The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

“In Latin I believe it’s known as dixi.”^‡

“Quite right.”

After that we did not argue, but the princess could not deny herself the pleasure of sometimes speaking in my presence about the ill breeding of Russian writers who, in her opinion, “could not possibly be read aloud without preliminary revision.”

To the “spirit” of Genlis, naturally, I gave no serious thought. People say all kinds of things.

But the “spirit” indeed lived and was active, and, in addition, seemed to be on our side, that is, on the side of literature. Literary nature took the upper hand in it over dry philosophizing, and, unassailable on the score of decency, the “spirit” of Mme de Genlis, having spoken du fond du coeur,^§ pulled off (yes, precisely pulled off) such a schoolboy stunt in that strict salon that the consequences of it were filled with deep tragicomedy.

X

Once a week “three friends” used to gather at the princess’s in the evening for tea. These were distinguished people, excellently placed. Two were senators, and the third was a diplomat. Naturally, we did not play cards, but conversed.

Usually the older ones, that is, the princess and the “three friends,” did the talking, while the young prince, the young princess, and I very rarely put in a word of our own. We were learning, and it must be said to the credit of our elders that we did have something to learn from them—especially from the diplomat, who amazed us with his subtle observations.

I enjoyed his favor, though I do not know why. In fact, I am obliged to think he considered me no better than the others, and in his eyes “littérateurs” all shared “the same root.” He said jokingly, “The best of serpents is still a serpent.”

This same opinion gave rise to the terrible incident that follows.

XI

Being stoically faithful to her friends, the princess did not want such a general definition to extend to Mme de Genlis and the “women’s pléiade” that the writer kept under her protection. And so, when we gathered in this esteemed person’s home to quietly see in the New Year, shortly before midnight the usual conversation started among us, in which the name of Mme de Genlis was mentioned, and the diplomat recalled his observation that “the best of serpents is still a serpent.”

“There is no rule without its exception,” said the princess.

The diplomat understood who the exception must be, and said nothing.

The princess could not contain herself and, glancing in the direction of Genlis’s portrait, said:

“What kind of serpent is she!”

But the worldly-wise diplomat stood his ground: he gently shook his finger and gently smiled—he believed neither flesh nor spirit.

To resolve the disagreement, proofs were obviously needed, and here the method of addressing the spirit came in pat.

The small company was in an excellent mood for such experiments, and the hostess, first reminding us of what we knew concerning her beliefs, then suggested an experiment.

“I claim,” she said, “that the most fault-finding person will not find anything in Genlis that could not be read aloud by the most innocent young girl, and we are going to test it right now.”

Again, as the first time, she reached her hand to the bookshelf that was still situated over her établissement, took a volume at random—and turned to her daughter.

“My child! Open it and read us a page.”

The young princess obeyed.

We all became pictures of earnest expectation.

XII

The writer who begins to describe the appearance of his characters at the end of his story is blameworthy; but I have written this little trifle in such a way that no one in it should be recognized. Therefore I have not set down any names or given any portraits. The portrait of the young princess would in any case have exceeded my powers, because she was fully what is known as “an angel in the flesh.” As far as her all-perfect purity and innocence were concerned—they were so great that she could even have been entrusted with resolving the insuperably difficult theological problem posed in Heine’s “Bernardiner und Rabiner.”⁶ Of course, something standing higher than the world and its passions had to speak for this soul not privy to any sin. And the young princess, with that very innocence, charmingly rolling her r’s, read Genlis’s interesting memoirs about the old age of Mme du Deffand, when she became “weak in the eyes.” The text spoke of the fat Gibbon,⁷ who had been recommended to the French writer as a famous author. Genlis, as we know, quickly sized him up and sharply derided the French who were made enthusiastic by the inflated reputation of this foreigner.

Here I will quote from the well-known translation of the French original read by the young princess who was capable of resolving the argument between “Bernardiner und Rabiner”: