Letters to an Unknown

EDITED BY Prof. GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A. LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN BIGELOW, BROWN & CO., Inc. NEW YORK Copyright, 1905 By FRANK S. HOLBY ——— All Rights Reserved PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.
I MET Mérimée frequently in society. He was a tall man, erect in his bearing, pale, and, excepting his smile, had the appearance of an Englishman; he had, at all events, that cold, distant manner which forbids in advance any attempt at familiarity. Merely to see him one was impressed by his callousness, either natural or acquired, by his self-control, by his determined self-repression. On ceremonious occasions, especially, the immobility of his countenance was conspicuously manifest.
Even in the society of his intimate friends, and when relating a witty anecdote, his voice retained its habitual calmness and tranquillity, with never an outburst, never a sign of enthusiasm. The drollest details he described in the most precise language, in the tone of a man asking for a cup of tea. All evidences of sensibility he had mastered until it seemed a quality absent from his nature. Not that it was so—quite the contrary; but race-horses there are so well trained that, once under their master’s hand, they never so much as make a sudden start.
His training, it must be said, had begun early. When ten or eleven years old, I imagine, having committed some impropriety, he was scolded severely and sent from the room. Weeping and in great distress, he was just closing the door when he heard laughter within the room, and some one said: “Poor child! he believes we are really angry with him!” Intolerable to him was the idea of being a dupe, and he resolved thereupon to overcome a sensitiveness which had caused him such humiliation. He kept his word. “Remember to mistrust,” such was his motto.
His attitude was always that of an amateur; it can hardly be otherwise with one who is endowed with the critical temperament. From turning the tapestry around and around, one ends by seeing nothing but the wrong side; and thus, instead of lovely figures, gracefully posed, one sees only the rough bits of embroidery silk. To such a one, it is irksome with forbearance to engage in any public work; to cast in his lot even with the party of his choice, with the school of his preference, the science which he pursues, the art in which he excels; and if, at times, he descends voluntarily into the contest, more frequently he regards it from afar.