Produced by David Widger
CLARIMONDE
By Théophile Gautier
Translated By Lafcadio Hearn
1908
Brother, you ask me if I have ever loved. Yes. My story is a strange and
terrible one; and though I am sixty-six years of age, I scarcely dare
even now to disturb the ashes of that memory. To you I can refuse
nothing; but I should not relate such a tale to any less experienced
mind. So strange were the circumstances of my story, that I can scarcely
believe myself to have ever actually been a party to them. For more
than three years I remained the victim of a most singular and diabolical
illusion. Poor country priest though I was, I led every night in a
dream--would to God it had been all a dream!--a most worldly life, a
damning life, a life of Sardanapalus. One single look too freely cast
upon a woman well-nigh caused me to lose my soul; but finally by the
grace of God and the assistance of my patron saint, I succeeded in
casting out the evil spirit that possessed me. My daily life was long
interwoven with a nocturnal life of a totally different character. By
day I was a priest of the Lord, occupied with prayer and sacred things;
by night, from the instant that I closed my eyes I became a young
nobleman, a fine connoisseur in women, dogs, and horses; gambling,
drinking, and blaspheming; and when I awoke at early daybreak, it seemed
to me, on the other hand, that I had been sleeping, and had only dreamed
that I was a priest. Of this somnambulistic life there now remains to me
only the recollection of certain scenes and words which I cannot banish
from my memory; but although I never actually left the walls of my
presbytery, one would think to hear me speak that I were a man who,
weary of all worldly pleasures, had become a religious, seeking to end a
tempestuous life in the service of God, rather than a humble seminarist
who has grown old in this obscure curacy, situated in the depths of the
woods and even isolated from the life of the century.
Yes, I have loved as none in the world ever loved--with an insensate
and furious passion--so violent that I am astonished it did not cause my
heart to burst asunder. Ah, what nights--what nights!
From my earliest childhood I had felt a vocation to the priesthood, so
that all my studies were directed with that idea in view. Up to the
age of twenty-four my life had been only a prolonged novitiate. Having
completed my course of theology I successively received all the minor
orders, and my superiors judged me worthy, despite my youth, to pass the
last awful degree. My ordination was fixed for Easter week.
I had never gone into the world. My world was confined by the walls of
the college and the seminary. I knew in a vague sort of a way that there
was something called Woman, but I never permitted my thoughts to dwell
on such a subject, and I lived in a state of perfect innocence. Twice
a year only I saw my infirm and aged mother, and in those visits were
comprised my sole relations with the outer world.
I regretted nothing; I felt not the least hesitation at taking the last
irrevocable step; I was filled with joy and impatience. Never did a
betrothed lover count the slow hours with more feverish ardour; I slept
only to dream that I was saying mass; I believed there could be nothing
in the world more delightful than to be a priest; I would have refused
to be a king or a poet in preference. My ambition could conceive of no
loftier aim.
I tell you this in order to show you that what happened to me could
not have happened in the natural order of things, and to enable you to
understand that I was the victim of an inexplicable fascination.
At last the great day came. I walked to the church with a step so light
that I fancied myself sustained in air, or that I had wings upon my
shoulders. I believed myself an angel, and wondered at the sombre and
thoughtful faces of my companions, for there were several of us. I
had passed all the night in prayer, and was in a condition wellnigh
bordering on ecstasy. The bishop, a venerable old man, seemed to me God
the Father leaning over His Eternity, and I beheld Heaven through the
vault of the temple.
You well know the details of that ceremony--the benediction, the
communion under both forms, the anointing of the palms of the hands with
the Oil of Catechumens, and then the holy sacrifice offered in concert
with the bishop.
Ah, truly spake Job when he declared that the imprudent man is one who
hath not made a covenant with his eyes! I accidentally lifted my head,
which until then I had kept down, and beheld before me, so close that
it seemed that I could have touched her--although she was actually a
considerable distance from me and on the further side of the sanctuary
railing--a young woman of extraordinary beauty, and attired with royal
magnificence. It seemed as though scales had suddenly fallen from my
eyes. I felt like a blind man who unexpectedly recovers his sight. The
bishop, so radiantly glorious but an instant before, suddenly vanished
away, the tapers paled upon their golden candlesticks like stars in the
dawn, and a vast darkness seemed to fill the whole church. The charming
creature appeared in bright relief against the background of that
darkness, like some angelic revelation. She seemed herself radiant, and
radiating light rather than receiving it.
I lowered my eyelids, firmly resolved not to again open them, that
I might not be influenced by external objects, for distraction had
gradually taken possession of me until I hardly knew what I was doing.
In another minute, nevertheless, I reopened my eyes, for through my
eyelashes I still beheld her, all sparkling with prismatic colours, and
surrounded with such a penumbra as one beholds in gazing at the sun.
Oh, how beautiful she was! The greatest painters, who followed ideal
beauty into heaven itself, and thence brought back to earth the true
portrait of the Madonna, never in their delineations even approached
that wildly beautiful reality which I saw before me. Neither the verses
of the poet nor the palette of the artist could convey any conception
of her. She was rather tall, with a form and bearing of a goddess. Her
hair, of a soft blonde hue, was parted in the midst and flowed back over
her temples in two rivers of rippling gold; she seemed a diademed
queen. Her forehead, bluish-white in its transparency, extended its calm
breadth above the arches of her eyebrows, which by a strange singularity
were almost black, and admirably relieved the effect of sea-green eyes
of unsustainable vivacity and brilliancy. What eyes! With a single flash
they could have decided a man’s destiny. They had a life, a limpidity,
an ardour, a humid light which I have never seen in human eyes; they
shot forth rays like arrows, which I could distinctly _see_ enter my
heart. I know not if the fire which illumined them came from heaven or
from hell, but assuredly it came from one or the other. That woman was
either an angel or a demon, perhaps both. Assuredly she never sprang
from the flank of Eve, our common mother. Teeth of the most lustrous
pearl gleamed in her ruddy smile, and at every inflection of her lips
little dimples appeared in the satiny rose of her adorable cheeks. There
was a delicacy and pride in the regal outline of her nostrils bespeaking
noble blood. Agate gleams played over the smooth lustrous skin of her
half-bare shoulders, and strings of great blonde pearls--almost equal
to her neck in beauty of colour--descended upon her bosom. From time
to time she elevated her head with the undulating grace of a startled
serpent or peacock, thereby imparting a quivering motion to the high
lace ruff which surrounded it like a silver trellis-work.
She wore a robe of orange-red velvet, and from her wide ermine-lined
sleeves there peeped forth patrician hands of infinite delicacy, and so
ideally transparent that, like the fingers of Aurora, they permitted the
light to shine through them.
All these details I can recollect at this moment as plainly as though
they were of yesterday, for notwithstanding I was greatly troubled at
the time, nothing escaped me; the faintest touch of shading, the little
dark speck at the point of the chin, the imperceptible down at the
corners of the lips, the velvety floss upon the brow, the quivering
shadows of the eyelashes upon the cheeks--I could notice everything with
astonishing lucidity of perception.
And gazing I felt opening within me gates that had until then remained
closed; vents long obstructed became all clear, permitting glimpses of
unfamiliar perspectives within; life suddenly made itself visible to me
under a totally novel aspect. I felt as though I had just been born into
a new world and a new order of things. A frightful anguish commenced to
torture-my heart as with red-hot pincers. Every successive minute seemed
to me at once but a second and yet a century. Meanwhile the ceremony was
proceeding, and I shortly found myself transported far from that world
of which my newly born desires were furiously besieging the entrance.
Nevertheless I answered ‘Yes’ when I wished to say ‘No,’ though all
within me protested against the violence done to my soul by my tongue.
Some occult power seemed to force the words from my throat against my
will. Thus it is, perhaps, that so many young girls walk to the altar
firmly resolved to refuse in a startling manner the husband imposed
upon them, and that yet not one ever fulfils her intention. Thus it is,
doubtless, that so many poor novices take the veil, though they have
resolved to tear it into shreds at the moment when called upon to utter
the vows. One dares not thus cause so great a scandal to all present,
nor deceive the expectation of so many people. All those eyes, all those
wills seem to weigh down upon you like a cope of lead, and, moreover,
measures have been so well taken, everything has been so thoroughly
arranged beforehand and after a fashion so evidently irrevocable, that
the will yields to the weight of circumstances and utterly breaks down.
As the ceremony proceeded the features of the fair unknown changed their
expression. Her look had at first been one of caressing tenderness;
it changed to an air of disdain and of mortification, as though at not
having been able to make itself understood.
With an effort of will sufficient to have uprooted a mountain, I strove
to cry out that I would not be a priest, but I could not speak; my
tongue seemed nailed to my palate, and I found it impossible to express
my will by the least syllable of negation. Though fully awake, I felt
like one under the influence of a nightmare, who vainly strives to
shriek out the one word upon which life depends.
She seemed conscious of the martyrdom I was undergoing, and, as though
to encourage me, she gave me a look replete with divinest promise. Her
eyes were a poem; their every glance was a song.
She said to me:
‘If thou wilt be mine, I shall make thee happier than God Himself in His
paradise. The angels themselves will be jealous of thee. Tear off that
funeral shroud in which thou art about to wrap thyself. I am Beauty, I
am Youth, I am Life. Come to me! Together we shall be Love. Can Jehovah
offer thee aught in exchange? Our lives will flow on like a dream, in
one eternal kiss.
‘Fling forth the wine of that chalice, and thou art free. I will conduct
thee to the Unknown Isles. Thou shalt sleep in my bosom upon a bed of
massy gold under a silver pavilion, for I love thee and would take thee
away from thy God, before whom so many noble hearts pour forth floods of
love which never reach even the steps of His throne!’
These words seemed to float to my ears in a rhythm of infinite
sweetness, for her look was actually sonorous, and the utterances of her
eyes were reechoed in the depths of my heart as though living lips had
breathed them into my life. I felt myself willing to renounce God,
and yet my tongue mechanically fulfilled all the formalities of
the ceremony. The fair one gave me another look, so beseeching, so
despairing that keen blades seemed to pierce my heart, and I felt my
bosom transfixed by more swords than those of Our Lady of Sorrows.
All was consummated; I had become a priest.
Never was deeper anguish painted on human face than upon hers. The
maiden who beholds her affianced lover suddenly fall dead at her side,
the mother bending over the empty cradle of her child, Eve seated at
the threshold of the gate of Paradise, the miser who finds a stone
substituted for his stolen treasure, the poet who accidentally permits
the only manuscript of his finest work to fall into the fire, could not
wear a look so despairing, so inconsolable. All the blood had abandoned
her charming face, leaving it whiter than marble; her beautiful arms
hung lifelessly on either side of her body as though their muscles
had suddenly relaxed, and she sought the support of a pillar, for her
yielding limbs almost betrayed her. As for myself, I staggered toward
the door of the church, livid as death, my forehead bathed with a sweat
bloodier than that of Calvary; I felt as though I were being strangled;
the vault seemed to have flattened down upon my shoulders, and it seemed
to me that my head alone sustained the whole weight of the dome.
As I was about to cross the threshold a hand suddenly caught mine--a
woman’s hand! I had never till then touched the hand of any woman.
It was cold as a serpent’s skin, and yet its impress remained upon my
wrist, burnt there as though branded by a glowing iron. It was she.
‘Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?’ she exclaimed in a low
voice, and immediately disappeared in the crowd.
The aged bishop passed by. He cast a severe and scrutinising look upon
me. My face presented the wildest aspect imaginable: I blushed and
turned pale alternately; dazzling lights flashed before my eyes. A
companion took pity on me. He seized my arm and led me out. I could
not possibly have found my way back to the seminary unassisted. At the
corner of a street, while the young priest’s attention was momentarily
turned in another direction, a negro page, fantastically garbed,
approached me, and without pausing on his way slipped into my hand
a little pocket-book with gold-embroidered corners, at the same time
giving me a sign to hide it. I concealed it in my sleeve, and there kept
it until I found myself alone in my cell. Then I opened the clasp. There
were only two leaves within, bearing the words, ‘Clarimonde. At the
Concini Palace.’ So little acquainted was I at that time with the things
of this world that I had never heard of Clarimonde, celebrated as she
was, and I had no idea as to where the Concini Palace was situated. I
hazarded a thousand conjectures, each more extravagant than the last;
but, in truth, I cared little whether she were a great lady or a
courtesan, so that I could but see her once more.
My love, although the growth of a single hour, had taken imperishable
root. I did not even dream of attempting to tear it up, so fully was I
convinced such a thing would be impossible. That woman had completely
taken possession of me. One look from her had sufficed to change my very
nature. She had breathed her will into my life, and I no longer lived
in myself, but in her and for her. I gave myself up to a thousand
extravagancies. I kissed the place upon my hand which she had touched,
and I repeated her name over and over again for hours in succession. I
only needed to close my eyes in order to see her distinctly as though
she were actually present; and I reiterated to myself the words she had
uttered in my ear at the church porch: ‘Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What
hast thou done?’ I comprehended at last the full horror of my situation,
and the funereal and awful restraints of the state into which I had just
entered became clearly revealed to me. To be a priest!--that is, to be
chaste, to never love, to observe no distinction of sex or age, to turn
from the sight of all beauty, to put out one’s own eyes, to hide for
ever crouching in the chill shadows of some church or cloister, to visit
none but the dying, to watch by unknown corpses, and ever bear about
with one the black soutane as a garb of mourning for oneself, so that
your very dress might serve as a pall for your coffin.
And I felt life rising within me like a subterranean lake, expanding
and overflowing; my blood leaped fiercely through my arteries; my
long-restrained youth suddenly burst into active being, like the aloe
which blooms but once in a hundred years, and then bursts into blossom
with a clap of thunder.
What could I do in order to see Clarimonde once more? I had no pretext
to offer for desiring to leave the seminary, not knowing any person in
the city. I would not even be able to remain there but a short time,
and was only waiting my assignment to the curacy which I must thereafter
occupy. I tried to remove the bars of the window; but it was at a
fearful height from the ground, and I found that as I had no ladder it
would be useless to think of escaping thus. And, furthermore, I could
descend thence only by night in any event, and afterward how should I be
able to find my way through the inextricable labyrinth of streets?
All these difficulties, which to many would have appeared altogether
insignificant, were gigantic to me, a poor seminarist who had fallen in
love only the day before for the first time, without experience, without
money, without attire.
‘Ah!’ cried I to myself in my blindness, ‘were I not a priest I could
have seen her every day; I might have been her lover, her spouse.
Instead of being wrapped in this dismal shroud of mine I would have had
garments of silk and velvet, golden chains, a sword, and fair plumes
like other handsome young cavaliers. My hair, instead of being
dishonoured by the tonsure, would flow down upon my neck in waving
curls; I would have a fine waxed moustache; I would be a gallant.’ But
one hour passed before an altar, a few hastily articulated words, had
for ever cut me off from the number of the living, and I had myself
sealed down the stone of my own tomb; I had with my own hand bolted the
gate of my prison! I went to the window. The sky was beautifully blue;
the trees had donned their spring robes; nature seemed to be making
parade of an ironical joy. The _Place_ was filled with people, some
going, others coming; young beaux and young beauties were sauntering in
couples toward the groves and gardens; merry youths passed by, cheerily
trolling refrains of drinking-songs--it was all a picture of vivacity,
life, animation, gaiety, which formed a bitter contrast with my mourning
and my solitude. On the steps of the gate sat a young mother playing
with her child. She kissed its little rosy mouth still impearled with
drops of milk, and performed, in order to amuse it, a thousand divine
little puerilities such as only mothers know how to invent. The father
standing at a little distance smiled gently upon the charming group, and
with folded arms seemed to hug his joy to his heart. I could not endure
that spectacle. I closed the window with violence, and flung myself on
my bed, my heart filled with frightful hate and jealousy, and gnawed my
fingers and my bedcovers like a tiger that has passed ten days without
food.
I know not how long I remained in this condition, but at last, while
writhing on the bed in a fit of spasmodic fury, I suddenly perceived
the Abbé Sérapion, who was standing erect in the centre of the room,
watching me attentively. Filled with shame of myself, I let my head fall
upon my breast and covered my face with my hands.
‘Romuald, my friend, something very extraordinary is transpiring within
you,’ observed Sérapion, after a few moments’ silence; ‘your conduct is
altogether inexplicable. You--always so quiet, so pious, so gentle--you
to rage in your cell like a wild beast! Take heed, brother--do not
listen to the suggestions of the devil The Evil Spirit, furious that you
have consecrated yourself for ever to the Lord, is prowling around you
like a ravening wolf and making a last effort to obtain possession of
you. Instead of allowing yourself to be conquered, my dear Romuald,
make to yourself a cuirass of prayers, a buckler of mortifications, and
combat the enemy like a valiant man; you will then assuredly overcome
him. Virtue must be proved by temptation, and gold comes forth purer
from the hands of the assayer. Fear not. Never allow yourself to become
discouraged. The most watchful and steadfast souls are at moments liable
to such temptation. Pray, fast, meditate, and the Evil Spirit will
depart from you.’
The words of the Abbé Sérapion restored me to myself, and I became a
little more calm. ‘I came,’ he continued, ‘to tell you that you have
been appointed to the curacy of C------. The priest who had charge of
it has just died, and Monseigneur the Bishop has ordered me to have you
installed there at once. Be ready, therefore, to start to-morrow.’
I responded with an inclination of the head, and the Abbé retired. I
opened my missal and commenced reading some prayers, but the letters
became confused and blurred under my eyes, the thread of the ideas
entangled itself hopelessly in my brain, and the volume at last fell
from my hands without my being aware of it.
To leave to-morrow without having been able to see her again, to add yet
another barrier to the many already interposed between us, to lose
for ever all hope of being able to meet her, except, indeed, through a
miracle! Even to write to her, alas! would be impossible, for by whom
could I dispatch my letter? With my sacred character of priest, to whom
could I dare unbosom myself, in whom could I confide? I became a prey to
the bitterest anxiety.
Then suddenly recurred to me the words of the Abbé Sérapion regarding
the artifices of the devil; and the strange character of the adventure,
the supernatural beauty of Clarimonde, the phosphoric light of her eyes,
the burning imprint of her hand, the agony into which she had thrown
me, the sudden change wrought within me when all my piety vanished in a
single instant--these and other things clearly testified to the work
of the Evil One, and perhaps that satiny hand was but the glove which
concealed his claws. Filled with terror at these fancies, I again picked
up the missal which had slipped from my knees and fallen upon the floor,
and once more gave myself up to prayer.
Next morning Sérapion came to take me away. Two mules freighted with
our miserable valises awaited us at the gate. He mounted one, and I the
other as well as I knew how.
As we passed along the streets of the city, I gazed attentively at all
the windows and balconies in the hope of seeing Clarimonde, but it was
yet early in the morning, and the city had hardly opened its eyes. Mine
sought to penetrate the blinds and window-curtains of all the palaces
before which we were passing. Sérapion doubtless attributed this
curiosity to my admiration of the architecture, for he slackened the
pace of his animal in order to give me time to look around me. At last
we passed the city gates and commenced to mount the hill beyond. When
we arrived at its summit I turned to take a last look at the place where
Clarimonde dwelt. The shadow of a great cloud hung over all the city;
the contrasting colours of its blue and red roofs were lost in the
uniform half-tint, through which here and there floated upward, like
white flakes of foam, the smoke of freshly kindled fires. By a
singular optical effect one edifice, which surpassed in height all the
neighbouring buildings that were still dimly veiled by the vapours,
towered up, fair and lustrous with the gilding of a solitary beam of
sunlight--although actually more than a league away it seemed
quite near. The smallest details of its architecture were plainly
distinguishable--the turrets, the platforms, the window-casements, and
even the swallow-tailed weather-vanes.
‘What is that palace I see over there, all lighted up by the sun?’ I
asked Sérapion. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and having looked in
the direction indicated, replied: ‘It is the ancient palace which the
Prince Concini has given to the courtesan Clarimonde. Awful things are
done there!’
At that instant, I know not yet whether it was a reality or an illusion,
I fancied I saw gliding along the terrace a shapely white figure,
which gleamed for a moment in passing and as quickly vanished. It was
Clarimonde.
Oh, did she know that at that very hour, all feverish and restless--from
the height of the rugged road which separated me from her, and which,
alas! I could never more descend--I was directing my eyes upon the
palace where she dwelt, and which a mocking beam of sunlight seemed to
bring nigh to me, as though inviting me to enter therein as its lord?
Undoubtedly she must have known it, for her soul was too sympathetically
united with mine not to have felt its least emotional thrill, and that
subtle sympathy it must have been which prompted her to climb--although
clad only in her nightdress--to the summit of the terrace, amid the icy
dews of the morning.
The shadow gained the palace, and the scene became to the eye only
a motionless ocean of roofs and gables, amid which one mountainous
undulation was distinctly visible. Sérapion urged his mule forward, my
own at once followed at the same gait, and a sharp angle in the road at
last hid the city of S------ for ever from my eyes, as I was destined
never to return thither. At the close of a weary three-days’ journey
through dismal country fields, we caught sight of the cock upon the
steeple of the church which I was to take charge of, peeping above
the trees, and after having followed some winding roads fringed with
thatched cottages and little gardens, we found ourselves in front of the
façade, which certainly possessed few features of magnificence. A porch
ornamented with some mouldings, and two or three pillars rudely hewn
from sandstone; a tiled roof with counterforts of the same sandstone as
the pillars--that was all. To the left lay the cemetery, overgrown with
high weeds, and having a great iron cross rising up in its centre; to
the right stood the presbytery under the shadow of the church. It was a
house of the most extreme simplicity and frigid cleanliness. We entered
the enclosure. A few chickens were picking up some oats scattered upon
the ground; accustomed, seemingly, to the black habit of ecclesiastics,
they showed no fear of our presence and scarcely troubled themselves to
get out of our way. A hoarse, wheezy barking fell upon our ears, and we
saw an aged dog running toward us.
It was my predecessor’s dog. He had dull bleared eyes, grizzled hair,
and every mark of the greatest age to which a dog can possibly attain.
I patted him gently, and he proceeded at once to march along beside me
with an air of satisfaction unspeakable. A very old woman, who had been
the housekeeper of the former curé, also came to meet us, and after
having invited me into a little back parlour, asked whether I intended
to retain her. I replied that I would take care of her, and the dog, and
the chickens, and all the furniture her master had bequeathed her at
his death. At this she became fairly transported with joy, and the
Abbé Sérapion at once paid her the price which she asked for her little
property.
As soon as my installation was over, the Abbé Sérapion returned to the
seminary. I was, therefore, left alone, with no one but myself to look
to for aid or counsel. The thought of Clarimonde again began to haunt
me, and in spite of all my endeavours to banish it, I always found it
present in my meditations. One evening, while promenading in my little
garden along the walks bordered with box-plants, I fancied that I saw
through the elm-trees the figure of a woman, who followed my every
movement, and that I beheld two sea-green eyes gleaming through the
foliage; but it was only an illusion, and on going round to the other
side of the garden, I could find nothing except a footprint on the
sanded walk--a footprint so small that it seemed to have been made
by the foot of a child. The garden was enclosed by very high walls. I
searched every nook and corner of it, but could discover no one there.
I have never succeeded in fully accounting for this circumstance, which,
after all, was nothing compared with the strange things which happened
to me afterward.
For a whole year I lived thus, filling all the duties of my calling
with the most scrupulous exactitude, praying and fasting, exhorting and
lending ghostly aid to the sick, and bestowing alms even to the extent
of frequently depriving myself of the very necessaries of life. But I
felt a great aridness within me, and the sources of grace seemed closed
against me. I never found that happiness which should spring from the
fulfilment of a holy mission; my thoughts were far away, and the words
of Clarimonde were ever upon my lips like an involuntary refrain. Oh,
brother, meditate well on this! Through having but once lifted my eyes
to look upon a woman, through one fault apparently so venial, I have for
years remained a victim to the most miserable agonies, and the happiness
of my life has been destroyed for ever.
I will not longer dwell upon those defeats, or on those inward victories
invariably followed by yet more terrible falls, but will at once proceed
to the facts of my story. One night my door-bell was long and violently
rung. The aged housekeeper arose and opened to the stranger, and the
figure of a man, whose complexion was deeply bronzed, and who was richly
clad in a foreign costume, with a poniard at his girdle, appeared under
the rays of Barbara’s lantern. Her first impulse was one of terror, but
the stranger reassured her, and stated that he desired to see me at once
on matters relating to my holy calling. Barbara invited him upstairs,
where I was on the point of retiring. The stranger told me that his
mistress, a very noble lady, was lying at the point of death, and
desired to see a priest. I replied that I was prepared to follow him,
took with me the sacred articles necessary for extreme unction, and
descended in all haste. Two horses black as the night itself stood
without the gate, pawing the ground with impatience, and veiling their
chests with long streams of smoky vapour exhaled from their nostrils. He
held the stirrup and aided me to mount upon one; then, merely laying his
hand upon the pommel of the saddle, he vaulted on the other, pressed
the animal’s sides with his knees, and loosened rein. The horse bounded
forward with the velocity of an arrow. Mine, of which the stranger held
the bridle, also started off at a swift gallop, keeping up with his
companion. We devoured the road. The ground flowed backward beneath us
in a long streaked line of pale gray, and the black silhouettes of
the trees seemed fleeing by us on either side like an army in rout. We
passed through a forest so profoundly gloomy that I felt my flesh creep
in the chill darkness with superstitious fear. The showers of bright
sparks which flew from the stony road under the ironshod feet of our
horses remained glowing in our wake like a fiery trail; and had any one
at that hour of the night beheld us both--my guide and myself--he must
have taken us for two spectres riding upon nightmares. Witch-fires ever
and anon flitted across the road before us, and the night-birds
shrieked fearsomely in the depth of the woods beyond, where we beheld
at intervals glow the phosphorescent eyes of wild cats. The manes of the
horses became more and more dishevelled, the sweat streamed over their
flanks, and their breath came through their nostrils hard and fast. But
when he found them slacking pace, the guide reanimated them by uttering
a strange, gutteral, unearthly cry, and the gallop recommenced with
fury. At last the whirlwind race ceased; a huge black mass pierced
through with many bright points of light suddenly rose before us, the
hoofs of our horses echoed louder upon a strong wooden drawbridge, and
we rode under a great vaulted archway which darkly yawned between two
enormous towers. Some great excitement evidently reigned in the castle.
Servants with torches were crossing the courtyard in every direction,
and above lights were ascending and descending from landing to landing.
I obtained a confused glimpse of vast masses of architecture--columns,
arcades, flights of steps, stairways--a royal voluptuousness and elfin
magnificence of construction worthy of fairyland. A negro page--the
same who had before brought me the tablet from Clarimonde, and whom
I instantly recognised--approached to aid me in dismounting, and the
major-domo, attired in black velvet with a gold chain about his neck,
advanced to meet me, supporting himself upon an ivory cane. Large tears
were falling from his eyes and streaming over his cheeks and white
beard. ‘Too late!’ he cried, sorrowfully shaking his venerable head.
‘Too late, sir priest! But if you have not been able to save the soul,
come at least to watch by the poor body.’
He took my arm and conducted me to the death-chamber. I wept not less
bitterly than he, for I had learned that the dead one was none other
than that Clarimonde whom I had so deeply and so wildly loved. A
_prie-dieu_ stood at the foot of the bed; a bluish flame flickering in a
bronze patern filled all the room with a wan, deceptive light, here
and there bringing out in the darkness at intervals some projection
of furniture or cornice. In a chiselled urn upon the table there was a
faded white rose, whose leaves--excepting one that still held--had all
fallen, like odorous tears, to the foot of the vase. A broken black
mask, a fan, and disguises of every variety, which were lying on the
armchairs, bore witness that death had entered suddenly and unannounced
into that sumptuous dwelling. Without daring to cast my eyes upon the
bed, I knelt down and commenced to repeat the Psalms for the Dead, with
exceeding fervour, thanking God that He had placed the tomb between
me and the memory of this woman, so that I might thereafter be able to
utter her name in my prayers as a name for ever sanctified by death.
But my fervour gradually weakened, and I fell insensibly into a reverie.
That chamber bore no semblance to a chamber of death. In lieu of the
fetid and cadaverous odours which I had been accustomed to breathe
during such funereal vigils, a languorous vapour of Oriental perfume--I
know not what amorous odour of woman--softly floated through the tepid
air. That pale light seemed rather a twilight gloom contrived for
voluptuous pleasure, than a substitute for the yellow-flickering
watch-tapers which shine by the side of corpses. I thought upon the
strange destiny which enabled me to meet Clarimonde again at the very
moment when she was lost to me for ever, and a sigh of regretful anguish
escaped from my breast. Then it seemed to me that some one behind me
had also sighed, and I turned round to look. It was only an echo. But in
that moment my eyes fell upon the bed of death which they had till then
avoided. The red damask curtains, decorated with large flowers worked in
embroidery and looped up with gold bullion, permitted me to behold the
fair dead, lying at full length, with hands joined upon her bosom. She
was covered with a linen wrapping of dazzling whiteness, which formed
a strong contrast with the gloomy purple of the hangings, and was of so
fine a texture that it concealed nothing of her body’s charming form,
and allowed the eye to follow those beautiful outlines--undulating like
the neck of a swan--which even death had not robbed of their supple
grace. She seemed an alabaster statue executed by some skilful sculptor
to place upon the tomb of a queen, or rather, perhaps, like a slumbering
maiden over whom the silent snow had woven a spotless veil.
I could no longer maintain my constrained attitude of prayer. The air
of the alcove intoxicated me, that febrile perfume of half-faded roses
penetrated my very brain, and I commenced to pace restlessly up and down
the chamber, pausing at each turn before the bier to contemplate the
graceful corpse lying beneath the transparency of its shroud. Wild
fancies came thronging to my brain. I thought to myself that she might
not, perhaps, be really dead; that she might only have feigned death for
the purpose of bringing me to her castle, and then declaring her love.
At one time I even thought I saw her foot move under the whiteness of
the coverings, and slightly disarrange the long straight folds of the
winding-sheet.
And then I asked myself: ‘Is this indeed Clarimonde? What proof have I
that it is she? Might not that black page have passed into the service
of some other lady? Surely, I must be going mad to torture and afflict
myself thus!’ But my heart answered with a fierce throbbing: ‘It is she;
it is she indeed!’ I approached the bed again, and fixed my eyes with
redoubled attention upon the object of my incertitude. Ah, must I
confess it? That exquisite perfection of bodily form, although purified
and made sacred by the shadow of death, affected me more voluptuously
than it should have done; and that repose so closely resembled slumber
that one might well have mistaken it for such. I forgot that I had come
there to perform a funeral ceremony; I fancied myself a young bridegroom
entering the chamber of the bride, who all modestly hides her fair face,
and through coyness seeks to keep herself wholly veiled. Heartbroken
with grief, yet wild with hope, shuddering at once with fear and
pleasure, I bent over her and grasped the corner of the sheet. I lifted
it back, holding my breath all the while through fear of waking her. My
arteries throbbed with such violence that I felt them hiss through my
temples, and the sweat poured from my forehead in streams, as though I
had lifted a mighty slab of marble. There, indeed, lay Clarimonde, even
as I had seen her at the church on the day of my ordination. She was not
less charming than then. With her, death seemed but a last coquetry. The
pallor of her cheeks, the less brilliant carnation of her lips, her long
eyelashes lowered and relieving their dark fringe against that white
skin, lent her an unspeakably seductive aspect of melancholy chastity
and mental suffering; her long loose hair, still intertwined with some
little blue flowers, made a shining pillow for her head, and veiled the
nudity of her shoulders with its thick ringlets; her beautiful hands,
purer, more diaphanous, than the Host, were crossed on her bosom in an
attitude of pious rest and silent prayer, which served to counteract all
that might have proven otherwise too alluring--even after death--in the
exquisite roundness and ivory polish of her bare arms from which the
pearl bracelets had not yet been removed. I remained long in mute
contemplation, and the more I gazed, the less could I persuade myself
that life had really abandoned that beautiful body for ever. I do not
know whether it was an illusion or a reflection of the lamplight, but it
seemed to me that the blood was again commencing to circulate under that
lifeless pallor, although she remained all motionless. I laid my hand
lightly on her arm; it was cold, but not colder than her hand on the
day when it touched mine at the portals of the church. I resumed my
position, bending my face above her, and bathing her cheek with the warm
dew of my tears. Ah, what bitter feelings of despair and helplessness,
what agonies unutterable did I endure in that long watch! Vainly did I
wish that I could have gathered all my life into one mass that I might
give it all to her, and breathe into her chill remains the flame which
devoured me. The night advanced, and feeling the moment of eternal
separation approach, I could not deny myself the last sad sweet pleasure
of imprinting a kiss upon the dead lips of her who had been my only
love.... Oh, miracle! A faint breath mingled itself with my breath, and
the mouth of Clarimonde responded to the passionate pressure of mine.
Her eyes unclosed, and lighted up with something of their former
brilliancy; she uttered a long sigh, and uncrossing her arms, passed
them around my neck with a look of ineffable delight. ‘Ah, it is thou,
Romuald!’ she murmured in a voice languishingly sweet as the last
vibrations of a harp. ‘What ailed thee, dearest? I waited so long for
thee that I am dead; but we are now betrothed: I can see thee and visit
thee. Adieu, Romuald, adieu! I love thee. That is all I wished to
tell thee, and I give thee back the life which thy kiss for a moment
recalled. We shall soon meet again.’
Her head fell back, but her arms yet encircled me, as though to retain
me still. A furious whirlwind suddenly burst in the window, and entered
the chamber. The last remaining leaf of the white rose for a moment
palpitated at the extremity of the stalk like a butterfly’s wing, then
it detached itself and flew forth through the open casement, bearing
with it the soul of Clarimonde. The lamp was extinguished, and I fell
insensible upon the bosom of the beautiful dead.
When I came to myself again I was lying on the bed in my little room at
the presbytery, and the old dog of the former curé was licking my
hand, which had been hanging down outside of the covers. Barbara, all
trembling with age and anxiety, was busying herself about the room,
opening and shutting drawers, and emptying powders into glasses. On
seeing me open my eyes, the old woman uttered a cry of joy, the dog
yelped and wagged his tail, but I was still so weak that I could not
speak a single word or make the slightest motion. Afterward I learned
that I had lain thus for three days, giving no evidence of life beyond
the faintest respiration. Those three days do not reckon in my life, nor
could I ever imagine whither my spirit had departed during those three
days; I have no recollection of aught relating to them. Barbara told me
that the same coppery-complexioned man who came to seek me on the night
of my departure from the presbytery had brought me back the next morning
in a close litter, and departed immediately afterward. When I became
able to collect my scattered thoughts, I reviewed within my mind all the
circumstances of that fateful night. At first I thought I had been the
victim of some magical illusion, but ere long the recollection of other
circumstances, real and palpable in themselves, came to forbid that
supposition. I could not believe that I had been dreaming, since Barbara
as well as myself had seen the strange man with his two black horses,
and described with exactness every detail of his figure and apparel.
Nevertheless it appeared that none knew of any castle in the
neighbourhood answering to the description of that in which I had again
found Clarimonde.
One morning I found the Abbé Sérapion in my room. Barbara had advised
him that I was ill, and he had come with all speed to see me. Although
this haste on his part testified to an affectionate interest in me, yet
his visit did not cause me the pleasure which it should have done. The
Abbé Sérapion had something penetrating and inquisitorial in his
gaze which made me feel very ill at ease. His presence filled me with
embarrassment and a sense of guilt. At the first glance he divined my
interior trouble, and I hated him for his clairvoyance.
While he inquired after my health in hypocritically honeyed accents,
he constantly kept his two great yellow lion-eyes fixed upon me, and
plunged his look into my soul like a sounding-lead. Then he asked me
how I directed my parish, if I was happy in it, how I passed the leisure
hours allowed me in the intervals of pastoral duty, whether I had
become acquainted with many of the inhabitants of the place, what was my
favourite reading, and a thousand other such questions. I answered these
inquiries as briefly as possible, and he, without ever waiting for
my answers, passed rapidly from one subject of query to another. That
conversation had evidently no connection with what he actually wished to
say. At last, without any premonition, but as though repeating a piece
of news which he had recalled on the instant, and feared might otherwise
be forgotten subsequently, he suddenly said, in a clear vibrant voice,
which rang in my ears like the trumpets of the Last Judgment:
‘The great courtesan Clarimonde died a few days ago, at the close of
an orgie which lasted eight days and eight nights. It was something
infernally splendid. The abominations of the banquets of Belshazzar and
Cleopatra were re-enacted there. Good God, what age are we living in?
The guests were served by swarthy slaves who spoke an unknown tongue,
and who seemed to me to be veritable demons. The livery of the very
least among them would have served for the gala-dress of an emperor.
There have always been very strange stories told of this Clarimonde, and
all her lovers came to a violent or miserable end. They used to say that
she was a ghoul, a female vampire; but I believe she was none other than
Beelzebub himself.’
He ceased to speak, and commenced to regard me more attentively than
ever, as though to observe the effect of his words on me. I could not
refrain from starting when I heard him utter the name of Clarimonde, and
this news of her death, in addition to the pain it caused me by reason
of its coincidence with the nocturnal scenes I had witnessed, filled
me with an agony and terror which my face betrayed, despite my utmost
endeavours to appear composed. Sérapion fixed an anxious and severe
look upon me, and then observed: ‘My son, I must warn you that you are
standing with foot raised upon the brink of an abyss; take heed lest you
fall therein. Satan’s claws are long, and tombs are not always true to
their trust. The tombstone of Clarimonde should be sealed down with a
triple seal, for, if report be true, it is not the first time she has
died. May God watch over you, Romuald!’
And with these words the Abbé walked slowly to the door. I did not see
him again at that time, for he left for S------ almost immediately.
I became completely restored to health and resumed my accustomed duties.
The memory of Clarimonde and the words of the old Abbé were constantly
in my mind; nevertheless no extraordinary event had occurred to verify
the funereal predictions of Sérapion, and I had commenced to believe
that his fears and my own terrors were over-exaggerated, when one
night I had a strange dream. I had hardly fallen asleep when I heard my
bed-curtains drawn apart, as their rings slided back upon the curtain
rod with a sharp sound. I rose up quickly upon my elbow, and beheld
the shadow of a woman standing erect before me. I recognised Clarimonde
immediately. She bore in her hand a little lamp, shaped like those which
are placed in tombs, and its light lent her fingers a rosy transparency,
which extended itself by lessening degrees even to the opaque and milky
whiteness of her bare arm. Her only garment was the linen winding-sheet
which had shrouded her when lying upon the bed of death. She sought to
gather its folds over her bosom as though ashamed of being so scantily
clad, but her little hand was not equal to the task. She was so white
that the colour of the drapery blended with that of her flesh under
the pallid rays of the lamp. Enveloped with this subtle tissue which
betrayed all the contour of her body, she seemed rather the marble
statue of some fair antique bather than a woman endowed with life. But
dead or living, statue or woman, shadow or body, her beauty was still
the same, only that the green light of her eyes was less brilliant, and
her mouth, once so warmly crimson, was only tinted with a faint tender
rosiness, like that of her cheeks. The little blue flowers which I had
noticed entwined in her hair were withered and dry, and had lost nearly
all their leaves, but this did not prevent her from being charming--so
charming that, notwithstanding the strange character of the adventure,
and the unexplainable manner in which she had entered my room, I felt
not even for a moment the least fear.
She placed the lamp on the table and seated herself at the foot of my
bed; then bending toward me, she said, in that voice at once silvery
clear and yet velvety in its sweet softness, such as I never heard from
any lips save hers: