those endowed
with the artistic temperament can understand and sympathize with him in
the diabolical torture of that reading. If poetry is to be rendered by
the voice, and if the listener is to grasp all that it means, the most
devout attention is essential; there should be an intimate alliance
between the reader and his audience, or swift and subtle communication
of the poet's thought and feeling becomes impossible. Here this close
sympathy was lacking, and Lucien in consequence was in the position of
an angel who should endeavor to sing of heaven amid the chucklings of
hell. An intelligent man in the sphere most stimulating to his faculties
can see in every direction, like a snail; he has the keen scent of a
dog, the ears of a mole; he can hear, and feel, and see all that is
going on around him. A musician or a poet knows at once whether his
audience is listening in admiration or fails to follow him, and feels
it as the plant that revives or droops under favorable or unfavorable
conditions. The men who had come with their wives had fallen to
discussing their own affairs; by the acoustic law before mentioned,
every murmur rang in Lucien's ear; he saw all the gaps caused by the
spasmodic workings of jaws sympathetically affected, the teeth that
seemed to grin defiance at him.

When, like the dove in the deluge, he looked round for any spot on which
his eyes might rest, he saw nothing but rows of impatient faces. Their
owners clearly were waiting for him to make an end; they had come
together to discuss questions of practical interest. With the exceptions
of Laure de Rastignac, the Bishop, and two or three of the young men,
they one and all looked bored. As a matter of fact, those who understand
poetry strive to develop the germs of another poetry, quickened within
them by the poet's poetry; but this glacial audience, so far from
attaining to the spirit of the poet, did not even listen to the letter.

Lucien felt profoundly discouraged; he was damp with chilly
perspiration; a glowing glance from Louise, to whom he turned, gave him
courage to persevere to the end, but this poet's heart was bleeding from
countless wounds.

"Do you find this very amusing, Fifine?" inquired the wizened Lili, who
perhaps had expected some kind of gymnastics.

"Don't ask me what I think, dear; I cannot keep my eyes open when any
one begins to read aloud."

"I hope that Nais will not give us poetry often in the evenings," said
Francis. "I