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La religion n'inspirait qu'un médiocre respect. La faute en était en partie
She afterwards said to Lord Lansdowne, who had told her he was a simple country clergyman, "Je vois bien que ce n'est qu'un simple cure qui n'a pas le sens commun, quoique grand poete." Lady Lansdowne, just as I was writing this, came to my room and paid me half an hour's visit.
Mais a peine l'esquif eut-il touche les flots Qu'au cantique chante par les saints matelots, L'ouragan replia ses ailes fremissantes, Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes, Et qu'un soleil plus pur, reparaissant aux cieux, Enveloppa l'esquif d'un cercle radieux!... JUNIA. Mais c'etait un prodige. STELLA. Un miracle, ma mere!
Moralement, je n'ai jamais ete plus fort, plus dispose a la lutte; et puis ces jours de fatigue arrivent et m'accablent, et je souffre dix fois plus qu'un paresseux s'y resignerait. "Beaucoup de baisers aux enfants, et beaucoup pour toi, petite femme trop cherie. Je n'ose penser combien ce serait gentil si tu etais ici aupres de moi."
But she is forced to sing in time with "Mein lieber Augustin." Her melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and dies away. And only by snatches there is heard again: "Qu'un sang impur..." But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz. She submits altogether.
I rather like the old translator's version of "Il y a de bons mariages; mais il n'y en a point de delicieux" "Marriage is sometimes convenient, but never delightful." How true is this of authors with a brief popularity: "Il y a des gens qui ressemblent aux vaudevilles, qu'on ne chante qu'un certain temps."
She darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charming frock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor Dickie. "Moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'était qu'un avorton," she continued rapidly. "Mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. C'est un monstre, n'est-ce pas, Maman?" She threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter.
How inferior in wit, in acuteness, in stratagem, was Douce to Vargrave; and yet Douce had gulled him like a child! Well said the shrewd small philosopher of France "On peut etre plus fin qu'un autre, mais pas plus fin que tous les autres."* * One may be more sharp than one's neighbour, but one can't be sharper than all one's neighbours.
Like Napoleon, of whom Marshal Foch wrote recently, "Il oublia qu'un homme ne peut etre Dieu; qu'au-dessus de l' individu, il y a la nation," he forgot that man can not be God; that over and above the individual there is the nation. In politics he knew at first better than any other, again to quote Foch, that "above men is morality." This knowledge brought him many victories.
My father was strongly of opinion that it was not written by Buonaparte himself, and he grounded this opinion chiefly upon the passages relative to the Duc d'Enghien: c'etait plus qu'un crime, c'etait une faute; no man, he thought, not even Nero, would, in writing for posterity say that he had committed a crime instead of a fault.
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