Dans ces grandes batailles blanches, Satins et fleurs ont le dessous, Et, sans demander leurs revanches, Jaunissent comme des jaloux. * * * * * * * * De quel mica de neige vierge, De quelle moelle de roseau, De quelle hostie et de quel cierge A-t-on fait le blanc de sa peau?..."
Alfred de Musset was also a fervent admirer of this white idol, and later, Heinrich Heine paraphrased, in honour of her whom he called, "The Cathedral of the God Love," the verses of Théophile Gautier:
"Auprès d'elle la neige de l'Himalaya Paraît grise comme la cendre; Le lis que sa main saisit, aussitôt, par le contraste Ou par jalousie, devient couleur de rouille..."
I really dreaded the moment when she would turn, and, as she made a movement to do so, I closed my eyes, to keep for a little longer the illusion of the past.
Almost at once I hear the rustling of silk close beside me; a clear musical voice addresses me, sweetly modulated, with a slight Russian accent. The Countess Muchanoff seats herself beside me and presses my hand, as she assures me that there is no need for an introduction, for she has recognised me without hearing my name, and that having the same admirations, the same ardent beliefs, we must belong to the same ideal family and should love even before we know each other.
She seems a very great lady, very sure of herself, intelligent, and filled with a passionate love of art. I look for the white camellias near the snow of her breast--very marble-like, in truth, but with the help, perhaps, of pearl white and a touch of rice powder. Her face is regular, pale under the fair hair so cleverly arranged. Although they believe her to be too superior to linger over any artifices of coquetry, she undoubtedly seeks to retain and to prolong a beauty so celebrated, but she depends still more upon the graces of her mind, which time does not affect, upon her intellectual culture and her musical talent.
With a coaxing familiarity she makes a strong effort to win me, to inspire me with confidence, but I am haunted by the idea that she is prejudiced against Cosima, that she has betrayed her friendship, and I find it an effort to respond to her friendly advances, or to abandon my reserve.
Liszt in his turn approaches me; he speaks of my father, whom he knew; he has seen me as a child and remembers me, although I have no memory of him. I find that he has the very suave manners of a priest--but how can he be a priest, and why are all these women so taken with him? Just now they are greatly perturbed at seeing him occupied with one who has made no advances, and so they cluster about him again, begging him to play something, teasing him to sit down at the piano. This he refuses to do and repulses them rather rudely, declaring that it is Madame Muchanoff who ought to play, that he himself has too much pleasure in listening to her to seat himself at the piano when she is present.