaves, telling that lady before my face,
that I was a young man of unexceptionably good character, and
very high in his good graces, but that as certain family reasons
prevented him from continuing me on his own establishment, he
should esteem it as a favour if she would take me on hers. After
such an introduction, I was retained at once as her appendage,
and found myself, I scarcely knew how, established in another
household.
CH. VIII. — The Marchioness of Chaves: her character, and that
of her company.
THE Marchioness of Chaves was a widow of five-and-thirty, tall,
handsome, and well-proportioned. She enjoyed an income of ten
thousand ducats, without the incumbrance of a nursery. I never
met with a lady of fewer words, nor one of a more solemn aspect.
Yet this exterior did not prevent her from being set up as the
cleverest woman in all Madrid. Her great assemblies, attended by
people of the first quality, and by men of letters who made a
coffee house of her apartments, contributed perhaps more than
anything she said to give her the reputation she had acquired.
But this is a point on which it is not my province to decide. I
have only to relate, as her historian, that her name carried with
it the idea of superior genius, and that her house was called, to
distinguish it from the ordinary societies in town, The
Fashionable Institution for Literature, Taste, and Science.
In point of fact, not a day passed, but there were readings
there, sometimes of dramatic pieces, and sometimes in other
branches of poetry. But the subjects were always selected from
the graver muses; wit and humour were held in the most sovereign
contempt. Comedy, however spirited; a novel, however pointed in
its satire or ingenious in its fable, such light productions as
these were treated as weak efforts of the brain without the
slightest claim to patronage; whereas on the contrary the most
microscopical work in the serious style, whether ode, pastoral,
or sonnet, was trumpeted to the skies as the most illustrious
effort of a learned and poetical age. It not unfrequently fell
out, that the public reversed the decrees of this chancery for
genius: nay, they had sometimes the gross illbreeding to hiss
the very pieces which had been sanctioned by this court of
criticism.
I was chief manager of the establishment, and my office consisted
in getting the drawing-room ready to receive the company, in
setting the chairs in order for the gentlemen, and the sofas for
the ladies: after which I took my station on the landing-place to
bawl out the names of the visitors as they came up stairs, and
usher them into the circle. The first day, an old piece of family
furniture, who was stationed by my side in the antechamber, gave
me their description with some humour, after I had shown them
into the room. His name was Andrew Molina. He had a good deal of
mother’s wit, with a flowing vein of satire, much gravity of
sarcasm, and a happy knack at hitting off characters. The first
corner was a bishop. I roared out his lordship’s name, and as
soon as he was gone in, my nomenclator told me — That prelate
is a very curious gentleman. He has some little influence at
court; but wants to persuade the world that he has a great deal.
He presses his service on every soul he comes near, and then
leaves them completely in the lurch. One day he met with a
gentleman in the presence-chamber who bowed to him. He laid hold
of him, and squeezing his hand, assured him, with an inundation
of civilities, that he was altogether devoted to his lordship.
For goodness’ sake, do not spare me; I shall not die in my bed
without having first found an opportunity of making you my
debtor. The gentleman returned his thanks with all becoming
expressions of gratitude, and when they were at some distance
from one another, the obsequious churchman said to one of his
attendants in waiting — I ought to know that man; I have some
floating, indistinct idea of having seen him somewhere.
Next after the bishop, came the son of a grandee. When I had
introduced him into my lady’s room — This nobleman, said Molina,
is also an original in his way. You are to take notice that he
often pays a visit, for the express purpose of talking over some
urgent business with the friend on whom he calls, and goes away
again without once thinking on the topic he came solely to
discuss. But, added my showman on the sight of two ladies, here
are Donna Angela de Penafiel and Donna Margaretta de Montalvan.
This pair have not a feature of resemblance to each other. Donna
Margaretta prides herself on her philosophical acquirements; she
will hold her head as high as the most learned head among the
doctors of Salamanca, nor will the wisdom of her conceit ever
give up the point to the best reasons they can render. As for
Donna Angela, she does not affect the learned lady, though she
has taken no unsuccessful pains in the improvement of her mind.
Her manner of talking is rational and proper, her ideas are novel
and ingenious, expressed in polite, significant, and natural
terms. This latter portrait is delightful, said I to Molina; but
the other, in my opinion, is scarcely to be tolerated in the
softer sex. Not over bearable indeed! replied he with a sneer:
even in men it does but expose them to the lash of satire. The
good marchioness herself, our honoured lady, continued he, she
too has a sort of a philosophical looseness. There will be fine
chopping of logic there to-day! God grant the mysteries of
religion may not be invaded by these disputants.
As he was finishing this last sentence, in came a withered bit of
mortality, with a grave and crabbed look. My companion shewed him
no mercy. This fellow, said he, is one of those pompous,
unbending spirits who think to pass for men of profound genius,
under favour of a few commonplaces extracted out of Seneca; yet
they are but shallow coxcombs when one comes to examine them
narrowly. Then followed in the train a spruce figure, with
tolerable person and address, to say nothing of a troubled air
and manner, which always supposes a plentiful stock of self-sufficiency. I inquired who this was. A dramatic poet! said
Molina. He has manufactured an hundred thousand verses in his
time, which never brought him in the value of a groat; but as a
set-off against his metrical failure, he has feathered his nest
very warmly by six lines of humble prose: you will wonder by what
magic touch a fortune could be made
And so I did; but a confounded noise upon the staircase put verse
and prose completely out of my head. Good again! exclaimed my
informer: here is the licentiate Campanario. He is his own
harbinger before ever he makes his appearance. He sets out from
the very street door in a continued volley of conversation, and
you hear how the alarm is kept up till he makes his retreat. In
good sooth, the vaulted roof re-echoed with the organ of the
thundering licentiate, who at length exhibited the case in which
the pipes were contained. He brought a bachelor of his
acquaintance by way of accompaniment, and there was not a sotto
voce passage during the whole visit. Signor Campanario, said I to
Molina, is to all appearance a man of very fine conversation.
Yes, replied my sage instructor, the gentleman has his lucky
hits, and a sort of quaintness that might pass for humour; he
does very well in a mixed company. But the worst of it is, that
incessant talking is one of his most pardonable errors. He is a
little too apt to borrow from himself; and as those who are
behind the scenes are not to be dazzled by the tinsel of the
property-man, so we know how to separate a certain volubility and
buffoonery of manner from sterling wit and sense. The greater
part of his good things would be thought very bad ones, if
submitted, without their concomitant grimaces, to the ordeal of a
jest book.
Other groups passed before us, and Molina touched them with his
wand. The marchioness too came in for a magic rap over the
knuckles. Our lady patroness, said he, is better than might be
expected for a female philosopher. She is not dainty in her
likings; and bating a whim or two, it is no hard matter to give
her satisfaction, Wits and women of quality seldom approach so
near the atmosphere of good sense; and for passion, she scarcely
knows what it is. Play and gallantry are equally in her black
books: dear conversation is her first and sole delight. To lead
such a life would be little better than penance to the common run
of ladies. Molina’s character of my mistress established her at
once in my good graces. And yet, in the course of a few days, I
could not help suspecting that, though not dainty in her likings,
she knew what passion was, and that a foul copy of gallantry
delighted her more than the fairest conversation.
One morning, during the mysteries of the toilette, there
presented himself to my notice a little fellow of forty,
forbidding in his aspect, more filthy if possible than Pedro de
Moya the bookworm, and verging in no marketable measure towards
deformity. He told me he wanted to speak with my lady
marchioness. On whose business? quoth I. On my own, quoth he,
somewhat snappishly. Tell her I am the gentleman; … . she
will understand you; … . about whom she was talking yesterday
with Donna Anna de Velasco. I went before him into my lady’s
apartment, and gave in his name. The marchioness all at once
shrieked out her satisfaction, and ordered me to show him in. It
was not courtesy enough to point to a chair, and bid him sit
down: but the attendants, forsooth, her own maids about her
person were to withdraw, so that the little hunchback, with
better luck than falls to the lot of many a taller man, had the
field entirely to himself, as lord paramount. As for the girls
and myself, we could not help tittering a little at this
uncouthly concerted duet, which lasted nearly an hour: when my
patroness dismissed his little lordship, with such a profusion of
farewells and God-be-with-you’s, as sufficiently evinced her
thankfulness for the entertainment she had received.
The conversation had, in fact, been so edifying, that in the
afternoon she seized a private opportunity of whispering in my
ear — Gil Blas, when the short gentleman comes again, you may
shew him up the back stairs; there is no need of parading him
along a line of staring servants. I did as I was ordered. When
this epitome of humanity knocked at the door, and that hour was
no further off than the next morning, we threaded all the bye
passages to the place of assignation. I played the same modest
part two or three times in the very innocence of my soul, without
the most distant guess that the material system could form any
part of their philosophy. But that hound-like snuff at an ill
construction, with which the devil has armed the noses of the
most charitable, put me on the scent of a very whimsical game,
and I concluded either
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