"She was lovable, and he loved her. But he was not lovable, and she
did not love him."--_Old Play._
Madame! that old play is a tragedy, though the hero in it is neither
killed nor commits suicide. The eyes of the heroine are beautiful--very
beautiful--Madame, do you smell the perfume of violets?--very beautiful,
and yet so piercing that they struck like poignards of glass through my
heart and probably came out through my back--and yet I was not killed by
those treacherous, murderous eyes. The voice of the heroine was also
sweet--Madame, did you hear a nightingale just then?--a soft, silken
voice, a sweet web of the sunniest tones, and my soul was entangled in
it, and choked and tormented itself. I myself--it is the Count of Ganges
who now speaks, and the story goes on in Venice--I myself soon had
enough of these tortures, and had thoughts of putting an end to the play
in the first act, and of shooting myself through the head, fool's-cap
and all. I went to a fancy shop in the Via Burstah, where I saw a pair
of beautiful pistols in a case--I remember them perfectly well--near
them stood many pleasant playthings of mother-of-pearl and gold, steel
hearts on gilt chains, porcelain cups with delicate devices, and
snuff-boxes with pretty pictures, such as the divine history of
Susannah, the Swan Song of Leda, the Rape of the Sabines, Lucretia, a
fat, virtuous creature, with naked bosom, in which she was lazily
sticking a dagger; the late Bethmann, _la belle Ferronière_--all
enrapturing faces--but I bought the pistols without much ado, and then I
bought balls, then powder, and then I went to the restaurant of Signor
Somebody, and ordered oysters and a glass of Hock.
I could eat nothing, and still less could I drink. The warm tears fell
in the glass, and in that glass I saw my dear home, the holy, blue
Ganges, the ever-gleaming Himalaya, the giant banyan woods, amid whose
broad arcades calmly wandered wise elephants and white-robed pilgrims,
strange dream-like flowers gazed on me with meaning glance, wondrous
golden birds sang wildly, flashing sun-rays and the sweet, silly
chatter of monkeys pleasantly mocked me, from far pagodas sounded the
pious prayers of priests, and amid all rang the melting, wailing voice
of the Sultana of Delhi--she ran impetuously around in her carpeted
chamber, she tore her silver veil, with her peacock fan she struck the
black slave to the ground, she wept, she raged, she cried. I could not,
however, hear what she said; the restaurant of Signor Somebody is three
thousand miles distant from the Harem of Delhi, besides the fair Sultana
had been dead three thousand years--and I quickly drank up the wine, the
clear, joy-giving wine, and yet my soul grew darker and sadder--I was
condemned to death.
As I left the restaurant I heard the "bell of poor sinners" ring, a
crowd of people swept by me; but I placed myself at the corner of the
Strada San Giovanni, and recited the following monologue:--
"In ancient tales they tell of golden castles,
Where harps are sounding, lovely ladies dance,
And gay attendants gleam, and jessamine,
Myrtle, and roses spread their soft perfume--
And yet a single word of sad enchantment
Sweeps all the glory of the scene to naught,
And there remain but ruins old and grey,
And screaming birds of night and foul morass.
Even so have I, with but a single word,
Enchanted Nature's blooming loveliness.
There lies she now, lifeless and cold and pale,
Just like a monarch's corse laid out in state,
The royal deathly cheeks fresh stained with rouge,
And in his hand the kingly sceptre laid,
Yet still his lips are yellow and most changed,
For they forgot to dye them, as they should,
And mice are jumping o'er the monarch's nose,
And mock the golden sceptre in his grasp."
It is everywhere agreed, Madame, that one should deliver a soliloquy
before shooting himself. Most men, on such occasions, use Hamlet's "To
be, or not to be." It is an excellent passage, and I would gladly have
quoted it--but charity begins at home, and when a man has written
tragedies himself, in which such farewell-to-life speeches occur, as,
for instance, in my immortal _Almansor_, it is very natural that one
should prefer his own words even to Shakespeare's. At any rate, the
delivery of such speeches is a very useful custom; one gains at least a
little time. And so it came to pass that I remained a rather long time
standing at the corner of the Strada San Giovanni--and as I stood there
like a condemned criminal awaiting death, I raised my eyes, and suddenly
beheld _her_.
She wore her blue silk dress and rose-red hat, and her eyes looked at me
so mildly, so death-conqueringly, so life-givingly--Madame, you well
know, out of Roman history, that when the vestals in ancient Rome met on
their way a malefactor led to death, they had the right to pardon him,
and the poor rogue lived. With a single glance she saved me from death,
and I stood before her revived, and dazzled by the sunbeams of her
beauty, and she passed on--and left me alive.