hospital close by--I was on the staff there for the matter of that. He
had pneumonia. They were all very kind to the old gentleman, both the
doctors and the students, and dear Soeur Philomene managed matters so
successfully that she got a private room for him. He continued delirious
the whole of that day and night, but towards morning he became conscious
and recognised me. He then insisted on returning at once to his own
quarters, but quieted down considerably on being told he was in a
private room, and that he was quite independent of all the other
patients. After some hesitation he inquired what he would have to pay,
and I answered him I did not think the hospital could charge him
anything, as the _Societe des Auteurs Dramatiques_ was entitled to a
free bed, and I doubted whether it would be the right thing to refuse to
avail himself of this privilege, as of course every one knew who he
was. Soeur Philomene, who stood behind his pillow, shook her finger
reprovingly at my little white lie, but I could well see by the
expression of her eyes that she forgave me. I had touched the poor old
author's most sensitive chord; with keenest interest he made me repeat
over and over again what I had said about the _Societe des Auteurs
Dramatiques_ and a faint smile of content lit up his faded old face when
at last I had succeeded in making him believe me. From that moment he
seemed quite pleased and satisfied with everything, and he did not
realise himself how rapidly he was sinking. According to his wish, a
little table with writing materials had been placed beside his bed, but
he had not yet tried to write anything.
The night had been worse than usual, and during the morning round I
noticed that Soeur Philomene had hung a little crucifix at the head of
his bed. He lay there quite silent the whole day, once only when he was
given his broth he asked for the name of the most rapid poison, and
Soeur Philomene thought it was prussic acid.
Towards evening he became more feverish, and his eyes began to be
restless. He begged me to sit down beside him, and after swearing me
over to secrecy he unveiled to me the plot of his new tragedy where the
rival gives prussic acid to the bride and bridegroom during the wedding
ceremony. He spoke rapidly and cheerfully, and with a triumphant glance
he asked me whether I thought the Theatre Francais would dare to reject
him this time, and I answered that I did not believe it would dare to do
so. The work was to proceed with great speed, the first act was to be
ready next morning, and in a week's time at the very latest he intended
to send in the manuscript for perusal.
He became more and more delirious, and he did not pay any more attention
to my answers. His eye still rested on mine, but his horizon widened
more and more, for the barriers of this world began to fall away. His
speech became more and more rapid, and I could no longer follow his
staggering thought. But his face still expressed what his failing
perception could no longer form into words, and with deep emotion I
witnessed death bestow on him the joy that life had denied him.
He seemed to listen. There flew a light over his pale features, his eye
sparkled, and with head erect the old man sat up in bed. He shook away
his gray curls, and a shimmer of triumph fell over his brow. With his
hand on his heart the dying author made a low bow, for in the silence of
the falling night he heard the echo of his life's fondest dream; he
heard the Theatre Francais jubilant with applause!
And slowly the curtain sank upon the old author's last tragedy.
[Footnote 20: Scoundrels and poisoners.]
[Footnote 21: The then manager of the Theatre Francais.]
MONT BLANC
KING OF THE MOUNTAINS
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown'd him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.
Byron.
_Note._--The following paper may perhaps be considered rather
too whimsical by those unacquainted with a little adventure I
had while descending Mont Blanc, an adventure which began in an
avalanche and ended happily in a crevasse. The article dances
away on the rope of a single metaphor, and dances over
precipices. But the sentiment reflected in the word-picture of
the title impresses me still so strongly, so much do I still
admire the anger of the mighty snow-mountain, that I dare not
approach it with the familiarity of a reporter. I see that here
and there I have tried to smile--that is because of the pain in
my frozen foot. When I make fun of Mont Blanc I am reminded of
an antique bas-relief once seen in Rome, representing a little
Satyr, who, a look of blank astonishment on his face, measures
the toe of a sleeping Polyphemus.
The ascent of Mont Blanc is easy.
No one attempts the _Weisshorn_, _Dent Blanche_, or the _Matterhorn_
unless his eye be calm and his foot sure, but we all know that Tartarin
of Tarascon went up Mont Blanc--although he never arrived at the top.
They are indomitable revolutionists, these other mountain giants,
freedom's untamed heroes who refuse to be subjugated save by the sun
alone, haughty lords of the Alps who know themselves to be princes of
the blood.
But Mont Blanc is the crowned king of the Alps. There was a time when he
was sullen and cruel, but he has grown kinder-hearted in his old age,
and now, like a venerable patriarch, he sits there, the white-haired
Charlemagne, looking out in calm majesty over his three kingdoms.
Good-humouredly he suffers the Lilliputians to crawl up the
marble-bright steps that lead into his citadel, and with royal
hospitality he allows them to visit his ice-shining castle.
But when the summer day begins to darken into autumn, he goes to sleep
in his white state bed under a canopy of clouds. And then he does not
like to be disturbed, the old king.
No, he does not like to be disturbed; I knew it well. I had addressed
myself to his retainers and had been told that it was too late for an
audience, that the king did not receive at this time. I had come from
afar, my knapsack on my back, my head full of wonderful stories about
the far-famed palace, and longing to see the proud old mountain-king.
Somewhat disconcerted I hung for a while about the castle gates,
muttering socialistic sentences to myself. I had taken in radical
newspapers all the summer and was not to be treated in that off-hand
way. It is the lot of the great to be subjected to the gaze of
inquisitive eyes, and I can but be turned away, thought I to myself, and
up I went with two followers. Perhaps it was a trifle unceremonious on
my part, but I am not used to the court etiquette of conventionality.
Summer accompanied me a little way; at first she climbed the slopes with
ease, planting her foot firmly in the clefts, but it was not difficult
to see that she, the fair daughter of the valley, did not look forward
to the royal visit as ardently as I did. I had got myself up in
court-dress to pay my respects to the ice-gray monarch, in sharp-spiked
mountain shoes, snow gaiters, and steel-pointed pilgrim staff, but she
was in no wise equipped to meet the requirements of such a journey, poor
little one! The wind pulled and tugged at her leaf-woven petticoat, and
sharp stones cut her green velvet shoes adorned with bows of harebell
and forget-me-not. But she did not give in so easily; she bound her poor
feet with soft moss; she patched her petticoat with bracken and juniper,
and although her fingers were stiff-frozen, neatly and gracefully she
managed to weave some tiny heather-bells between.
And thus we reached the summit of a rock, and on the edge thereof sat
Cerberus, the fierce sentinel of the castle, barking and howling and
shaking his arctic fur till great white tufts flew in the air around. I
have never been afraid of bad-tempered dogs and hailed old Boreas by his
name and asked him in our own language if he did not recognise me, he,
the guardian of my childhood's home. And sure enough he rushed at me
full speed! He laid his paws upon my breast with such force that he
nearly knocked me backward over the cliff, and licked my face with his
icy tongue till I could hardly breathe. But suddenly, in the midst of
his friendly demonstrations, he bit my nose, and, what is more, he
nearly bit it off--that is what I have always said, one cannot be too
careful where strange dogs are concerned! If any one is a lover of dogs
I am, but I did not know how to take that, and hurried on as quickly as
possible. He evidently thought he belonged to the party, and followed us
growling like the brute that he was. But Summer took fright and said she
dared not go any farther, and so we took leave of each other.
Light-footed and joyous she returned to the green of the alpine meadows,
and I, drawing my coat closer round me, went on my way. Some firs also
took courage, and, gripping the rugged granite with sinewy arms, they
followed us up the rock.
Steeper and steeper became the track, fewer and fewer the green-clad
bodyguard which advanced with me. And soon the last of them halted
beneath the shelter of a jutting rock. I asked them if they would not
come a little farther, but they shook their white heads and bade me
farewell. Deeper and deeper penetrated the chill of death into the
mountain's veins; slower and slower beat the heart of Nature; higher
and higher went my path. And there she stood, the last outpost of
Summer, the courageous little child-flower of the mountain heights,
beautiful as her name, _Edelweiss_! She stood there quite alone with her
feet in the snow; no living soul had she to bear her company, but she
was just as neat for all that in her gray little woollen gown edged with
frost pearls, and just as frankly for all that did she look up at the
sun. She also had her part to play, and it was not for me to do her any
harm. I glanced at her a moment and thought how pretty she was, although
so simply dressed in her homespun clothes, poor little half-frozen
Cinderella amongst her summer-fair sisters of the valley.
I stood now on the frontier of the kingdom of Eternal Winter, and firm
of foot I crossed the moat of frozen glacier-waves which surrounded the
citadel of the ice-monarch. There reigned a desolate repose over the
sleeping palace, and I felt that I was drawing nigh unto a king. I
wandered through deserted castle-halls on whose dazzling white carpets
no human foot had ever trod, beneath crystal-glittering temple vaults
through which the organ thundered like the roar of a subterranean river,
between tall colonnades whose cloud-hidden capitals supported the
firmament.
So I gained the highest tower of the castle. The winding staircase
leading thereunto was gone, but with ice-axe and rope we assaulted the
Royal Eagle's nest.
And I stood face to face with the mountain-king. Upon the giant's
forehead sat the beaming diadem of the sun, and an unspeakable splendour
of purple and gold fell over his royal mantle. No echo from the valleys
disturbed his proud repose; mournful in isolated peace he sat on high
surveying his mute kingdom. Silent stood the bodyguard about his throne,
the tall grenadiers with steel-glinting ice armour upon their granite
breasts and cloud-crested helmets upon their snow-white heads. I knew
the weather-beaten features of more than one of them full well, and
reverently I greeted the giants by name, _Schreckhorn_, _Wetterhorn_,
_Finsteraarhorn_, _Monte Rosa_, _Monte Viso_, and her, the virgin
warrior with lowered vizor over her beautiful face immaculate as Diana
in her snow-white garb, _Die Jungfrau_! And my eye dwelt long upon the
proud combatant yonder, Achilles-like in his god-forged armour purpled
with blood, the _Matterhorn_!
But suddenly the king's face darkened and a sombre cloud fell over his
forehead. He took off his crown, and his white curls flew in the wind,
and without paying the slightest attention to us he put on his
night-cap.[22] And we understood that the audience was ended.
But he must be a good sleeper indeed if he be able to rest in such a
noise as this, thought we, for around us there arose a fearful tumult.
The storm raged over our heads till we thought the roof of the castle
would fall in upon us, and Boreas, like a hungry wolf, howled at our
heels. Hastily we retraced our steps through the darkening palace;
through deserted courtyards where spirit hands swept every trace of path
away; through vast state halls, gloomy as chambers of death in their
white draperies; through vaults adown which the organ stormed as on the
Day of Judgment.
But there was something wrong with these old castle-halls--I began to
think they were haunted. There were groans and shrieks; a shrill and
scornful laugh rang suddenly through the air, and beside us flew long
shadows swathed in white--it was not easy to make out what they were;
mountain-wraiths, I suppose.
We then reached a big plain called "_le grand plateau_," but we had
hardly got halfway across it before a cannon shot rent the skies. I
looked up to see the white smoke dancing down the Mont Maudit and a
whole mountain of projectiles bearing down upon us with the speed of an
avalanche--_Sapristi!_ On we went. Then there came a crash as though the
thunder had burst over our heads, the ground gaped under our feet, and I
fell into Hades. Everything became silent and the chill of death fell
over me.
But the instinct of self-preservation roused me, and half awake I sat up
in the coffin and looked around. At the same moment one of my companions
also crept out of his shroud, and by the help of the ice-axe we forced
open the lid that had already been screwed down over our third
companion. And to our astonishment we discovered that we were not dead
at all. We sat imprisoned in a subterranean dungeon waiting for trial,
but we all agreed that we were in the cell of the condemned. Daylight
fell through a narrow rift over our heads, and beside us yawned a great
chasm--it was like the Mamertine prison in Rome. We had time to meditate
upon a good many things. To complain was useless; to protest against our
fate was useless too; all we could do was to hope that the judicial
formalities might be conducted as quickly as possible--_der Tod ist
nichts, aber das Sterben ist eine schaendliche Erfindung!_[23]
Now and then a white wraith peeped through the opening and with mocking
laugh threw down great heaps of snow, then swept away over our heads.
"Are you still the lords of the earth, you miserable little human
microbes?" they howled until the vault shook again. We clenched our
teeth and said nothing. At last I got quite angry and shouted back to
them that they were nothing but microbes themselves. I glanced at my
companions and all three of us made a sort of grimace to show how
excellent we thought the joke, but it did not come to much, for the
muscles of laughter had been paralysed in our blue faces. But the
wraiths seemed taken aback all the same, and, summoning up all my
courage, I went on calling out that it was useless to give themselves
such airs, that there was something higher than Mont Blanc itself, and I
pointed towards a star which just then glanced down at us poor devils
through the gray fog bars of the opening. I had hardly got the words out
of my mouth before the wraiths vanished one and all, and by the light of
the brightening evening we saw that they had been transformed into huge
blocks of ice, which, impelled by the avalanche, had stopped short at
the very edge of the crevasse--witchcraft, nothing but witchcraft! But
it was not witchcraft that got us out that time. It was something else
that helped us--that which is higher than Mont Blanc.
[Footnote 22: "_Il met son bonnet_"--the guides' usual and sufficiently
characteristic metaphor referring to that little cloud which suddenly
covers the summit of Mont Blanc--it announces a storm. It looks its best
from a certain distance.]
[Footnote 23: Heine.]
RAFFAELLA
The picture was considered one of the very best in the whole Salon, and
the young painter's name was on every one's lips. It was always
surrounded by a group of admirers, fascinated by its beauty. She lay
there on a couch of purple, and around her loveliness there fell as it
were a shimmer from life's May-sun. Refined art-critics had settled her
age to be at most sixteen. There was still something of the enchanting
grace of the child in her slender limbs, and it was as if a veil of
innocence protected her.
Who was she, the fair sleeper, the shaping of whose features was so
noble, the harmony of whose limbs was so perfect? Was it true, what
rumour whispered, that the original of the dazzling picture bore one of
the greatest names of France, that a high-born beauty of Faubourg St.
Germain had, unknown to the man, allowed the artist to behold the ideal
he had sought for but never found? Who was she?
The doctor had stood there for a while listening to the murmur of praise
which bore witness to the young painter's triumph, and slowly making his
way through the fashionable crowd he approached the exit. He stopped
there for a moment or two watching one carriage after another roll down
the Champs Elysees, and then he wandered away across Place de la
Concorde and entered the Boulevard St. Germain. The clock struck seven
as he passed St. Germain des Pres and he hastened his steps, for he had
a long way still to go. He turned into one of the small streets near the
Jardin des Plantes, and it soon seemed as if he had left Paris behind
him. The streets began to darken, and narrowed into lanes, the great
shops shrank into small booths, and the cafes became pot-houses. Fine
coats became more and more rare, and blouses more numerous. It was
nearly eight o'clock, just theatre time down on the brilliant
boulevards, and up here groups of workmen wandered home after the day's
toil. They looked tired and heavy-hearted, but the work was hard,
already by six in the morning the bell was rung in the manufactories and
workshops, and many of them had had an hour's walk to come there. Here
and there stood a ragged figure with outstretched hand, he carried no
inscription on his breast telling how he became blind, he did not recite
one word of the story of his misery--he did not need to do that here,
for those that gave him a sou were poor themselves, and most of them had
known what it meant to be hungry.
The alleys became dirtier and dirtier, and heaps of sweepings and refuse
were left in the filthy gutters; it did not matter so much up here where
only poor people lived.
The doctor entered an old tumble-down house, and groped his way up the
slippery dark stairs as high as he could go. An old woman met him at the
door--he was expected. "_Zitto, zitto!_" (hush, hush), said the old
woman, with her fingers on her lips; "she sleeps." And in a whisper _la
nonna_ (the grandmother) reported how things had been going on since
yesterday. Raffaella had not been delirious in the night, she had lain
quite still and calm the whole day, only now and then she had asked to
see the child, and a short while ago she had fallen asleep with the
little one in her arms. Did _il signor Dottore_ wish to wake her up? No,
that he would not do. He sat himself down in silence beside the old
woman on the bench. They were very good friends these two, and he knew
well the sad story of the family.
They were from St. Germano, the village up amongst the mountains half
way between Rome and Naples, whence most of the Italian models came.
They had arrived in Paris barely two years ago with a number of men and
women from their neighbourhood. Raffaella's mother had caught _la
febbre_ and died at Hotel Dieu a couple of months after their arrival,
and the old woman and the grandchild had had to look after themselves
alone in the foreign city.
And Raffaella had become a model like the others.
And a young artist painted her picture. He painted her beautiful girlish
head, he painted her young bosom. And then fell her poor clothes, and he
painted her maiden loveliness in its budding spring, in the innocent
peace of the sleeping senses. She was the butterfly-winged Psyche, whose
lips Eros has not yet kissed; she was Diana's nymph who, tired after
hunting, unfastens her chiton and, unseen by mortal eyes, bathes her
maiden limbs in the hidden forest lake; she was the fair Dryad of the
grove who falls asleep on her bed of flowers.
His last picture was ready. Fame entered the young artist's studio, and
a ruined child went out from it.
They separated like good friends, he wrote down her address with a piece
of charcoal on the wall, and she went to pose to another painter. So she
went from studio to studio, and her innocence protected her no longer.
One day the old grandmother stood humbly at the door of the fashionable
studio, and told between her sobs that Raffaella was about to become a
mother. Ah yes! he remembered her well, the beautiful girl, and he put
some pieces of gold in the old woman's hand and promised to try to do
something for her. And he kept his word. The same evening he proposed to
his comrades to make a collection for Raffaella's child, and he assumed
that there was no one who had a right to refuse. There was no one who
had the right to refuse. They all gave what they could, some more and
some less, and more than one emptied his purse into the hat which went
round for Raffaella's child. They all thought it was such a pity for
her, the beautiful girl, to have had such bad luck. They wondered what
would become of her, she might of course continue to be a model, but
never would she be the same as before. The sculptors all agreed that the
beautiful lines of the hip could never stand the trial, and the painters
knew well that the exquisite delicacy of her colouring was lost for
ever. The child would of course be put out to nurse in the country, and
the money collected was enough to pay for a whole year. And it was not a
bad idea either to beg their friend, that foreign doctor, who was so
fond of Italians, to give an eye to Raffaella, he might perhaps be
useful in many future contingencies.
And the doctor, who was so fond of Italians, had often been to see her
of late. Raffaella had been so ill, so ill, she had been delirious for
days and nights, and this was the first quiet sleep she had had for a
long time.
No, the doctor certainly did not wish to wake her up; he sat there in
silence beside the old grandmother, deep in thought. He was thinking of
Raffaella's story. It was not new to him, that story, the Italian poor
quarter had more than once told it him, and he had often enough read it
in books. It seemed to him that what he saw in life was far simpler and
far sadder than what he read in books. Nor was there in Raffaella's
story anything very unusual or very sensational, no great display of
feeling either of sorrow or despair, no accusations, no threat for
vengeance, no attempt at suicide. Everything had gone so simply in such
everyday fashion. It was not with head erect and flaming eyes that the
old grandmother had stood before him who was guilty of the child's
fall, but in humble resignation she had stopped at the door and sobbed
out their misery, and when she left she had prayed the Madonna to reward
him for his charity. The poor old woman had her reasons for this--she
could not carry her head erect, for life had long since bent her neck
under the yoke of daily toil; her eyes could not flame with menace, for
they had too often had to beg for bread. She knew not how to accuse, for
she herself had been condemned unheard to oppression; she knew not how
to demand justice, for life had meant for her one long endurance of
wrongs. Her path had lain through darkness and misery, she had seen so
little of life's sunlight, and her thoughts had grown so dim under her
furrowed brow. She was dull, dull as an old worn-out beast of burden.
And the seducer, he was perhaps after all not more of a blackguard than
many others. He had done what he could to atone for a fault, which from
his point of view was hardly to be considered so very great, he had
provided for a whole year for a child which he said was none of
his--what could he do more? He had asked the doctor if he knew of any
virtuous models, and the doctor had answered him, "No," for neither did
he know of any virtuous models.
And Raffaella had borne her degradation as she had borne her poverty,
without bitterness and without despair; she wept sometimes, but she
accused no one, neither herself nor him who had injured her. She was
resigned. Authors believe that it is so easy to jump into the Seine or
to take a dose of laudanum, but it is very difficult. Raffaella was a
daughter of the people, no culture had entered into her thought-world,
either with its light or its shadow, she was far too natural even to
think of such a thing.