The Dream Lover by Berg Elizabeth

Author:Berg, Elizabeth [Berg, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-04-14T07:00:00+00:00

June 1833

MAGNY’S RESTAURANT

PARIS

“You must not be afraid of Lélia being seen as autobiographical,” Sainte-Beuve said, lavishly buttering his bread. “You know as well as I that one’s work is rarely interpreted the way one means it to be. Did you yourself not tell me that you were ‘educated’ by the critics who told you what Indiana was about?”

“Yourself included!” I said.

He drew his considerable girth back to let the waiter place before him his dinner: a whole chicken, split and roasted to a dark golden color; buttered red potatoes; and haricots verts. He had already ordered dessert: two dishes, as he could not decide between pot au chocolat and a selection of cheeses. He tucked his napkin into his collar and commenced eating nearly before the platter was put down before him. “I am famished, nearly faint from hunger,” he said, apologizing for the little piece of potato that came flying from his mouth. I merely took a sip of my wine. I had ordered only onion soup and had yet to lift my spoon.

I had complimented Sainte-Beuve on the bolero jacket he’d presented to me when I arrived but had not had the heart to try it on. And so, in an effort to lift my spirits, he had thrown it over himself. He looked absurd, but he was well known and respected enough that no one raised an eyebrow. No one, that is, but he: he lifted one of his great black caterpillars to inspect me closely.

“Tell me. What has happened?”

I stared into my lap.

He waited, and finally, I decided to tell him everything. After all, I had shared with him in a letter the grim details of my failed experiment with Mérimée; surely this was no worse. And if it was, so what? It would be of great help to let Sainte-Beuve serve as father confessor, and to listen to whatever advice he might offer. I needed to unburden myself.

Sainte-Beuve took great pride in the fact that so many women confided in him. He was extremely close to Victor Hugo’s wife, Adèle; many said he was in love with her. When I once asked him about this, he laughed and answered quickly: “Who would not love her?”

For me, this nervous response, given with his eyes averted, confirmed what I had long suspected: not only did he love her; they were lovers. Sainte-Beuve was not a handsome man, but there was kindness in his baby face, and a depth to his gaze that conferred upon him a compassionate wisdom.

I told him about Marie, and when at length I had finished speaking, he put down his knife and fork and spoke softly. “My dear,” he said, his face full of sorrow. That was all. The great critic, the eloquent Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve, was at a loss for words.

Tears filled my eyes, and I hastily wiped them away, embarrassed, because it was at that moment that the waiter reappeared to remove Sainte-Beuve’s plate and, after a nod from me, my own. I had eaten nothing; the butter in the soup lay unappetizingly congealed on its surface.

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