they have hidden
grandeurs in their souls that men can never appreciate. Well, as I seem
to be making my last will and testament like a woman on the verge of old
age, I shall tell you that I was ever faithful to Conti, and should
have been till death, and yet I _know him_. His nature is charming,
apparently, and detestable beneath its surface. He is a charlatan in
matters of the heart. There are some men, like Nathan, of whom I have
already spoken to you, who are charlatans externally, and yet honest.
Such men lie to themselves. Mounted on their stilts, they think they
are on their feet, and perform their jugglery with a sort of innocence;
their humbuggery is in their blood; they are born comedians, braggarts;
extravagant in form as a Chinese vase; perhaps they even laugh at
themselves. Their personality is generous; like Murat's kingly garments,
it attracts danger. But Conti's duplicity will be known only to the
women who love him. In his art he has that deep Italian jealousy which
led the Carlone to murder Piola, and stuck a stiletto into Paesiello.
That terrible envy lurks beneath the warmest comradeship. Conti has not
the courage of his vice; he smiles at Meyerbeer and flatters him, when
he fain would tear him to bits. He knows his weakness, and cultivates an
appearance of sincerity; his vanity still further leads him to play
at sentiments which are far indeed from his real heart. He represents
himself as an artist who receives his inspirations from heaven; Art is
something saintly and sacred to him; he is fanatic; he is sublime in his
contempt for worldliness; his eloquence seems to come from the deepest
convictions. He is a seer, a demon, a god, an angel. Calyste, although
I warn you about him, you will be his dupe. That Southern nature, that
impassioned artist is cold as a well-rope. Listen to him: the artist is
a missionary. Art is a religion, which has its priests and ought to
have its martyrs. Once started on that theme, Gennaro reaches the
most dishevelled pathos that any German professor of philosophy ever
spluttered to his audience. You admire his convictions, but he hasn't
any. Bearing his hearers to heaven on a song which seems a mysterious
fluid shedding love, he casts an ecstatic glance upon them; he is
examining their enthusiasm; he is asking himself: 'Am I really a god to
them?' and he is also thinking: 'I ate too much macaroni to-day.' He is
insatiable of applause, and he wins it. He delights, he is b