SYLVIE:
SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS
TRANSLATED FROM
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
BY
LUCIE PAGE
Portland, Maine
THOMAS B. MOSHER
1896
* * * * *
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
Of all that were thy prisons--ah, untamed,
Ah, light and sacred soul!--none holds thee now;
No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou
Art free and happy in the lands unnamed,
Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,
Thou still would'st bear that mystic golden bough
The Sybil doth to singing men allow,
Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.
And they would smile and wonder, seeing where
Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind,
Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,
Caught from the Valois peasants, dost thou find
A new life gladder than the old times were,
A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?
ANDREW LANG.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE.--ANDREW LANG
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
SYLVIE:
I A WASTED NIGHT
II ADRIENNE
III RESOLVE
IV A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA
V THE VILLAGE
VI OTHYS
VII CHAÂLIS
VIII THE BALL AT LOISY
IX HERMENONVILLE
X BIG CURLY-HEAD
XI RETURN
XII FATHER DODU
XIII AURÉLIE
XIV THE LAST LEAF
APPENDIX
_SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE._
_IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL._
_Two loves there were, and one was born_
_Between the sunset and the rain;_
_Her singing voice went through the corn,_
_Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn,_
_On grass the fallen blossoms stain;_
_And suns may set and moons may wane,_
_But this love comes no more again._
_There were two loves, and one made white_
_Thy singing lips and golden hair;_
_Born of the city's mire and light,_
_The shame and splendour of the night,_
_She trapped and fled thee unaware;_
_Not through the lamplight and the rain_
_Shalt thou behold this love again._
_Go forth and seek, by wood and bill,_
_Thine ancient love of dawn and dew;_
_There comes no voice from mere or rill,_
_Her dance is over, fallen still_
_The ballad burdens that she knew:_
_And thou must wait for her in vain,_
_Till years bring back thy youth again._
_That other love, afield, afar_
_Fled the light love, with lighter feet._
_Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,_
_And flit in dreams from star to star,_
_That dead love thou shalt never meet,_
_Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain_
_Thy soul shall find her soul again._
ANDREW LANG.
Gérard DE NERVAL
Il a toujours cherché dans le monde
ce que le monde ne pouvait plus lui
donner.
LUDOVIC HALÉVY.
He has been a sick man all his life.
He was always a seeker after something
in the world that is there in no
satisfying measure, or not at all.
WALTER PATER.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
I.
Of Gérard de Nerval, whose true name was Gérard Labrunie, it has been
finely said: "His was the most beautiful of all the lost souls of the
French Romance."(*) Born in 1808, he came to his death by suicide one
dark winter night towards the end of January.
The story of this life and its tragic finale was well known at the time
to all men of letters,--Théophile Gautier, Paul de Saint-Victor, Arsène
Houssaye,--friends who never forgot the young poet even after he went
the way that madness lies. For it was insanity,--a nostalgia of the soul
always imminent--that led him into the squalid _Rue de la
Vieille-Lanterne_, in which long forgotten corner of old Paris his dead
body was found one bleak belated dawn. And this was forty years ago.
In later days Maxime du Camp and Ludovic Halévy have retold with great
feeling the history of Gérard, his early triumphs, his love for Jenny
Colon,--the Aurélie of these _Souvenirs du Valois_,--and how at last
life's scurrile play was ended.
(*) See _A Century of French Verse_, translated and edited by
William John Robertson (4to, London, 1895).
II.
One of Mr. Andrew Lang's most genuine appreciations occurs in an epistle
addressed to Miss Girton, Cambridge; where, for the benefit of that
mythical young person, he translates a few passages out of _Sylvie_, and
favours us with a specimen of Gérard's verse.
"I translated these fragments," he tells her, "long ago in one of the
first things I ever tried to write. The passages are as touching and
fresh, the originals, I mean, as when first I read them, and one hears
the voice of Sylvie singing:
_'A Dammartin, l'y a trois belles filles,_
_L'y en a z'une plus belle que le jour.'_
So Sylvie married a confectioner, and, like Marion in the 'Ballad of
Forty Years,' 'Adrienne's dead' in a convent. That is all the story, all
the idyl."
And just before this he has said of Gérard: "What he will live by, is
his story of Sylvie; it is one of the little masterpieces of the world.
It has a Greek perfection. One reads it, and however old one is, youth
comes back, and April, and a thousand pleasant sounds of birds in
hedges, of wind in the boughs, of brooks trotting merrily under the
rustic bridges. And this fresh nature is peopled by girls eternally
young, natural, gay, or pensive, standing with eager feet on the
threshold of their life, innocent, expectant, with the old ballads of
old France upon their lips. For the story is full of these artless,
lisping numbers of the popular French muse, the ancient ballads that
Gérard collected and put into the mouth of Sylvie, the pretty
peasant-girl."
One more quotation from Mr. Lang, and we are done. Sylvie and Gérard
have met, and they go on a visit to her aunt, who, while she prepares
dinner, sends Gérard for her niece, who had "gone to ransack the peasant
treasures in the garret." "Two portraits were hanging there--one, that
of a young man of the good old times, smiling with red lips and brown
eyes, a pastel in an oval frame. Another medallion held the portrait of
his wife, gay, _piquante_, in a bodice with ribbons fluttering, and with
a bird perched on her finger. It was the old aunt in her youth, and
further search discovered her ancient festal-gown, of stiff brocade,
Sylvie arrayed herself in this splendour; patches were found in a box of
tarnished gold, a fan, a necklace of amber."
This is the charming moment chosen by M. Andhré des Gachons as the
subject of his _aquarelle_, reproduced in colour as frontispiece to the
present edition.
III.
In thus bringing out a fresh version of _Sylvie_, not to include the all
too few illusive lyrics "done into English" by Mr. Lang, his exquisite
sonnet on Gérard, and the lovely lines upon "Sylvie et Aurélie," were a
deplorable omission. The sonnet exists in an earlier form; preferably,
the later version is here given.
Of De Nerval's prose little has yet found its way to us. His poetry is
fully as inaccessible. Things of such iridescent hue are possibly beyond
the art of translation. They are written in an unknown tongue; say,
rather, in the language of Dreamland, "vaporous, unaccountable";--a
world of crepuscular dawns, as of light irradiated from submerged sea
caverns,--"the mermaid's haunt" beheld of him alone.
IV.
With what _adieux_ shall we now take leave of our little pearl of a
story? And of him who gave us this exquisite creation of heart and brain
what words remain to say?
Thou, Sylvie, art an unfading flower of virginal, soft Spring, and
faint, elusive skies. For _thee_ Earth's old sweet nights have shed
their tenderest dews, and in thy lovely Valois land thou canst not fade
or die.
Thy lover, child, fared forth beneath an alien star. For _him_ there was
no true country, here;--no return to thy happy-hearted love: the desert
sands long since effaced the valley track. Only the far distant
lying,--the abyss that calls and is never dumb, urged his onward steps.
And these things, and this divine homesickness led him, pale nympholept,
beyond Earth's human shores. Thither to thee, rapt Soul, shall all
bright dreams of day, all lonely visions of the night, converge at
last.
SYLVIE:
(SOUVENIRS DU VALOIS.)
_AN OLD TUNE._
_GÉRARD DE NERVAL._
_There is an air for which I would disown_
_Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies,--_
_A sweet, sad air that languishes and sighs,_
_And keeps its secret charm for me alone._
_Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,_
_Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;_
_The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold_
_A green land golden in the dying day._
_An old red castle, strong with stony towers,_
_The windows gay with many coloured glass;_
_Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,_
_That bathe the castle basement as they pass._
_In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,_
_A lady looks forth from her window high;_
_It may be that I knew and found her fair,_
_In some forgotten life, long time gone by._
(ANDREW LANG.)
SYLVIE
(RECOLLECTIONS OF VALOIS.)
I.
A WASTED NIGHT.
I passed out of a theatre where I was wont to appear nightly, in the
proscenium boxes, in the attitude of suitor. Sometimes it was full,
sometimes nearly empty; it mattered little to me, whether a handful of
listless spectators occupied the pit, while antiquated costumes formed a
doubtful setting for the boxes, or whether I made one of an audience
swayed by emotion, crowned at every tier with flower-decked robes,
flashing gems and radiant faces. The spectacle of the house left me
indifferent, that of the stage could not fix my attention until at the
second or third scene of a dull masterpiece of the period, a familiar
vision illumined the vacancy, and by a word and a breath, gave life to
the shadowy forms around me.
I felt that my life was linked with hers; her smile filled me with
immeasurable bliss; the tones of her voice, so sweet and sonorous,
thrilled me with love and joy. My ardent fancy endowed her with every
perfection until she seemed to respond to all my raptures--beautiful as
day in the blaze of the footlights, pale as night when their glare was
lowered and rays from the chandelier above revealed her, lighting up the
gloom with the radiance of her beauty, like those divine Hours with
starry brows, which stand out against the dark background of the
frescoes of Herculaneum.
For a whole year I had not sought to know what she might be, in the
world outside, fearing to dim the magic mirror which reflected to me her
image. Some idle gossip, it is true, touching the woman, rather than the
actress, had reached my ears, but I heeded it less than any floating
rumours concerning the Princess of Elis or the Queen of Trebizonde, for
I was on my guard. An uncle of mine whose manner of life during the
period preceding the close of the eighteenth century, had given him
occasion to know them well, had warned me that actresses were not women,
since nature had forgotten to give them hearts. He referred, no doubt,
to those of his own day, but he related so many stories of his illusions
and disappointments, and displayed so many portraits upon ivory,
charming medallions which he afterwards used to adorn his snuff-boxes,
so many yellow love-letters and faded tokens, each with its peculiar
history, that I had come to think ill of them as a class, without
considering the march of time.
We were living then in a strange period, such as often follows a
revolution, or the decline of a great reign. The heroic gallantry of the
Fronde, the drawing-room vice of the Regency, the scepticism and mad
orgies of the Directory, were no more. It was a time of mingled
activity, indecision and idleness, bright utopian dreams, philosophic or
religious aspirations, vague ardour, dim instincts of rebirth, weariness
of past discords, uncertain hopes,--an age somewhat like that of
Peregrinus and Apuleius. The material man yearned for the roses which
should regenerate him, from the hands of the fair Isis; the goddess
appeared to us by night, in her eternal youth and purity, inspiring in
us remorse for the hours wasted by day; and yet, ambition suited not our
years, while the greedy strife, the mad chase in pursuit of honour and
position, held us aloof from every possible sphere of activity. Our only
refuge was the ivory tower of the poets whither we climbed higher and
higher to escape the crowd. Upon the heights to which our masters guided
us, we breathed at last the pure air of solitude, we quaffed oblivion in
the golden cup of fable, we were drunk with poetry and love. Love, alas!
of airy forms, of rose and azure tints, of metaphysical phantoms. Seen
nearer, the real woman repelled our ingenuous youth which required her
to appear as a queen or a goddess, and above all, inapproachable.
Some of our number held these platonic paradoxes in light esteem, and
athwart our mystic reveries brandished at times the torch of the deities
of the underworld, that names through the darkness for an instant with
its train of sparks. Thus it chanced that on quitting the theatre with
the sense of bitter sadness left by a vanished dream, I turned with
pleasure to a club where a party of us used to sup, and where all
depression yielded to the inexhaustible vivacity of a few brilliant
wits, whose stormy gaiety at times rose to sublimity. Periods of renewal
or decadence always produce such natures, and our discussions often
became so animated that timid ones in the company would glance from the
window to see if the Huns, the Turkomans or the Cossacks were not coming
to put an end to these disputations of sophists and rhetoricians. "Let
us drink, let us love, this is wisdom!" was the code of the younger
members. One of them said to me: "I have noticed for some time that I
always meet you in the same theatre. For which one do you go?" Which!
why, it seemed impossible to go there for another! However, I confessed
the name. "Well," said my friend kindly, "yonder is the happy man who
has just accompanied her home, and who, in accordance with the rules of
our club, will not perhaps seek her again till night is over."
With slight emotion I turned toward the person designated, and perceived
a young man, well dressed, with a pale, restless face, good manners, and
eyes full of gentle melancholy. He flung a gold piece on the card-table
and lost it with indifference. "What is it to me?" said I, "he or
another?" There must be someone, and he seemed worthy of her choice.
"And you?" "I? I chase a phantom, that is all."
On my way out, I passed through the reading-room and glanced carelessly
at a newspaper, to learn, I believe, the state of the stock market. In
the wreck of my fortunes, there chanced to be a large investment in
foreign securities, and it was reported that, although long disowned,
they were about to be acknowledged;--and, indeed, this had just
happened in consequence of a change in the ministry. The bonds were
quoted high, so I was rich again.
A single thought was occasioned by this sudden change of fortune, that
the woman whom I had loved so long, was mine, if I wished. My ideal was
within my grasp, or was it only one more disappointment, a mocking
misprint? No, for the other papers gave the same figures, while the sum
which I had gained rose before me like the golden statue of Moloch.
"What," thought I, "would that young man say, if I were to take his
place by the woman whom he has left alone?"
I shrunk from the thought, and my pride revolted. Not thus, not at my
age, dare I slay love with gold! I will not play the tempter! Besides,
such an idea belongs to the past. Who can tell me that this woman may be
bought? My eyes glanced idly over the journal in my hand, and I noticed
two lines: "_Provincial Bouquet Festival_. To-morrow the archers of
Senlis will present the bouquet to the archers of Loisy." These simple
words aroused in me an entirely new train of thought, stirring
long-forgotten memories of provincial days, faint echoes of the artless
joys of youth.
The horn and the drum were resounding afar in hamlet and forest; the
young maidens were twining garlands as they sang, and binding nosegays
with ribbon. A heavy wagon, drawn by oxen, received their offerings as
it passed, and we, the children of that region, formed the escort with
our bows and arrows, assuming the proud title of knights,--we did not
know that we were only preserving, from age to age, an ancient feast of
the Druids that had survived later religions and monarchies.
II.
ADRIENNE.
I sought my bed, but not to sleep, and, lost in a half-conscious revery,
all my youth passed before me. How often, in the border-land of dreams,
while yet the mind repels their encroaching fancies, we are enabled to
review in a few moments, the important events of a lifetime!
I saw a castle of the time of Henry IV., with its slate-covered turrets,
its reddish front, jutting corners of yellow stone, and a stretch of
green bordered by elms and lime-trees, through whose foliage, the
setting sun shot its last fiery rays. Young girls were dancing in a ring
on the lawn, singing quaint old tunes caught from their mothers, in a
French whose native purity bespoke the old country of Valois, where for
more than a thousand years had throbbed the heart of France. I was the
only boy in the circle where I had led my young companion, Sylvie, a
little maid from the neighboring hamlet, so fresh and animated, with
her black eyes, regular features and slightly sun-burned skin. I loved
but her, I had eyes but for her--till then! I had scarcely noticed in
our round, a tall, beautiful blonde, called Adrienne, when suddenly, in
following the figures of the dance, she was left alone with me, in the
centre of the ring; we were of the same height, and they bade me kiss
her, while the dance and song went whirling on, more merrily than
before. When I kissed her, I could not forbear pressing her hand; her
golden curls touched my cheek, and from that moment, a new feeling
possessed me.
The fair girl must sing a song to reclaim her place in the dance, and we
seated ourselves about her. In a sweet, penetrating voice, somewhat
husky, as is common in that country of mists and fogs, she sang one of
those old ballads full of love and sorrow, which always carry the story
of an imprisoned princess, shut in a tower by her father, as a
punishment for loving. At the end of every stanza, the melody died away
in those quavering trills which enable young voices to simulate so well
the tremulous notes of old women.
While she sang, the shadows of the great trees lengthened and the light
of the young moon fell full upon her, as she stood apart from the rapt
circle. The lawn was covered with rising clouds of mist that trailed its
white wreaths over every blade of grass. We thought ourselves in
Paradise. The song ended and no one dared break the stillness--at last I
rose and ran to the gardens where some laurels were growing in large
porcelain vases painted in monochrome. I plucked two branches which were
twined into a crown, bound with ribbon, and I placed it upon Adrienne's
brow, where its glossy leaves gleamed above her fair locks in the pale
moonlight. She looked liked Dante's Beatrice, smiling at the poet as he
strayed on the confines of the Blest Abodes.
Adrienne rose and, drawing up her slender figure, bowed to us gracefully
and ran back to the castle; they said she was the child of a race allied
to the ancient kings of France, that the blood of the Valois princes
flowed in her veins. Upon this festal day, she had been permitted to
join in our sports, but we were not to see her again, for on the morrow
she would return to the convent of which she was an inmate.
When I rejoined Sylvie, I found her weeping because of the crown I had
given to the fair singer. I offered to make another for her, but she
would not consent, saying she did not merit it. I vainly tried to
vindicate myself, but she refused to speak as we went the homeward way.
Paris soon recalled me to resume my studies, and I bore with me the
two-fold memory of a tender friendship sadly broken, and of a love
uncertain and impossible, the source of painful musings which my college
philosophy was powerless to dispel.
Adrienne's face alone haunted me, a vision of glory and beauty,
sweetening and sharing the hours of arduous study.
In the vacation of the following year, I learned that this lovely girl,
who had but flitted past me, was destined by her family to a religious
life.
III.
RESOLVE.
These memories, recalled in my dreamy revery, explained everything. This
hopeless passion for an actress, which took possession of me nightly
from the hour when the curtain rose until I fell asleep, was born of my
remembrance of Adrienne, the pale moon-flower, as she glided over the
green, a rose-tinted vision enveloped in a cloud of misty whiteness. The
likeness of a face long years forgotten was now distinctly outlined; it
was a pencil-sketch, which time had blurred, developed into a painting,
like the first drafts of the old masters which delight us in a gallery,
the completed masterpiece being found elsewhere.
To fall in love with a nun in the guise of an actress!... suppose they
were one and the same!--it is enough to drive one mad, a fatal mystery,
drawing me on like a will o' the wisp flitting over the rushes of a
stagnant pool. Let us keep a firm foothold on reality.
Sylvie, too, whom I loved so dearly, why had I forgotten her for three
long years? She was a charming girl, the prettiest maiden in Loisy;
surely she still lives, pure and good. I can see her window, with the
creeper twining around the rose-bush, and the cage of linnets hanging on
the left; I can hear the click of her bobbins and her favourite song:
_La belle était assise_
_Près du ruisseau coulant...._
The maiden was sitting
Beside the swift stream.
She is still waiting for me. Who would wed her, so poor? The men of her
native village are sturdy peasants with rough hands and gaunt, tanned
faces. I, the "little Parisian," had won her heart in my frequent visits
near Loisy, to my poor uncle, now dead. For the past three years I have
been squandering like a lord the modest inheritance left by him, which
might have sufficed for a lifetime, and Sylvie, I know, would have
helped me save it. Chance returns me a portion, it is not too late.
What is she doing now? She must be asleep.... No, she is not asleep;
to-day is the Feast of the Bow, the only one in the year when the dance
goes on all night.... She is there. What time is it? I had no watch.
Amongst a profusion of ornaments, which it was then the fashion to
collect, in order to restore the local colour of an old-time interior,
there gleamed with freshly polished lustre, one of those tortoise-shell
clocks of the Renaissance, whose gilded dome, surmounted by a figure of
Time, was supported by caryatides in the style of the Medici, resting in
their turn upon rearing steeds. The historic Diana, leaning upon her
stag, was in bas-relief under the face, where, upon an inlaid
background, enameled figures marked the hours. The works, no doubt
excellent, had not been put in motion for two centuries. It was not to
tell the hour that I bought this time-piece in Touraine.
I went down to the porter's lodge to find that his clock marked one in
the morning. "In four hours I can be at Loisy," thought I.
Five or six cabs were still standing on the Place du Palais Royal,
awaiting the gamblers and clubmen. "To Loisy," I said to the nearest
driver. "Where is it?" "Near Senlis, eight leagues distant." "I will
take you to the posting station," said the cabman, more alert than I.
How dreary the Flanders road is by night! It gains beauty only as it
approaches the belt of the forest. Two monotonous rows of trees, taking
on the semblance of distorted figures, rise ever before the eye; in the
distance, patches of verdure and cultivated land, bounded on the left
by the blue hills of Montmorency, Ecouen and Luzarches. Here is Gonesse,
an ordinary little town, full of memories of the League and the Fronde.
Beyond Louvres is a road lined with apple-trees, whose white blossoms I
have often seen unfolding in the night, like stars of the earth--it is
the shortest way to the village. While the carriage climbs the slope,
let me recall old memories of the days when I came here so often.
IV.
A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.
Several years had passed, and only a childish memory was left me of that
meeting with Adrienne in front of the castle. I was again at Loisy on
the annual feast, and again I mingled with the knights of the bow,
taking my place in the same company as of old. The festival had been
arranged by young people belonging to the old families, who still own
the solitary castles, despoiled rather by time than revolution, hidden
here and there in the forest. From Chantilly, Compiègne and Senlis,
joyous companies hastened to join the rustic train of archers. After the
long parade through hamlet and village, after mass in the church,
contests of skill and awarding of prizes, the victors were invited to a
feast prepared upon an island in the centre of one of the tiny lakes,
fed by the Nonette and the Thève. Boats, gay with flags, conveyed us to
this island, chosen on account of an old temple with pillars, destined
to serve as a banquet hall. Here, as in Hermenonville, the country side
is sown with these frail structures, designed by philosophical
millionaires, in accordance with the prevailing taste of the close of
the eighteenth century. Probably this temple was originally dedicated to
Urania. Three pillars had fallen, bearing with them a portion of the
architrave, but the space within had been cleared, and garlands hung
between the columns, quite rejuvenated this modern ruin, belonging
rather to the paganism of Boufflers and Chaulieu than of Horace. The
sail on the lake was perhaps designed to recall Watteau's "Voyage to
Cythera," the illusion being marred only by our modern dress. The
immense bouquet was borne from its wagon and placed in a boat,
accompanied by the usual escort of young girls dressed in white, and
this graceful pageant, the survival of an ancient custom, was mirrored
in the still waters that flowed around the island, gleaming in the red
sunlight with its hawthorn thickets and colonnades.
All the boats soon arrived, and the basket of flowers borne in state,
adorned the centre of the table, around which we took our places, the
most fortunate beside a young girl; to win this favour it was enough to
know her relatives, which explains why I found myself by Sylvie, whose
brother had already joined me in the march, and reproached me for
neglecting to visit them. I excused myself by the plea that my studies
kept me in Paris, and averred that I had come with that intention.
"No," said Sylvie, "I am sure he has forgotten me. We are only village
folk, and a Parisian is far above us." I tried to stop her mouth with a
kiss, but she still pouted, and her brother had to intercede before she
would offer me her cheek with an indifferent air. I took no pleasure in
this salute, a favour accorded to plenty of others, for in that
patriarchal country where a greeting is bestowed upon every passing
stranger, a kiss means only an exchange of courtesies between honest
people.
To crown the enjoyment of the day, a surprise had been contrived, and,
at the close of the repast, a wild swan, hitherto imprisoned beneath the
flowers, soared into the air, bearing aloft on his powerful wings, a
tangle of wreaths and garlands, which were scattered in every direction.
While he darted joyously toward the last bright gleams of the sun, we
tried to seize the falling chaplets, to crown our fair neighbours. I was
so fortunate as to secure one of the finest, and Sylvie smilingly
granted me a kiss more tender than the last, by which I perceived that I
had now redeemed the memory of a former occasion. She had grown so
beautiful that my present admiration was without reserve, and I no
longer recognised in her the little village maid, whom I had slighted
for one more skilled in the graces of the world. Sylvie had gained in
every respect; her black eyes, seductive from childhood, had become
irresistibly fascinating, and there was something Athenian in her
arching brows, together with the sudden smile lighting up her quiet,
regular features. I admired this classic profile contrasting with the
mere prettiness of her companions. Her taper fingers, round, white arms
and slender waist changed her completely, and I could not refrain from
telling her of the transformation, hoping thus to hide my long
unfaithfulness. Everything favoured me, the delightful influences of the
feast, her brother's regard, the evening hour, and even the spot chosen
by a tasteful fancy to celebrate the stately rites of ancient gallantry.
We escaped from the dance as soon as possible, to compare recollections
of our childhood and to gaze, side by side, with dreamy pleasure, upon
the sunset sky reflected in the calm waters. Sylvie's brother had to
tear us from the contemplation of this peaceful scene by the unwelcome
summons that it was time to start for the distant village where she
dwelt.
V.
THE VILLAGE.
They lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's lodge, whither I accompanied
them, and then turned back toward Montagny, where I was staying with my
uncle. Leaving the highway to cross a little wood that divides Loisy
from Saint S----, I plunged into a deep track skirting the forest of
Hermenonville. I thought it would lead me to the walls of a convent,
which I had to follow for a quarter of a league. The moon, from time to
time, concealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the grey rocks, and the
heath which lay thick upon the ground as I advanced. Right and left
stretched a pathless forest, and before me rose the Druid altars
guarding the memory of the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans. From
these ancient piles I discerned the distant lakelets glistening like
mirrors in the misty plain, but I could not distinguish the one where
the feast was held.
The air was so balmy, that I determined to lie down upon the heath and
wait for the dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by one, the
neighbouring landmarks. On the left stretched the long line of the
convent of Saint S----, then, on the opposite side of the valley, La
Butte aux Gens d'Armes, with the shattered ruins of the ancient
Carlovingian palace. Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling walls
of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out against the horizon. Further on,
the manor of Pontarmé, surrounded as in olden times, by a moat, began to
reflect the first fires of dawn, while on the south appeared the tall
keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of Bertrand Fosse, on the
slopes of Montméliant.
The night had passed pleasantly, and I was thinking only of Sylvie, but
the sight of the convent suggested the idea that it might be the one
where Adrienne lived. The sound of the morning bell was still ringing in
my ears and had probably awakened me. The thought came to me, for a
moment, that by climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a peep
over the walls, but on reflection, I dismissed it as profane. The sun
with its rising beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving only the
rosy features of Sylvie. "I will go and awaken her," I said to myself,
and again I started in the direction of Loisy.
Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is the village, twenty cottages
whose walls are festooned with creepers and climbing roses. A group of
women, with red kerchiefs on their heads, are spinning in the early
light, in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not among them. She is
almost a young lady, now she makes dainty lace, but her family remain
simple villagers. I ran up to her room without exciting surprise, to
find that she had been up for a long time, and was busily plying her
bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against the square green cushion on
her knees. "So, it is you, lazybones," she said with her divine smile;
"I am sure you are just out of bed."
I told her how I had lost my way in the woods and had passed the night
in the open air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to pity me.
"If you are not too tired, I will take you for another ramble. We will
go to see my grand-aunt at Othys."
Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously to smooth her hair before
the mirror, and put on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling with
innocent gaiety.
Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the Thève, through meadows
sprinkled with daisies and buttercups; then we skirted the woods of
Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams and thickets to shorten the
road. Blackbirds were whistling in the trees, and tomtits, startled at
our approach, flew joyously from the bushes.
Now and then we spied beneath our feet the periwinkles which Rousseau
loved, putting forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of twin leaves,
a network of tendrils which arrested the light steps of my companion.
Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher of Geneva, she sought here
and there for fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the New Heloise,
and repeated passages from it, which I knew by heart.
"Is it pretty?" she asked.
"It is sublime."
"Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine?"
"It is more tender."
"Well, then," said she, "I must read it. I will tell my brother to bring
it to me the next time he goes to Senlis."
I went on reciting portions of the Heloise, while Sylvie picked
strawberries.
VI.
OTHYS.
When we had left the forest, we found great tufts of purple foxglove,
and Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for her aunt who loved to
have flowers in her room.
Only a stretch of level country now lay between us and Othys. The
village church-spire pointed heavenward against the blue hills that
extend from Montméliant to Dammartin. The Thève again rippled over the
stones, narrowing towards its source, where it forms a tiny lake which
slumbers in the meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris. We soon
reached the first houses where Sylvie's aunt lived in a little cottage
of rough stone, adorned with a trellis of hop-vine and Virginia creeper.
Her only support came from a few acres of land which the village folk
cultivated for her, now her husband was dead. The coming of her niece
set the house astir.
"Good morning, aunt; here are your children!" cried Sylvie; "and we are
very hungry." She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her the flowers, and
then turned to present me, saying, "He is my sweetheart."
I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who exclaimed, "He is a fine lad! why,
he has light hair!" "He has very pretty hair," said Sylvie. "That does
not last," returned her aunt; "but you have time enough before you, and
you are dark, so you are well matched."
"You must give him some breakfast," said Sylvie, and she went peeping
into cupboards and pantry, finding milk, brown bread and sugar which she
hastily set upon the table, together with the plates and dishes of
crockery adorned with staring flowers and birds of brilliant plumage. A
large bowl of Creil china, filled with strawberries swimming in milk,
formed the centrepiece, and after she had raided the garden for cherries
and goose-berries, she arranged two vases of flowers, placing one at
each end of the white cloth. Just then, her aunt made a sensible speech:
"All this is only for dessert. Now, you must let me set to work." She
took down the frying-pan and threw a fagot upon the hearth. "No, no; I
shall not let you touch it," she said decidedly to Sylvie, who was
trying to help her. "Spoiling your pretty fingers that make finer lace
than Chantilly! You gave me some, and I know what lace is."
"Oh, yes, aunt, and if you have some left, I can use it for a pattern."
"Well, go look upstairs; there may be some in my chest of drawers."
"Give me the keys," returned Sylvie.
"Nonsense," cried her aunt; "the drawers are open." "No; there is one
always locked." While the good woman was cleaning the frying-pan, after
having passed it over the fire to warm it, Sylvie unfastened from her
belt a little key of wrought steel and showed it to me in triumph.
I followed her swiftly up the wooden staircase that led to the room
above. Oh youth, and holy age! Who could sully by an evil thought the
purity of first love in this shrine of hallowed memories? The portrait
of a young man of the good old times, with laughing black eyes and rosy
lips, hung in an oval gilt frame at the head of the rustic bed. He wore
the uniform of a gamekeeper of the house of Condé; his somewhat martial
bearing, ruddy, good-humoured face, and powdered hair drawn back from
the clear brow, gave the charm of youth and simplicity to this pastel,
destitute, perhaps, of any artistic merit Some obscure artist, bidden to
the hunting parties of the prince, had done his best to portray the
keeper and his bride who appeared in another medallion, arch and
winning, in her open bodice laced with ribbons, teasing with piquant
frown, a bird perched upon her finger. It was, however, the same good
old dame, at that moment bending over the hearth-fire to cook. It
reminded me of the fairies in a spectacle who hide under wrinkled masks,
their real beauty revealed in the closing scene when the Temple of Love
appears with its whirling sun darting magic fires.
"Oh, dear old aunt!" I exclaimed, "how pretty you were!"
"And I?" asked Sylvie, who had succeeded in opening the famous drawer
which contained an old-fashioned dress of taffeta, so stiff that the
heavy folds creaked under her touch. "I will see if it fits me," she
said; "I shall look like an old fairy!" "Like the fairy of the legends,
ever young," thought I.
Sylvie had already unfastened her muslin gown and let it fall to her
feet. She bade me hook the rich robe which clung tightly to her slender
figure.
"Oh, what ridiculous sleeves!" she cried; and yet, the lace frills
displayed to advantage her bare arms, and her bust was outlined by the
corsage of yellow tulle and faded ribbon which had concealed but little
the vanished charms of her aunt.
"Come, make haste!" said Sylvie. "Do you not know how to hook a dress?"
She looked like the village bride of Greuze. "You ought to have some
powder," said I. "We will find some," and she turned to search the
drawers anew. Oh! what treasures, what sweet odours, what gleams of
light from brilliant hues and modest ornaments! Two mother-of-pearl fans
slightly broken, some pomade boxes covered with Chinese designs, an
amber necklace and a thousand trifles, among them two little white
slippers with sparkling buckles of Irish diamonds. "Oh! I will put them
on," cried Sylvie, "if I find the embroidered stockings."
A moment more, and we were unrolling a pair of pink silk stockings with
green clocks; but the voice of the old aunt, accompanied by the hiss of
the frying-pan, suddenly recalled us to reality. "Go down quickly," said
Sylvie, who refused to let me help her finish dressing. Her aunt was
just turning into a platter the contents of the frying-pan, a slice of
bacon and some eggs. Presently, I heard Sylvie calling me from the
staircase. "Dress yourself as soon as possible," and, completely attired
herself, she pointed to the wedding clothes of the gamekeeper, spread
out upon the chest. In an instant I was transformed into a bridegroom of
the last century. Sylvie waited for me on the stairs, and we went down,
arm in arm. Her aunt gave a cry when she saw us. "Oh, my children!" she
exclaimed, beginning to weep and then smiling through her tears. It was
the image of her own youth, a cruel, yet charming vision. We sat beside
her, touched, almost saddened, but soon our mirth came back, for after
the first surprise, the thoughts of the good old dame reverted to the
stately festivities of her wedding day. She even recalled the
old-fashioned songs chanted responsively from one end of the festal
board to the other, and the quaint nuptial hymn whose strains attended
the wedded pair when they withdrew after the dance. We repeated these
couplets with their simple rhymes, flowery and passionate as the Song of
Solomon. We were bride and bridegroom the space of one fair summer
morn.
VII
CHAÂLIS.
It is four o'clock in the morning; the road winds through a hollow and
comes out on high ground; the carriage passes Orry, then La Chapelle. On
the left is a road that skirts the forest of Hallate. Sylvie's brother
took me through there one evening in his covered cart, to attend some
local gathering on the Eve of Saint Bartholomew, I believe. Through the
woods, along unfrequented ways, the little horse sped as if hastening to
a witches' sabbath. We struck the highway again at Mont-l'Évêque, and a
few moments later pulled up at the keeper's lodge of the old abbey of
Chaâlis--Chaâlis, another memory!
This ancient retreat of the emperors offers nothing worthy of
admiration, save its ruined cloisters with their Byzantine arcades, the
last of which are still mirrored in the lake--crumbling fragments of the
abodes of piety, formerly attached to this demesne, known in olden
times as "Charlemagne's farms." In this quiet spot, far from the stir of
highways and cities, religion has retained distinctive traces of the
prolonged sojourn of the Cardinals of the House of Este during the time
of the Medici; a shade of poetic gallantry still lingers about its
ceremonial, a perfume of the Renaissance breathing beneath the
delicately moulded arches of the chapels decorated by Italian artists.
The faces of saints and angels outlined in rose tints upon a vaulted
roof of pale blue produce an effect of pagan allegory, which recalls the
sentimentality of Petrarch and the weird mysticism of Francesco Colonna.
Sylvie's brother and I were intruders in the festivities of the evening.
A person of noble birth, at that time proprietor of the demesne, had
invited the neighbouring families to witness a kind of allegorical
spectacle in which some of the inmates of the convent close by were to
take part. It was not intended to recall the tragedies of Saint Cyr, but
went back to the first lyric contests, introduced into France by the
Valois princes. What I saw enacted resembled an ancient mystery. The
costumes, consisting of long robes, presented no variety save in colour,
blue, hyacinth or gold. The scene lay between angels on the ruins of the
world. Each voice chanted one of the glories of the now extinct globe,
and the Angel of Death set forth the causes of its destruction. A spirit
rose from the abyss, holding a flaming sword, and convoked the others to
glorify the power of Christ, the conqueror of bell. This spirit was
Adrienne, transfigured by her costume as she was already by her
vocation. The nimbus of gilded cardboard encircling her angelic head
seemed to us a circle of light; her voice had gained in power and
compass, and an infinite variety of Italian trills relieved with their
bird-like warbling the stately severity of the recitative.
In recalling these details, I come to the point of asking myself, "Are
they real or have I dreamed them?" Sylvie's brother was not quite sober
that evening. We spent a few minutes in the keeper's house, where I was
much impressed by a cygnet displayed above the door, and within there
were tall chests of carved walnut, a large clock in its case and some
archery prizes, bows and arrows, above a red and green target. A
droll-looking dwarf in a Chinese cap, holding a bottle in one hand and a
ring in the other, seemed to warn the marksmen to take good aim. I think
the dwarf was cut out of sheet-iron. Did I really see Adrienne as surely
as I marked these details? I am, however, certain that it was the son of
the keeper who conducted us to the hall where the representation took
place; we were seated near the door behind a numerous company who seemed
deeply moved. It was the feast of Saint Bartholomew--a day strangely
linked with memories of the Medici, whose arms, impaled with those of
the House of Este, adorned these old walls. Is it an obsession, the way
these memories haunt me? Fortunately the carriage stops here on the road
to Plessis; I leave the world of dreams and find myself with only a
fifteen-minutes walk to reach Loisy by forest paths.
VIII
THE BALL AT LOISY.
I entered the ball of Loisy at that sad yet pleasing hour when the
lights flicker and grow dim at the approach of dawn. A faint bluish
tinge crept over the tops of the lime-trees, sunk in shadow below. The
rustic flute no longer contended so gayly with the trills of the
nightingale. The dancers all looked pale, and among the dishevelled
groups I distinguished with difficulty any familiar faces. Finally, I
recognized a tall girl, Sylvie's friend Lise.
"We have not seen you for a long time, Parisian," said she.
"Yes; a long time."
"And you come so late?"
"By coach."
"And you traveled slowly!"
"I came to see Sylvie; is she still here?"
"She will stay till morning; she loves to dance."
In a moment I was beside her; she looked tired, but her black eyes
sparkled with the same Athenian smile as of old. A young man stood near
her, but she refused by a gesture to join the next country-dance, and he
bowed to her and withdrew.
It began to grow light, and we left the ball hand in hand. The flowers
hung lifeless and faded in Sylvie's loosened tresses, and the nosegay at
her bosom dropped its petals on the crumpled lace made by her skilful
hands. I offered to walk home with her; it was broad day, but the sky
was cloudy. The Thève murmured on our left, leaving at every curve a
little pool of still water where yellow and white pond-lilies blossomed,
and lake star-worts, like Easter daisies, spread their delicate
broidery. The plain was covered with hay-ricks whose fragrance seemed
wafted to my brain, affecting me as the fresh scent of the woods and
hawthorn thickets had done in the past. This time neither of us thought
of crossing the meadows.
"Sylvie," said I, "you no longer love me."
She sighed. "My friend," she continued, "you must console yourself,
since things do not happen as we wish in this world. You once mentioned
the New Heloise; I read it, and shuddered when I found these words, at
the beginning: 'Any young girl who reads this book is lost.' However, I
kept on, trusting in my discretion. Do you remember the day we put on
the wedding clothes, at my aunt's house? The engravings in the book also
represented lovers dressed in olden costumes, so that to me you were
Saint-Preux and I was Julie. Ah! why did you not come back then? But
they said you were in Italy. You must have seen there far prettier girls
than I!"
"Not one, Sylvie, with your expression or the pure lines of your
profile. You do not know it, but you are a nymph of antiquity. Besides,
the woods here are as beautiful as those about Rome. There are granite
masses yonder, not less sublime, and a cascade which falls from the
rocks like that of Terni. I saw nothing there to regret here."
"And in Paris?" she asked.
"In Paris--" I shook my head, but did not answer. Suddenly I remembered
the vain shadow which I had pursued so long. "Sylvie," cried I, "let us
stop here, will you?"
I threw myself at her feet, and with hot tears I confessed my
irresolution and fickleness; I evoked the fatal spectre that haunted my
days.
"Save me!" I implored, "I come back to you forever."
She turned toward me with emotion, but at this moment our conversation
was interrupted by a loud burst of laughter, and Sylvie's brother
rejoined us with the boisterous mirth always attending a rustic
festival, and which the abundant refreshments of the evening had
stimulated beyond measure. He called to the gallant of the ball, who was
concealed in a thicket, but hastened to us. This youth was little firmer
on his feet than his companion, and appeared more embarrassed by the
presence of a Parisian than by Sylvie. His candid look and awkward
deference prevented any dislike on my part, on account of his dancing so
late with Sylvie at the ball; I did not consider him a dangerous rival.
"We must go in," said Sylvie to her brother. "We shall meet again soon,"
she said, as she offered me her cheek to kiss, at which the lover was
not offended.
IX.
HERMENONVILLE.
Not feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to Montagny to revisit my
uncle's house. Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its yellow
front and green shutters. Everything looked as before, but I was obliged
to go to the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters once open, I
surveyed with emotion the old furniture, polished from time to time, to
preserve its lustre, the tall cupboard of walnut, two Flemish paintings
said to be the work of an ancient artist, our ancestor, some large
prints after Boucher, and a whole series of framed engravings
representing scenes from "Emile" and the "New Heloise" by Moreau; on the
table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted, that I remembered alive, as
the companion of my forest rambles, perhaps the last "Carlin," for it
had belonged to that breed now extinct.
"As for the parrot," said the farmer, "he is still alive, and I took him
home with me."