Gil Blas Alain-René Lesage (novel books to read TXT) 📖

like those which had gone before. “Do you really mean what you say, my friend?” replied he, with a sort of wriggling surprise. “Then my congregation are more in the temper of Aristarchus than of Longinus!”

“No, may it please your grace,” rejoined I, “quite the contrary. Performances of that order are above the reach of vulgar criticism: there is not a soul but expects to be saved by their influence. Nevertheless, since you have made it my duty to be sincere and unreserved, I shall take the liberty of just stating that your last discourse is not written with quite the overpowering eloquence and conclusive argument of your former ones. Does not your grace feel just as I do on the subject?”

This ignorant and stupid frankness of mine completely blanched my master’s cheek; but he forced a fretful smile, and said, “Then, good Master Gil Blas, that piece does not exactly hit your fancy?”

“I did not mean to say that, your grace,” interrupted I, looking very foolish. “It is very far superior to what anyone else could produce, though a little below par with respect to your own works in general.”

“I know what you mean,” replied he. “You think I am going down hill, do not you? Out with it at once. It is your opinion that it is time for me to think of retiring?”

“I should never have had the presumption,” said I, “to deliver myself with so little reserve, if it had not been your grace’s express command. I act in entire obedience to your grace’s orders; and I most obsequiously implore your grace not to take offence at my boldness.”

“I were unfit to live in a Christian land,” interrupted he, with stammering impatience, “⁠—I were unfit to live in a Christian land if I liked you the less for such a Christian virtue as sincerity. A man who does not love sincerity sets his face against the distinguishing mark between a friend and a flatterer. I should have given you infinite credit for speaking what you thought, if you had thought anything that deserved to be spoken. I have been finely taken in by your outside show of cleverness, without any solid foundation of sober judgment!”

Though completely unhorsed, and at the enemy’s mercy, I wanted to make terms of decent capitulation, and to go unmolested into winter quarters; but let those who think to appease an exasperated author, and especially an author whose ear has been long attuned to the music of his own praises, take warning by my fate. “Let us talk no more on the subject, my very young friend,” said he. “You are as yet scarcely in the rudiments of good taste, and utterly incompetent to distinguish between gold and tinsel. You are yet to learn that I never in all my life composed a finer homily than that unfortunate one which had not the honor of your approbation. The immortal part of me, by the blessing of heaven on me and my congregation, is less weighed down by human infirmity than when the flesh was stronger. We all grow wiser as we grow older, and I shall in future select the people about me with more caution; nor submit the castigation of my works but to a much abler critic than yourself. Get about your business!” pursued he, giving me an angry shove by the shoulders out of his closet; “go and tell my treasurer to pay you a hundred ducats, and take my priestly blessing in addition to that sum. God speed you, good Master Gil Blas! I heartily pray that you may do well in the world! There is nothing to stand in your way but the want of a little better taste.”

V

The course which Gil Blas took after the archbishop had given him his dismissal⁠—His accidental meeting with the licentiate who was so deeply in his debt, and a picture of gratitude in the person of a parson.

I made the best of my way out of the closet, cursing the caprice, or more properly the dotage, of the archbishop, and more in dudgeon at his absurdity, than cast down at the loss of his good graces. For some time it was a moot point whether I should go and lay claim to my hundred ducats; but after having weighed the matter dispassionately, I was not such a fool as to quarrel with my bread and butter. There was no reason why that money, fairly earned, should deprive me of my natural right to make a joke of this ridiculous prelate; in which good deed I promised myself not to be wanting, as often as himself or his homilies were brought upon the carpet in my hearing.

I went therefore and asked the treasurer for a hundred ducats, without telling a word about the literary warfare between his master and me. Afterwards I called on Melchior de la Ronda, to take a long leave of him. He was too much my friend not to sympathize with my misfortune. While I was telling my story, vexation was strongly imprinted on his countenance. In spite of all his respect for the archbishop, he could not help blaming him; but, when in the fever of my resentment I threatened to be a match for the prelate, and to entertain the whole city at his expense, the prudent Melchior gave me a salutary caution: “Take my advice, my dear Gil Blas, and rather pocket the affront. Men of a lower sphere in life should always be cap in hand to people of quality, whatever may be their grounds of complaint. It must be admitted there are some very coarse specimens of greatness, which in themselves are scarcely deserving of the least respect or attention; but even such animals have their weapons of annoyance, and it is best to keep out of their way.”

I thanked the old valet-de-chambre for the good counsel he had given me, and promised to be guided by