is,
despite its discomfortable matter, a comfortable book, because it shows
us a considerable man of letters who has never yet, save perhaps in _La
Dame aux Camelias_, quite "come off," coming off beyond all fair doubt
or reasonable question.

[Sidenote: Story of it.]

Probably a good many people know the story of it, but certainly some do
not. It can be told pretty shortly. Pierre Clemenceau, the _fils
naturel_ (for this _vulnus_ is _eternum_) of a linen-draperess, is made,
partly on account of his birth, unhappy at school, being especially
tormented by an American-Italian boy, Andre Minati, whom, however, he
thrashes, and who dies--but not of the thrashing. The father of another
and _not_ hostile school-fellow, Constantin Ritz, is a sculptor, and
accident helps him to discover the same vocation in young Clemenceau,
who is taken into his protector's household as well as his studio, and
makes great progress in his art--the one thing he cares for. He goes,
however, a very little into society, and one evening meets a remarkable
Russian-Polish Countess, whose train (for it is a kind of fancy ball) is
borne by her thirteen-year-old daughter Iza, dressed as a page. The girl
is extraordinarily beautiful, and Clemenceau, whose heart is practically
virgin, falls in love with her, child as she is; improving the
acquaintance by making a drawing of her when asleep, as well as later a
bust from actual sittings, _gratis_. After a time, however, the
Countess, who has some actual and more sham "claims" in Poland and
Russia, returns thither. Years pass, during which, however, Pierre hears
now and then from Iza in a mixed strain of love and friendship, till at
last he is stung doubly, by news that she is to marry a young Russian
noble named Serge, and by a commission for the trousseau to be supplied
by his mother,[381] who has retired from business. The correspondence
changes to sharp reproach on his part and apparently surprised
resentment on hers. But before long she appears in person (the Serge
marriage having fallen through), and, to speak vernacularly, throws
herself straight at Pierre's head, even offering to be his mistress if
she cannot be his wife.[382] They are married, however, and spend not
merely a honeymoon, but nearly a honey-year in what is, in _Hereward the
Wake_, graciously called "sweet madness," the madness, however, being
purely physical, though so far genuine, on her side, spiritual as well
as physical on his. T