- end_line
- 11212
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.921Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11154
- text
- insinuation of the Law; which, with a singular affectation of benignity,
pronounced him an "infant." His modesty obscured from him the
circumstance, that the greatest lettered celebrities of the time, had,
by the divine power of genius, become full graduates in the University
of Fame, while yet as legal minors forced to go to their mammas for
pennies wherewith to keep them in peanuts.
Not seldom Pierre's social placidity was ruffled by polite entreaties
from the young ladies that he would be pleased to grace their Albums
with some nice little song. We say that here his social placidity was
ruffled; for the true charm of agreeable parlor society is, that there
you lose your own sharp individuality and become delightfully merged in
that soft social Pantheism, as it were, that rosy melting of all into
one, ever prevailing in those drawing-rooms, which pacifically and
deliciously belie their own name; inasmuch as there no one draws the
sword of his own individuality, but all such ugly weapons are left--as
of old--with your hat and cane in the hall. It was very awkward to
decline the albums; but somehow it was still worse, and peculiarly
distasteful for Pierre to comply. With equal justice apparently, you
might either have called this his weakness or his idiosyncrasy. He
summoned all his suavity, and refused. And the refusal of
Pierre--according to Miss Angelica Amabilia of Ambleside--was sweeter
than the compliance of others. But then--prior to the proffer of her
album--in a copse at Ambleside, Pierre in a gallant whim had in the
lady's own presence voluntarily carved Miss Angelica's initials upon the
bark of a beautiful maple. But all young ladies are not Miss Angelicas.
Blandly denied in the parlor, they courted repulse in the study. In
lovely envelopes they dispatched their albums to Pierre, not omitting
to drop a little attar-of-rose in the palm of the domestic who carried
them. While now Pierre--pushed to the wall in his
gallantry--shilly-shallied as to what he must do, the awaiting albums
multiplied upon him; and by-and-by monopolized an entire shelf in his
chamber; so that while their combined ornate bindings fairly dazzled his
eyes, their excessive redolence all but made him to faint, though
indeed, in moderation, he was very partial to perfumes. So that of
really chilly afternoons, he was still obliged to drop the upper sashes
a few inches.
The simplest of all things it is to write in a lady's album. But Cui
Bono? Is there such a dearth of printed reading, that the monkish times
must be revived, and ladies books be in manuscript? What could Pierre
write of his own on Love or any thing else, that would surpass what
divine Hafiz wrote so many long centuries ago? Was there not Anacreon
too, and Catullus, and Ovid--all translated, and readily accessible? And
then--bless all their souls!--had the dear creatures forgotten Tom
Moore? But the handwriting, Pierre,--they want the sight of your hand.
Well, thought Pierre, actual feeling is better than transmitted sight,
any day. I will give them the actual feeling of my hand, as much as they
want. And lips are still better than hands. Let them send their sweet
faces to me, and I will kiss _lipographs_ upon them forever and a day.
This was a felicitous idea. He called Dates, and had the albums carried
down by the basket-full into the dining-room. He opened and spread them
all out upon the extension-table there; then, modeling himself by the
Pope, when His Holiness collectively blesses long crates of rosaries--he
waved one devout kiss to the albums; and summoning three servants sent
the albums all home, with his best compliments, accompanied with a
confectioner's _kiss_ for each album, rolled up in the most ethereal
tissue.
- title
- Chunk 3