"De Balzac, Honore - Modeste Mignon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Balzac Honore De)

Nowadays romance-writers arrange such effects; and it is quite within
their province to do so, for nature in all ages takes the liberty to
be stronger than they. In this instance, as you will see, nature,
social nature, which is a second nature within nature, amused herself
by making truth more interesting than fiction; just as mountain
torrents describe curves which are beyond the skill of painters to
convey, and accomplish giant deeds in displacing or smoothing stones
which are the wonder of architects and sculptors.

It was eight o'clock. At that season twilight was still shedding its
last gleams; there was not a cloud in the sky; the balmy air caressed
the earth, the flowers gave forth their fragrance, the steps of
pedestrians turning homeward sounded along the gravelly road, the sea
shone like a mirror, and there was so little wind that the wax candles
upon the card-tables sent up a steady flame, although the windows were
wide open. This salon, this evening, this dwelling--what a frame for
the portrait of the young girl whom these persons were now studying
with the profound attention of a painter in presence of the Margharita
Doni, one of the glories of the Pitti palace. Modeste,--blossom
enclosed, like that of Catullus,--was she worth all these precautions?

You have seen the cage; behold the bird! Just twenty years of age,
slender and delicate as the sirens which English designers invent for
their "Books of Beauty," Modeste was, like her mother before her, the
captivating embodiment of a grace too little understood in France,
where we choose to call it sentimentality, but which among German
women is the poetry of the heart coming to the surface of the being
and spending itself--in affectations if the owner is silly, in divine
charms of manner if she is "spirituelle" and intelligent. Remarkable
for her pale golden hair, Modeste belonged to the type of woman
called, perhaps in memory of Eve, the celestial blonde; whose satiny
skin is like a silk paper applied to the flesh, shuddering at the
winter of a cold look, expanding in the sunshine of a loving glance,--
teaching the hand to be jealous of the eye. Beneath her hair, which
was soft and feathery and worn in many curls, the brow, which might
have been traced by a compass so pure was its modelling, shone forth
discreet, calm to placidity, and yet luminous with thought: when and
where could another be found so transparently clear or more
exquisitely smooth? It seemed, like a pearl, to have its orient. The
eyes, of a blue verging on gray and limpid as the eyes of a child, had
all the mischief, all the innocence of childhood, and they harmonized
well with the arch of the eyebrows, faintly indicated by lines like
those made with a brush on Chinese faces. This candor of the soul was
still further evidenced around the eyes, in their corners, and about
the temples, by pearly tints threaded with blue, the special privilege
of these delicate complexions. The face, whose oval Raphael so often
gave to his Madonnas, was remarkable for the sober and virginal tone
of the cheeks, soft as a Bengal rose, upon which the long lashes of
the diaphanous eyelids cast shadows that were mingled with light. The
throat, bending as she worked, too delicate perhaps, and of milky