Short Fiction, Xavier de Maistre [books to read in your 20s txt] 📗

usual way, my feelings never came up to my expectations, and that my imagination was always disappointed.

On considering this matter carefully, I came to the conclusion that, if I could only manage to extend my devotion from the individual, to the whole sex in general, I should thereby obtain fresh pleasure without in any way compromising myself. Who could reproach a man because his heart was large enough to embrace all the loveable women in the world? Yes, Madame, I love them all, and not only those I hope to meet personally, but all on the face of the earth. More than that I love all the women who have ever lived, as well as those yet unborn, without counting the far greater number that my imagination creates out of nothing: in fact every possible woman is included in the vast circle of my affections.

Would it not be an unjust and odd caprice on my part to confine a heart like mine to the narrow bounds of a society? Nay! why should I circumscribe its flight by the boundaries of a kingdom, or even a republic?

Seated at the foot of a tempest-stricken oak, a young Indian widow mingles her sighs with the roar of the storm. The arms of her warrior husband hang over her head, and the mournful noise they make, as they clash together, recalls to her heart the memory of her happiness. Meanwhile, the thunder rends the clouds, and the vivid flashes of lightning are reflected in her fixed eyes. And whilst the funeral pile, on which she must be burnt, is being raised, in the depth of despair, she awaits a horrible death, which a dire prejudice bids her prefer to life itself.

What sweet, yet melancholy pleasure would not a man of feeling experience in drawing near to console this wretched woman? While I am seated on the grass beside her, trying to dissuade her from the horrible sacrifice; while I am mingling my sighs and tears with her own, and endeavouring to dispel her grief, all the town is rushing to the house of Mme. A⁠⸺, whose husband has recently died from a stroke of apoplexy. Equally resolved not to survive her loss, insensible to the tears and prayers of her friends, she lets herself die of hunger; and from the day they imprudently told her the news, the wretched creature has only eaten a biscuit and drunk a small glass of Malaga wine. I can only bestow on this bereaved woman such slight attention as is necessary, while not infringing the laws of my universal system. Meanwhile I leave her side as soon as possible, for I am by nature of a jealous disposition, and I wish to avoid compromising myself before a crowd of consolers, as well as with those who are too easily consoled.

Beauty in distress has a particular claim on my heart, but the tribute of sympathy I owe to it, does not diminish the interest I take in those who are free from sorrow. This taste gives infinite variety to my pleasures, and enables me to pass, in turn, from the melancholy to the gay, and from sentimental meditation to hilarity.

And while reading ancient history I often fancy myself the hero of its amorous intrigues, and I thereby efface whole pages in those old chronicles of fate. Many a time have I stayed the murderous hand of Virginius, and saved the life of his unhappy daughter, a victim alike to extremes of crime and virtue. This event fills me with horror when I think of it; and I am not surprised that it was the cause of a revolution.

I hope that intelligent people, as well as compassionate souls, will give me heartfelt thanks for having arranged this matter amicably; and everyone, who knows a little of the world, will think as I do, that, if they had let the decemvir alone, that infatuated man would not have failed to do justice to the virtue of Virginia; the parents would have interfered; further, Virginius, in the end, would have been appeased; and, the marriage would have been celebrated with all legal ceremonies.

But what would have become of the unfortunate deserted lover? Well, what did he gain by this murder? but, since you insist on bemoaning his fate, I must inform you, my dear Marie, that six months after the death of Virginia, he was not only consoled, but most happily married; after having had several children he lost his wife, and six months after, he was married again to a tribune’s widow. These facts, hitherto unknown, have been discovered and deciphered from a palimpsest MS. in the Ambrosian library by a learned Italian antiquary. Unfortunately, they will add another page to the hateful, and already too lengthy history of the Roman Republic.

XXIV

After rescuing the engaging Virginia, I modestly slipped away to escape her thanks; and always anxious to render assistance to the fair, I took advantage of the darkness of a rainy night, and set off secretly to open the tomb of a young vestal virgin, whom the Roman Senate had barbarously caused to be buried alive for having permitted the sacred fire of Vesta to go out, or, perhaps, because she had slightly burnt herself thereat. I walked silently through the winding streets of Rome with the inward pleasure which precedes good actions, especially when they are not without danger. I carefully avoided the Capitol for fear of awakening the geese, and, slipping by the guards at the Colline gate, I arrived safely at the tomb without being discovered.

At the noise I made in raising the stone which covered it, the wretched girl raised her dishevelled head from the damp soil of the vault; by the light of the sepulchral lamp I saw her look wildly round; in her delirium the wretched victim believed she was already on the banks of Cocytus.

“Oh, Minos” she cried, “Oh, inexorable judge! I loved on earth, it is true, contrary to