Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds
Bernard de Fontenelle
9781465662736
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
After supper we went to take a walk in the park. We felt the fragrant breeze of evening peculiarly delightful, as the heat had been intense during the day: the silvery rays of the moon, gleaming through the foliage, formed an agreeable contrast with the darkened shadows of the landscape. Not a cloud intercepted or veiled the smallest star. Every orb appeared a mass of pure gold, rendered more brilliant by the rich blue of the sky. The beauty of the scenery produced a gentle reverie, from which, had not the Marchioness been with me, I should not have been easily roused; but in the company of so interesting a woman I could not long abandon myself to the influence of the moon and stars. Do you not think, said I, addressing myself to her, that the charms of a fine night greatly exceed those of the day? Yes, she replied, the splendour of day resembles a fair and dazzling beauty, but the milder radiance of night may be compared to a woman of less brilliancy of complexion, and more sweetness of expression. You are very generous, resumed I, in giving the preference to the brunette, whilst you are so fair. It is however true, that an unclouded sun is the most glorious object in nature; and it is equally true, that the heroines of romance, the most beautiful objects imagination can depict, have almost invariably been represented with fair complexions. Beauty, answered my companion, is nothing, unless it interests our feelings. You will not deny that the finest day never had the power of inspiring so delightful a reverie as you were falling into just now in contemplating the loveliness of the evening. You are right, said I, but the loveliest night I ever beheld, with all it's shadowy beauty, would fail to give me such enchanting sensations as the contemplation of the fair face of the Marchioness de G——. I should not be satisfied with your compliment, she replied, did I even believe you sincere, since the brightness of day, with which we have been comparing fair women, has so little influence on your heart. Why do lovers, who undoubtedly can judge of what is most touching, address all their poetic effusions to the night? To the ear of day they neither confide their transports nor their sorrows—why is it so entirely excluded from their confidence? Probably, I answered, because it is not calculated to inspire that delicious sentiment, at once impassioned and melancholy, which we feel in the stillness of night, whilst all nature seems to repose. The stars appear to move with more silent progress than the sun: every object that decorates the heavens is soft, and attractive to the eye: in short, we resign ourselves more easily to reverie because we feel as if no other being was at that time enjoying the pensive pleasure that expands our soul. Perhaps, too, the uniformity of day, in which the sky presents no other object than the sun, is less favourable to the wild and pleasing illusions of fancy than the view of innumerable stars, scattered with sportive irregularity, over the boundless space. I have always felt what you describe, said she, I love to see the stars, and am almost inclined to reproach the sun for hiding them. Ah! cried I, I cannot forgive him for concealing so many worlds from my sight! Worlds! she exclaimed, turning to me with surprise, what do you mean? Forgive me, said I, you touched the wildest chord of my imagination—I forget myself in a romantic idea. And what is this romantic idea? enquired the Marchioness. Ah! replied I, I am half ashamed of owning it:—I have taken it in my head that every star may be a world. I would not positively assert the truth of my opinion, but I believe it because it affords me pleasure; it has possessed my mind with irresistible force; and I consider pleasure a needful accessary to truth.
