RAYMOND DE VILLIERS _to_ M. EDGAR DE MEILHAN,
Richeport, near Pont de l'Arche (Eure).
GRENOBLE, Hotel of the Prefecture, May 22d 18--.
Do not expect me, dear Edgar, I shall not be at Richeport the 24th. When
shall I? I cannot tell.
I write to you from a bed of pain, bruised, wounded, burnt, half dead.
It served me right, you will say, on learning that I am here for the
commission of the greatest crime that can be tried before your tribunal.
It is only too true--I have saved the life of an ugly woman!
But I saved her at night, when I innocently supposed her beautiful--let
this be the extenuating circumstance. That no delay may attend your
decision, here is the whole story.
Travel from pole to pole--wander to and fro over the world, it is not
impossible, by God's help, to escape the thousand and one annoyances
that are scattered over the surface of this terraqueous globe, but it is
impossible, go where you will, to evade England, the gayest nation to be
found, especially in travelling.
At Rome, this winter, Lord K. told me seriously that he had set out from
London, some years since, with the one object of finding some corner of
the earth on which no foot had ever trod before, and there to fix the
first glorious impress of a British boot. The English occasionally, for
amusement, indulge in such notions.
After having examined a scale of the comparative heights of the
mountains of the universe, he noted the two highest points. Lord K.
first reached the Peruvian Andes, and began to climb the sides of
Chimborazo with that placidity, that sang-froid, which is the
characteristic of an elevated soul instinctively attracted to realms
above.
Reaching the summit with torn feet and bleeding hands, he was about to
fix a conqueror's grasp upon the rock, when he saw in one of the
crevices a heap of visiting-cards, placed there successively, during a
half century, by two or three hundred of his compatriots.
Disappointed but not discouraged, Lord K. drew from his case a shining,
satiny card, and having gravely added it to the many others, began to
descend Chimborazo with the same coolness and deliberation that he had
climbed up.
Half way down he found himself face to face with Sir Francis P., about
to attempt the ascent that Lord K. had just accomplished. Although
alienated by difference of party, they were old friends, dating their
acquaintance, I believe, from the University of Oxford.
Without appearing astonished at so unexpected an encounter, they bowed
politely, and on Chimborazo, as in politics, went their separate ways.
Betrayed by the New World, Lord K. directed his steps towards the Old.
He penetrated the heart of Asia, plunged into the Dobrudja region, and
paused only at the foot of Tschamalouri, upon the borders of Bootan. It
is fair that I should thus visit on you the formidable erudition
inflicted upon me by Milord.
You must know, then, dear Edgar, that the Tschamalouri is the highest
peak of the Himalayan group.
The Jungfrau, Mount Blanc, Mount Cervin, and Mount Rosa, piled one upon
the other, would make at best but a stepping-stone to it. Judge, then,
of Milord's transports in the presence of this giant, whose hoary head
was lost in the clouds! They might rob him of Chimborazo, but
Tschamalouri was his.
After a few days for repose and preparation, one fine morning at
sunrise, behold Milord commencing the ascent, with the proud
satisfaction of a lover who sees his rival dancing attendance in the
antechamber while he glides unseen up the secret stairway with a key to
the boudoir in his pocket.
He journeyed up, and on the first day had passed the region of
tempests. Passing the night in his cloak, he began again his task at the
dawn of day.
Nothing dismayed him--no obstacle discouraged him. He bounded like a
chamois from ridge to ridge, he crawled like a snake and hung like a
vine from the sharp arêtes--wounds and lacerations covered his
body--after scorching he froze. The eagles whirled about his head and
flapped their wings in his face. But on he went. His lungs, distended by
the rarified atmosphere, threatened to burst with an explosion akin to a
steamboat's. Finally, after superhuman efforts, bleeding, panting,
gasping for breath, Milord sank exhausted upon the rocks.
What a labor! but what a triumph! what a struggle! but what a conquest!
The thought of being able, the coming winter, to boast of having carved
his name where, until then, God alone had written his.
And Sir Francis! who would not fail to plume himself on the joint favors
of Chimborazo, how humiliated he would be to learn that Lord K., more
fastidious in his amours, more exalted in his ambition, had not, four
thousand fathoms above sea, feared to pluck the rose of Tschamalouri!
I remember that the first night I passed in Rome I heard in my sleep a
mysterious voice murmuring at my pillow: "Rome! Rome! thou art in Rome!"
Milord, shattered, sore and helpless, also heard a charming voice
singing sweetly in his ear: "Thou art stretched full length upon the
summit of Tschamalouri."
This melody insensibly affected him as the balm of Fier-à-Bras. He
rallied, he arose, and with radiant face, sparkling eyes and bosom
swelling with pride, drew a poniard from its sheath and prepared to cut
his name upon the rock. Suddenly he turned pale, his limbs gave way
under him, the knife dropped from his grasp and fell blunted upon the
rocks. What had he seen? What could have happened to so agitate him in
these inaccessible regions?
There, upon the tablet of granite where he was about to inscribe the
name of his ancestors, he read, unhappy man, distinctly read, these two
names distinctly cut in the flint, "William and Lavinia," with the
following inscription, in English, underneath: "Here, July 25th, 1831,
two tender hearts communed."
Surmounting the whole was a flaming double heart pierced by an arrow, an
arrow that then pierced three hearts at once. The rock was covered
besides with more than fifty names, all English, and as many
inscriptions, all English too, of a kindred character to the one he had
read. Milord's first impulse was to throw himself head foremost down the
mountain side; but, fortunately, raising his eyes in his despair, he
discovered a final plateau, so steep that neither cat nor lizard could
climb it. Lord K. became a bird and flew up, and what did he see? Oh,
the vanity of human ambition! Upon the last round of the most gigantic
ladder, extending from earth to heaven, Milord perceived Sir Francis,
who, having just effected the same ascent from the other side of the
colossus, was quietly reading the "Times" and breakfasting upon a chop
and a bottle of porter!
The two friends coolly saluted each other, as they had before done on
the side of Chimborazo; then, with death in his heart, but impassive and
grave, Lord K. silently drew forth a box of conserves, a flask of ale
and a copy of the "Standard." The repast and the two journals being
finished, the tourists separated and descended, each on his own side,
without having exchanged a word.
Lord K. has never forgiven Sir Francis; they accuse each other of
plagiarism, a mortal hatred has sprung up between them, and thus
Tschamalouri finished what politics began.
I had this story from Lord K. himself, who drags out a disenchanted and
gloomy existence, which would put an end to itself had he not in present
contemplation a journey to the moon; still he is half convinced that he
would find Sir Francis there.
Entertain your mother with this story, it would be improved by your
narration.
You must agree with me that if the English grow four thousand fathoms
above the sea, the plant must necessarily thrive on the plains and the
low countries. It is acclimated everywhere, like the strawberry, without
possessing its sweet savor.
Italy is, I believe, the land where it best flourishes. There I have
traversed fields of English, sown everywhere, mixed with a few Italians.
But I would have been happy if I had encountered only Englishmen along
my route. Some poet has said that England is a swan's nest in the midst
of the waves. Alas! how few are the swans that come to us at long
intervals, compared with the old ostriches in bristling plumage, and the
young storks with their long, thin necks that flock to us.
When in Rome only a few hours, and wandering through the Campo Vaccino,
I found among the ruins one I did not seek. It was Lady Penock. I had
met her so often that I could not fail to know her name. Edgar, you know
Lady Penock; it is impossible that you should not. But if not, it is
easy for you to picture her to yourself. Take a keepsake, pick out one
of those faces more beautiful than the fairies of our dreams, so lovely
that it might be doubted whether the painter found his model among the
daughters of earth. Passionate lover of form, feast your eye upon the
graceful curve of that neck, those shoulders; gaze upon that pure brow
where grace and youth preside; bathe your soul in the soft brightness of
that blue and limpid glance; bend to taste the perfumed breath of that
smiling mouth; tremble at the touch of those blonde tresses, twined in
bewildering mazes behind the head and falling over the temples in waving
masses; fervent worshipper at the shrine of beauty, fall into ecstasies;
then imagine the opposite of this charming picture, and you have Lady
Penock.
This apparition, in the centre of the ancient forum, completely upset my
meditations. J.J. Rousseau says in his Confessions that he forgot Mme.
de Larnage in seeing the Pont du Gard. So I forgot the Coliseum at the
sight of Lady Penock. Explain, dear Edgar, what fatality attended my
steps, that ever afterwards this baleful beauty pursued me?
Under the arches of the Coliseum, beneath the dome of St. Peter, in
Pagan Rome and in Catholic Rome, in front of the Laocöon, before the
Communion of St. Jerome, by Dominichino, on the banks of Lake Albano,
under the shades of the Villa Borghese, at Tivoli in the Sibyl's temple,
at Subiaco in the Convent of St. Benoit, under every moon and by every
sun I saw her start up at my side. To get away from her I took flight
and travelled post to Tuscany. I found her at the foot of the falls of
Terni, at the tomb of St. Francis d'Assise, under Hannibal's gate at
Spoletta, at the table d'hote Perouse at Arezzo, on the threshold of
Petrarch's house; finally, the first person I met in the Piazza of the
Grand Duke at Florence, before the Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini, Edgar,
was Lady Penock. At Pisa she appeared to me in the Campo Santo; in the
Gulf of Genoa her bark came near capsizing mine; at Turin I found her at
the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities; her and no one else! And, what was
so amusing, my Lady on seeing me became agitated, blushed and looked
down, and believing herself the object of an ungovernable passion, she
mumbled through her long teeth, "Shocking! Shocking!"
Tired of war, I bade adieu to Italy and crossed the mountains; besides,
dear country, I sighed to see you once more. I passed through Savoy and
when I saw the mountains of Dauphiny loom up against the distant horizon
my heart beat wildly, my eyes filled with tears, and I felt like a
returning exile, and know not what false pride restrained me from
springing to the ground and kissing the soil of France!
Hail! noble and generous land, the home of intelligence and of liberty!
On touching thee the soul swells within us, the mind expands; no child
of thine can return to thy bosom without a throb of holy joy, a feeling
of noble pride. I passed along filled with delirious happiness. The
trees smiled on me, the winds whispered softly in my ear, the little
flowers that carpeted the wayside welcomed me; it required an effort to
restrain myself from embracing as brothers the noble fellows that passed
me on the way.
Then, Edgar, I was to find you again, and it was the spot of my
birthplace, the paternal acres which in our common land seem to us a
second country.
The night was dark, no moon, no stars; I had just left Grenoble and was
passing through Voreppe, a little village not without some importance
because in the neighborhood of the Grande Chartreuse, which, at this
season of the year, attracts more curiosity-hunters than
believers--suddenly the horses stopped, I heard a rumbling noise
outside, and a crimson glare lighted up the carriage windows. I might
have taken it for sunset, if the sun had not set long since.
I got out and found the only inn of the village on fire; great was the
confusion in the small hamlet, there was a general screaming, struggling
and running about. The innkeeper with his wife, children, and servants
emptied the stables and barns. The horses neighed, the oxen bellowed,
and the pigs, feeling that they were predestined to be roasted anyhow,
offered to their rescuers an obstinate and philosophical resistance.
Meantime the notables of the place, formed in groups, discussed
magisterially the origin of a fire which no one made an effort to stay.
Left alone, it brightened the night, fired the surrounding hills and
shot its jets and rockets of sparks far into the sky. You, a poet, would
have thought it fine. Sublime egotist that you are, everything is
effect, color, mirages, decorations. Endeavoring to make myself useful
in this disaster, I thought I heard it whispered around me that some
travellers remained in the inn, who, if not already destroyed, were
seriously threatened.
Among others a young stranger was mentioned who had come that day from
the Grande Chartreuse, which she had been visiting. I went straight to
the innkeeper who was dragging one of his restive pigs by the tail,
reminding me of one of the most ridiculous pictures of Charlet. "All
right," said the man, "all the travellers are gone, and as to those who
remain--" "Then some do remain?" I asked, and by insisting learned that
an Englishwoman occupied a room in the second story.
I hate England--I hate it absurdly, in true, old-fashioned style. To me
England is still "Perfidious Albion."
You may laugh, but I hate in proportion to the love I bear my country. I
hate because my heart has always bled for the wounds she has opened in
the bosom of France. Yes, but coward is he who has the ability to save a
fellow-creature, yet folds his arms, deaf to pity! My enemy in the jaws
of death is my brother. If need be I would jump into the flood to save
Sir Hudson Lowe, free to challenge him afterwards, and try to kill him
as I would a dog.
The ground-floor of the inn was enveloped in flames. I took a ladder,
and resting it against the sill, I mounted to the window that had been
pointed out to me. On the hospitable soil of France a stranger must not
perish for want of a Frenchman to save him. Like Anthony, with one blow
I broke the glass and raised the sash; I found myself in a passage that
the fire had not reached. I sprang towards a door.--an excited voice
said, "Don't come in." I entered, looked around for the young stranger,
and, immortal gods! what did I see? In the charming négligé of a beauty
suddenly awakened,--you are right, it was she. Yes, my dear fellow, it
was Lady Penock--Lady Penock, who recognised and screamed furiously!
"Madame," said I, turning away with a sincere and proper feeling of
respect, "you are mistaken. The house is on fire, and if you do not
leave it"--"You! you!" she cried, "have set fire to it, like Lovelace,
to carry me off." "Madame," said I, "we have no time to lose." The floor
smoked under our feet, the rafters cracked over our heads, the flames
roared at the door, delay was dangerous; so, in spite of the eternal
refrain that sounded like the crying of a bird,--"Shocking! shocking!" I
dragged Lady Penock from behind the bed where she cowered to escape my
wild embraces, picked her up as if she were a stick of dry wood, and
bearing the precious burden, appeared at the top of the ladder.
Meanwhile the fire raged, the flames and the smoke enveloped us on all
sides. "For pity's sake, madame," said I, "don't scream and kick so." My
lady screamed all the louder and struggled all the worse. When half way
down the ladder she said, "Young man, go back immediately, I have
forgotten something very valuable to me." At these words the roof fell
in, the walls crumbled away, the ladder shook, the earth opened under my
feet, and I felt as if I were falling into the abyss of Taenarus.