Image of Saint John. They usually give me a neat room hung with old
tapestry, with a glass between the windows. This room shows a return to
the fashion for bric-à-brac which I renounced long ago. I sleep
comfortably under the eider-down covering used there. In the morning,
when I throw open the casement wreathed with vines and roses, I gaze
with rapture upon a wide green landscape stretching away to the
horizon, where a line of poplars stand like sentinels. Here and there
the villages nestle guarded by their protecting church-spires. First
Othys, then Eve and Ver; Hermenonville would be visible beyond the wood,
if it had a belfry, but in that philosophic spot the church has been
neglected. Having filled my lungs with the pure air of these uplands, I
go down stairs in good humour and start for the pastry-cook's. "Helloa,
big Curly-head!" "Helloa, little Parisian!" We greet each other with sly
punches in the ribs as we did in childhood, then I climb a certain stair
where two children welcome my coming. Sylvie's Athenian smile lights up
her classic features, and I say to myself: "Here, perhaps, is the
happiness I have missed, and yet...."
Sometimes I call her Lotty, and she sees in me some resemblance to
Werther without the pistols, which are out of fashion now. While Big
Curly-head is busy with the breakfast, we take the children for a walk
through the avenues of limes that border the ruins of the old brick
towers of the castle. While the little ones practise with their bows and
arrows, we read some poem or a few pages from one of those old books all
too short, and long forgotten by the world.
I forgot to say that when Aurélie's troupe gave a performance at
Dammartin, I took Sylvie to the play and asked her if she did not think
the actress resembled someone she knew.
"Whom, pray?"
"Do you remember Adrienne?"
She laughed merrily, in reply. "What an idea!"
Then, as if in self-reproach, she added with a sigh: "Poor Adrienne! she
died at the convent of Saint S---- about 1832."
APPENDIX.
'_EL DESDICHADO._'
_Gérard DE NERVAL._
_I am that dark, that disinherited._
_That all dishonoured Prince of Aquitaine,_
_The Star upon my scutcheon long hath fled;_
_A black sun on my lute doth yet remain!_
_Oh, thou that didst console me not in vain,_
_Within the tomb, among the midnight dead,_
_Show me Italian seas, and blossoms wed,_
_The rose, the vine-leaf, and the golden grain._
_Say, am I Love or Phoebus? have I been_
_Or Lusignan or Biron? By a Queen_
_Caressed within the Mermaid's haunt I lay,_
_And twice I crossed the unpermitted stream,_
_And touched on Orpheus' lute as in a dream,_
_Sighs of a Saint, and laughter of a Fay!_
(ANDREW LANG.)
TO ALEXANDER DUMAS.
When it was currently reported that Gérard de Nerval had become
insane, Alexander Dumas, who was then publishing that amusing
journal _Le Mousquetaire,_ endeavored to explain and interpret the
poet's peculiar form of mental alienation. Gérard, who presently
came to himself, as was his wont, took note of the study, and in
return dedicated to Dumas his _Filles du Feu_, thus acknowledging
the obligation conferred by the great novelist in inditing the
epitaph of the poet's "lost wits."
This dedication, now done into English for the first time, is
interesting and important, as embodying the author's own
interpretation of his singular mental constitution. He confesses
that he is unable to compose without incarnating himself in his
creations so thoroughly as to lose his own identity. In
illustration, he throws into the text the tragic history of a
mythical hero. It is easy to trace in this story of a nameless
prince, unable to prove his lofty origin, involved in a network of
misfortunes through the crafty machinations of the arch plotter La
Rancune (malice) and abandoned by his mistress, the beautiful
guiding Star of his destiny, allegorical allusions to the poet, the
heir of genius and of glory, unable to prove or justify his noble
birthright, his highest impulses misunderstood and trampled upon by
a heartless and vulgar world.
LUCIE PAGE.
I dedicate this book to you, my dear Master, as I dedicated _Lorely_ to
Jules Janin. I was indebted to him for the same service that I owe to
you. A few years ago, it was reported that I was dead, and he wrote my
biography. A few days ago, I was thought to have lost my reason, and you
honoured me by devoting some of your most graceful lines to the epitaph
of my intelligence. Such an inheritance of glory has fallen to me before
my time. How shall I venture, yet living, to deck my forehead with these
shining crowns? It becomes me to assume an air of modesty and beg the
public to accept, with suitable deductions, the eulogy bestowed upon my
ashes, or rather upon the lost wits contained in the bottle which, like
Astolpho, I have been to seek in the moon, and which, I trust, I have
now restored to their normal place in the seat of thought.
Being, therefore, no longer mounted upon the hippogriff, and having, in
the popular conception, recovered what is vulgarly termed reason,--let
us proceed to the exercise of that faculty.
Here is a fragment of what you wrote concerning me, the tenth of last
December:
"As you can readily perceive, he possesses a subtle and highly
cultivated intellect, in which is manifested from time to time a
singular phenomenon which, fortunately, let us hope, has no serious
import to himself or his friends. At intervals, when preoccupied by
literary toil, imagination goaded to frenzy masters reason and drives it
from the brain; then, like an opium-smoker of Cairo, or a hashish-eater
of Algiers, Gérard finds again the talismans that evoke spirits. Now he
is King Solomon waiting for the Queen of Sheba; then by turns Sultan of
the Crimea, Count of Abyssinia, Duke of Egypt, or Baron of Smyrna. Next
day, he declares himself mad and relates the whole series of events from
which his madness sprung, with such a joyous abandon, such an ingenious
fertility of resource that one is ready to part with his wits in order
to follow such a fascinating guide through the desert of dreams and
hallucinations, sprinkled with oases fresher and greener than any which
dot the route from Alexandria to Ammon. Finally, melancholy becomes his
muse of inspiration, and now, restrain your tears if you can, for never
did Werther, René, or Antony pour forth sobs and complaints more tender
and pathetic!"
I shall now endeavour to explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon
which you mention above. There are, as you well know, certain writers
who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the creations of
their imagination. You remember with what conviction our old friend
Nodier related how he had the misfortune to be guillotined in the
Revolution. The narrative was so convincing that we wondered
instinctively how he had contrived to fasten his head on again.
Understand, therefore, that the ardour of production may conduce to a
like result, that the author incarnates himself, as it were, in the hero
of his imagination so completely that he loses himself and burns with
the imaginary flames of this hero's love and ambition! This was
precisely the effect produced upon me in narrating the history of a
personage who figured under the title of Brisacier, about the time of
Louis XV, I believe. Where did I read the fatal biography of this
adventurer? I have found again that of the Abbé of Bucquoy, but I cannot
recall the slightest historical proof of the existence of this
illustrious unknown. What for you, dear Master, would have been but a
pastime,--you, who have with clever artifices so bewildered our minds
concerning the old chronicles, that posterity will never be able to
disentangle truth from fiction, and is certain to credit your invention
with all the characters from history that figure in your romances--this
became for me a veritable obsession. To invent, is in reality only to
recollect, says a certain moralist. Finding no proofs of the material
existence of my hero, I suddenly came to believe in the transmigration
of souls, not less firmly than Pythagoras or Peter Leroux. Even the
eighteenth century, in which I believed myself to have lived, was full
of these illusions. Do you remember that courtier who recalled
distinctly that he was once a sofa? Whereupon Schahabaham exclaimed with
enthusiasm, "What, you were once a sofa! why, that is delightful!--Tell
me, were you embroidered?"
As for me, I was embroidered at every seam. From the moment when I first
grasped the continuity of all my previous existences, I figured as
readily in one character as another, prince, king, mage, genie, or even
god; could I unite my memories in one masterpiece, it would represent
the Dream of Scipio, the Vision of Tasso or the Divine Comedy of Dante.
Renouncing, henceforth, all pretensions to inspiration or illumination,
I can offer only what you so justly call impracticable theories, an
impossible book, whose first chapter, subjoined below, seems but to
furnish the context of the Comic Romance of Scarron.... Read and judge
for yourself:
A TRAGIC ROMANCE.
Here I still languish in my prison, Madame, still rash and culpable and
alas! still trusting in that beautiful _star_ of comedy, which, for one
brief instant, deigned to call me her _destiny_ The Star and its
Destiny! what a charming couple to figure in a romance like the poet
Scarron's! And yet, how difficult we should find it to sustain the two
characters now! The heavy vehicles which used to jolt us over the uneven
pavements of Mons, have been superseded by coach, post-chaise and other
new inventions. Where shall we find to-day those wild adventures, that
gay, Bohemian life that united us, poets and actresses, as comrades and
equals? You have betrayed and deserted us, and left us to perish in some
miserable inn, while you share the fortunes of some rich and gallant
lord. Here, in sooth, am I, but lately the brilliant actor, the prince
in disguise, the disinherited son and the banished lover, no better
treated than some provincial rhymer! My countenance disfigured by an
enormous plaster only adds to my discomfiture. The landlord, tempted by
the plausible story poured into his ears by La Rancune, has consented to
hold as security for the settlement of his account the person of the son
of the great Khan of the Crimea, sent here to finish his education and
well known throughout Christian Europe as Brisacier. Had the old
intriguer, La Rancune, left me a few gold pieces, or even a paltry watch
set with false brilliants, I could, doubtless, have won the respect of
my accusers and extricated myself from this unfortunate situation. But
in addition, you have left my wardrobe furnished only with a
puce-coloured smock-coat, a blue and black striped waist-coat and small
clothes in a doubtful state of repair. The suspicions of the landlord
were awakened upon lifting my valise after your departure, and he
insulted me to my face by calling me an imposter, and a _contraband
prince_, I sprang up to stab him, but La Rancune had removed my sword,
fearing lest despair on account of the ungrateful mistress who has
abandoned me, might lead me to thrust it through my heart. This
precaution was needless, O La Rancune! An actor never stabs himself with
the sword that he has worn in many a comedy; nor does he who is himself
the hero of tragedy ape the hero of a romance. I call all my comrades to
witness that such a death could never be represented with dignity upon
the stage. I know that one may plant his sword in the earth and fall
upon it with outstretched arms; but in spite of the cold weather, I have
here a bare floor with no carpet. The window, too, is wide enough and at
sufficient height to aid in putting an end to all despair. But ... but
as I have told you a thousand times, I am an actor with a conscience.
Do you remember how I used to play Achilles, when in passing through
some third or fourth-rate town, the whim would seize us to re-establish
the neglected cult of the old French tragedians? Was I not noble and
puissant in the gilded helmet with streaming locks of purple blackness,
the glittering armor and azure cloak? What a spectacle to see a father
as weak and cowardly as Agamemnon contend with the priest Calchas for
the honour of immolating such a victim as poor, weeping Iphigenia! I
rushed like a thunderbolt into the midst of the forced and cruel action;
I restored hope to the mothers and reawakened courage in the daughters,
always sacrificed from a sense of duty, to stay the anger of a god,
allay the vengeance of a nation, or advance the interests of a family.
For it is easy to recognize here the eternal type of human marriage. The
father will forevermore deliver up his daughter through ambition, and
the mother will sell her through cupidity; but the lover is not always
the worthy Achilles, so gallant and terrible, albeit a trifle too
rhetorical for a man of war!
As for me, I often rebelled against declaiming long tirades in defense
of a course so evidently just, in the face of an audience so easily
convinced that I was in the right. I was tempted to stab the whole
idiotic court of the king of kings, with its sleepy rows of
super-numeraries, and so put an end to the piece. The public would have
been delighted, but on second thoughts would have found the play too
short, considering that time sufficient to witness the sufferings of a
princess, a lover and a queen, was its rightful due; a period long
enough to see them weep, rage and pour forth a torrent of poetic
invective against the established authority of priest and king. That was
well worth five acts and two hours of close attention, and the audience
would not content itself with less. It desires the humiliation of this
proud race seated upon the throne of Greece, before whom Achilles
himself dares to thunder but in words; it must sound all the depths of
misery hidden beneath this royal purple whose majesty seems so
irresistible. The tears which fall from the most glorious eyes in the
world upon the swelling bosom of Iphigenia, excite the crowd no less
than her beauty, her grace and the splendour of her royal robes. Listen
to the sweet voice that pleads for life with the touching reminder that,
as yet, she stands but upon its threshold. Who does not favour her
lover? Who could wish to see her slain? Great gods, what heart so hard!
None, surely!... On the contrary, the whole audience has already
decided that she must die for the general good rather than live for one
individual. Achilles seems to all too grand, too superb! Shall Iphigenia
be borne away by this Thessalian vulture, as, not long ago, the daughter
of Leda was stolen by a shepherd prince from the voluptuous shores of
Asia? This is the question of paramount importance to the Greeks and to
the audience as well, which takes our measure when we act the part of
hero. I felt myself as much an object of hatred to the men as of
admiration to the women when I thus played the part of victorious lover,
because it was no indifferent actress, taught to listlessly drone those
immortal verses, that I was defending, but a true Greek maiden, a pearl
of grace, purity and love, worthy, indeed, to be rescued by all human
efforts from the hands of the jealous gods. Not Iphigenia alone, she was
Junia, Berenice, all the heroines rendered illustrious by the fair blue
eyes of Mlle. de Champmeslé, or the charming graces of the noble maidens
of Saint Cyr. Poor Aurélie! My comrade and my sister, wilt thou never
regret those hours of triumph and rapture? Didst thou not love me for an
instant, cold star, when I fought and wept and suffered for thee? The
audience questioned nightly: "Who, pray, is this actress, so far beyond
all that we have ever applauded? Are we not mistaken? Is she really as
young, as dazzling, and as pure as she seems?" The young women envied,
criticised or admired sadly. As for me, I needed to see her constantly,
so as not to feel overpowered by her beauty and to be able to meet her
eyes whenever the exigencies of the plot demanded....
This is why Achilles was my triumph, although I was often embarrassed in
other parts. What a pity that I could not change the situations to suit
me, and sacrifice even the thoughts of genius to my love and respect!
The character of a timid and captive lover like Britannicus or Bajazet,
did not please me. The purple of the young Caesar attracted me more; but
what a misfortune to declaim in conclusion only cold and perfidious
speeches! What! Was this young Nero, the idol of Rome, the handsome
athlete, the dancer, the poet whose only wish was to please the
populace? Is this what history and the conceptions of our poets have
left of him? Ah! give me his fury to interpret; his power I would fear
to accept. Nero! I have comprehended thee, not alas! according to
Racine, but according to my own heart, torn with agony whenever I have
ventured to impersonate thee! Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst
have burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since Rome had insulted
thee!...
A hiss, a miserable hiss, in her presence, and because of her! A hiss of
scorn which she attributes to herself--through my mistake, be it
understood! Alas! my friends, for an instant, I felt an impulse to show
myself truly great, immortal, upon the stage of your theatre. Instead of
replying to the insult by another, which brought upon me the assault
from which I still suffer, instead of provoking a vulgar audience to
rush upon the scene and cowardly beat and belabour me, I held for a
moment a sublime purpose, worthy of Caesar himself, a purpose which none
could hesitate to pronounce in harmony with the dramatic conceptions of
the great Racine himself! I thought to set fire to the theatre, and
while the audience perished in the flames, bear away Aurélie in my arms,
her disheveled tresses streaming over her disordered dress. O remorse
that fills my feverish nights and days of agony! What! I might have done
this and I refrained! What! Do ye still insult me, ye, who owe your
lives to pity, rather than any fear on my part? I might have burned them
all! Judge for yourselves: the theatre of P---- has but one exit; ours
opened upon a little street in the rear, but the green-room, where you
were all assembled, is on the other side of the stage. In order to set
fire to the curtain, I had only to snatch down one of the lamps; I ran
no risk of detection, for the manager could not see me and I was alone
listening to the insipid dialogue between Britannicus and Junia, waiting
for my cue to reappear; all through that scene I was struggling with
myself, and when I entered upon the stage I was turning and twisting in
my fingers a glove that I had picked up; I expected to avenge myself
more nobly than Caesar himself of an insult that I had felt with all the
heart of a Caesar.... Ah, well! the cowards dared not begin again; my
glance confounded them, and I was on the point of pardoning the
audience, if not Junia herself, when she dared.... Immortal gods!...
Hold, let me speak my mind! ... Yes, since that night, it is my delusion
to imagine myself a Roman, an emperor; I have identified myself with my
part, and the tunic of Nero clings to my burning limbs as that of the
centaur to the dying Hercules. Let us jest no more with sacred things,
not even those of an age and nation long since past, lest perchance some
tongue of flame yet quiver in the ashes of the gods of Rome!...
Consider, friends, that in this scene more than a mere repetition of
measured lines was involved and three hearts contended with equal
chances, where as in the arena, life-blood itself might flow! The
audience, that of a small town where there are no secrets, knew it well;
those women, many of them ready to fall at my feet, could I be false to
my one love, those men all jealous of me on her account, and the third,
well chosen for the part of Britannicus, the poor, stammering suitor,
who trembled before me in her presence, but who was destined to be my
conqueror in that fearful contest where all the honours were reserved
for the latest comer.... Ah! the no-vice in love knew his part well....
However, he had nothing to fear, for I am too just to condemn another
for the same love that I feel myself; in this particular, I am far
removed from the ideal monster of the poet Racine; I could burn Rome
without hesitation, but, in saving Junia, I should also save my brother,
Britannicus.
Yes, my brother, yes, frail child of art and fancy like myself, thou
hast conquered in the struggle, having merited the prize for which we
two contended. Heaven preserve me from taking advantage of my age,
strength, or the fierce courage of returning health to question the
choice or the caprice of her, the all-powerful, impartial divinity of my
dreams and life!... I only feared, for a time, lest my defeat profit
thee nothing and the gay suitors of the town wrest from us both the
prize lost only for me.
The letter which I have just received from La Caverne reassures me fully
on that point. She advises me to renounce an art for which I have no
capacity and which is incompatible with my necessities. The jest, in
sooth, is bitter, for never did I stand in greater need, if not of my
art, at least of its swift returns. This is just the point that you do
not understand. You consider that you have acquitted yourself of all
obligations toward me in recommending me to the authorities of Soissons
as a distinguished personage, whom his family cannot abandon, but whose
violent illness has forced you to leave him behind in your journey. Your
tool, La Rancune, presented himself at the town hall and the inn with
all the airs of a Spanish grandee forced by unpleasant circumstances to
spend a couple of nights in such a disagreeable place; the rest of you
obliged to leave P---- the day after my disaster, had, as I conceive, no
reason to allow yourselves to pass merely for disreputable players: it
is quite enough to wear that mask in places where no other course is
possible. As for me, what can I say, how shall I extricate myself from
the infernal network of conspiracy in which I find myself caught and
held through the machinations of La Rancune? The famous couplet from
Corneille's "Menteur" assuredly aided him in his invention for the wit
of such a rascal as he never reached such a pitch. Think for a
moment.... But what can I tell you that you do not know already and have
not devised together to ruin me? Have not the white fingers of the
ingrate who is the cause of all my misfortunes, tangled inextricably all
the silken threads that she could weave about her poor victim?... What a
master-plot! Ah, well! I am a captive and I confess it; I yield and
implore mercy. You can take me back without fear now, and if the rapid
post-chaises that bore you swiftly over the Flanders' route, three
months ago, have already given place to the humble equipages of our
first adventures, deign at least to receive me in the quality of monster
or phenomenon, fit to draw the crowd, and I promise to acquit myself of
these duties in a manner calculated to appease the most exacting amateur
of the province.... Answer immediately and I will send a trusty
messenger to bring me the letter from the post, as I fear the curiosity
of mine host....
BRISACIER.
How dispose now of this hero deserted by his mistress and his
companions? Is he, in truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished
for insulting the public, for indulging in his mad jealousy and alleging
ridiculous claims? How can he prove that he is the legitimate son of the
Khan of the Crimea, according to the crafty recital of La Rancune? How,
from the depths of misery where he is plunged, can he rise to the
highest destiny? These are points which would, doubtless, trouble you
but little, but which have thrown my mind into a strange disorder. Once
persuaded that I was writing my own history, I was touched by this love
for a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark night of my destiny; I
have wept and shuddered over these visions. Then a ray divine illumined
my _inferno_; surrounded by dim and monstrous shapes of horror against
which I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic clue, the thread
of Ariadne, and since then all my visions have become celestial. One
day, I shall write the history of this "Descent to Hades," and you will
see that it has not been entirely devoid of reason, if it has always
been wanting in fact. And, since you have been so rash as to cite one of
my sonnets composed in this state of supernatural trance, as the Germans
call it, you must hear the rest. You will find them among my poems. They
are little more obscure than the metaphysics of Hegel or the Visions of
Swedenborg, and would lose their charm with any attempt at explanation,
were that possible;--probably my last illusion will be that of thinking
myself a poet; criticism must dispel it.
1854.
End of Project Gutenberg's Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois, by Gérard de Nerval