Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
PRINCE ZILAH
By JULES CLARETIE
With a Preface by Compte d'Haussonville of the French Academy
JULES CLARETIE
Arsene Arnaud Claretie (commonly called Jules), was born on December 3,
1840, at Limoges, the picturesque and smiling capital of Limousin. He
has been rightly called the "Roi de la Chronique" and the "Themistocle de
la Litterature Contemporaine." In fact, he has written, since early
youth, romances, drama, history, novels, tales, chronicles, dramatic
criticism, literary criticism, military correspondence, virtually
everything! He was elected to the French Academy in 1888.
Claretie was educated at the Lycee Bonaparte, and was destined for a
commercial career. He entered a business-house as bookkeeper, but was at
the same time contributing already to newspapers and reviews. In 1862 we
find him writing for the Diogene; under the pseudonym, "Olivier de
Jalin," he sends articles to La France; his nom-deplume in L'Illustration
is "Perdican"; he also contributes to the Figaro, 'L'Independence Belge,
Opinion Nationale' (1867-1872); he signs articles in the 'Rappel; as
"Candide"; in short, his fecundity in this field of literature is very
great. He is today a most popular journalist and writes for the 'Presse,
Petit Journal, Temps', and others. He has not succeeded as a politician.
Under the second Empire he was often in collision with the Government; in
1857 he was sentenced to pay a fine of 1,000 francs, which was a splendid
investment; more than once lectures to be given by him were prohibited
(1865-1868); in 1871 he was an unsuccessful candidate for L'Assemblee
Nationale, both for La Haute Vienne and La Seine. Since that time he has
not taken any active part in politics. Perhaps we should also mention
that as a friend of Victor Noir he was called as a witness in the process
against Peter Bonaparte; and that as administrator of the Comedie
Francaise he directed, in 1899, an open letter to the "President and
Members of the Court Martial trying Captain Dreyfus" at Rennes,
advocating the latter's acquittal. So much about Claretie as a
politician!
The number of volumes and essays written by Jules Claretie surpasses
imagination, and it is, therefore, almost impossible to give a complete
list. As a historian he has selected mostly revolutionary subjects. The
titles of some of his prominent works in this field are 'Les Derniers
Montagnards (1867); Histoire de la Revolution de 1870-71 (second edition,
1875, 5 vols.); La France Envahie (1871); Le Champ de Bataille de Sedan
(1871); Paris assiege and Les Prussiens chez eux (1872); Cinq Ans apres,
L'Alsace et la Lorraine depuis l'Annexion (1876); La Guerre Nationale
1870-1871', etc., most of them in the hostile, anti-German vein, natural
to a "Chauvinist"; 'Ruines et Fantomes (1873). Les Femmes de la
Revolution (1898)' contains a great number of portraits, studies, and
criticisms, partly belonging to political, partly to literary, history.
To the same category belong: Moliere, sa Vie et ses OEuvres (1873);
Peintres et Sculpteurs Contemporains, and T. B. Carpeaux (1875); L'Art et
les Artistes Contemporains (1876)', and others. Quite different from the
above, and in another phase of thought, are: 'Voyages d'un Parisien
(1865); Journees de Voyage en Espagne et France (1870); Journees de
Vacances (1887)'; and others.
It is, however, as a novelist that the fame of Claretie will endure. He
has followed the footsteps of George Sand and of Balzac. He belongs to
the school of "Impressionists," and, although he has a liking for
exceptional situations, wherefrom humanity does not always issue without
serious blotches, he yet is free from pessimism. He has no nervous
disorder, no "brain fag," he is no pagan, not even a nonbeliever, and has
happily preserved his wholesomeness of thought; he is averse to exotic
ideas, extravagant depiction, and inflammatory language. His novels and
tales contain the essential qualities which attract and retain the
reader. Some of his works in chronological order, omitting two or three
novels, written when only twenty or twenty-one years old, are:
'Pierrille, Histoire de Village (1863); Mademoiselle Cachemire (1867);
Un Assassin, also known under the title Robert Burat (1867); Madeleine
Bertin, replete with moderated sentiment, tender passion, and exquisite
scenes of social life (1868); Les Muscadins (1874, 2 vols.); Le Train No.
17 (1877); La Maison Vide (1878); Le Troisieme dessous (1879); La
Maitresse (1880); Monsieur le Ministre (1882); Moeurs du Jour (1883); Le
Prince Zilah (1884), crowned by the Academy four years before he was
elected; Candidat!(1887); Puyjoli (1890); L'Americaine (1892); La
Frontiere (1894); Mariage Manque (1894); Divette (1896); L'Accusateur
(1897), and others.
It is, perhaps, interesting to know that after the flight of the Imperial
family from the Tuileries, Jules Claretie was appointed to put into order
the various papers, documents, and letters left behind in great chaos,
and to publish them, if advisable.
Very numerous and brilliant have also been the incursions of Jules
Claretie into the theatrical domain, though he is a better novelist than
playwright. He was appointed director of the Comedie Francaise in 1885.
His best known dramas and comedies are: 'La Famille de Gueux, in
collaboration with Della Gattina (Ambigu, 1869); Raymond Lindey (Menus
Plaisirs, 1869, forbidden for some time by French censorship); Les
Muscadins (Theatre Historique, 1874); Un Pyre (with Adrien Decourcelle,
Gymnase, 1874); Le Regiment de Champagne (Theatre Historique, 1877);
Monsieur le Ministre, together with Dumas fils and Busnach (Gymnase,
1883); and Prince Zilah (Gymnase, 1885).
Some of them, as will be noticed, are adapted to the stage from his
novels. In Le Regiment de Champagne, at least, he has written a little
melodramatically. But thanks to the battles, fumes of powder, muskets,
and cannons upon the stage the descendants of Jean Chauvin accept it with
frenetic applause. In most of the plays, however, he exhibits a rather
nervous talent, rich imagination, and uses very scintillating and
picturesque language, if he is inclined to do so--and he is very often
inclined. He received the "Prix Vitet" in 1879 from the Academy for Le
Drapeau. Despite our unlimited admiration for Claretie the journalist,
Claretie the historian, Claretie the dramatist, and Claretie the art-
critic, we think his novels conserve a precious and inexhaustible mine
for the Faguets and Lansons of the twentieth century, who, while
frequently utilizing him for the exemplification of the art of fiction,
will salute him as "Le Roi de la Romance."
COMPTE D'HAUSSONVILLE
de L'Academie Francaise.
PRINCE ZILAH
BOOK 1.
CHAPTER I
THE BETROTHAL FETE
"Excuse me, Monsieur, but pray tell me what vessel that is over there."
The question was addressed to a small, dark man, who, leaning upon the
parapet of the Quai des Tuileries, was rapidly writing in a note-book
with a large combination pencil, containing a knife, a pen, spare leads,
and a paper-cutter--all the paraphernalia of a reporter accustomed to the
expeditions of itinerant journalism.
When he had filled, in his running hand, a leaf of the book, the little
man tore it hastily off, and extended it to a boy in dark blue livery
with silver buttons, bearing the initial of the newspaper, L'Actualite;
and then, still continuing to write, he replied:
"Prince Andras Zilah is giving a fete on board one of the boats belonging
to the Compagnie de la Seine."
"A fete? Why?"
"To celebrate his approaching marriage, Monsieur."
"Prince Andras! Ah!" said the first speaker, as if he knew the name
well; "Prince Andras is to be married, is he? And who does Prince Andras
Zil--"
"Zilah! He is a Hungarian, Monsieur."
The reporter appeared to be in a hurry, and, handing another leaf to the
boy, he said:
"Wait here a moment. I am going on board, and I will send you the rest
of the list of guests by a sailor. They can prepare the article from
what you have, and set it up in advance, and I will come myself to the
office this evening and make the necessary additions."
"Very well, Monsieur Jacquemin."
"And don't lose any of the leaves."
"Oh, Monsieur Jacquemin! I never lose anything!"
"They will have some difficulty, perhaps, in reading the names--they are
all queer; but I shall correct the proof myself."
"Then, Monsieur," asked the lounger again, eager to obtain all the
information he could, "those people who are going on board are almost all
foreigners?"
"Yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur; yes, Monsieur!" responded jacquemin,
visibly annoyed. "There are many foreigners in the city, very many; and
I prefer them, myself, to the provincials of Paris."
The other did not seem to understand; but he smiled, thanked the
reporter, and strolled away from the parapet, telling all the people he
met: "It is a fete! Prince Andras, a Hungarian, is about to be married.
Prince Andras Zilah! A fete on board a steamer! What a droll idea!"
Others, equally curious, leaned over the Quai des Tuileries and watched
the steamer, whose tricolor flag at the stern, and red streamers at the
mastheads, floated with gay flutterings in the fresh morning breeze. The
boat was ready to start, its decks were waxed, its benches covered with
brilliant stuffs, and great masses of azaleas and roses gave it the
appearance of a garden or conservatory. There was something highly
attractive to the loungers on the quay in the gayly decorated steamer,
sending forth long puffs of white smoke along the bank. A band of dark-
complexioned musicians, clad in red trousers, black waistcoats heavily
embroidered in sombre colors, and round fur caps, played odd airs upon
the deck; while bevies of laughing women, almost all pretty in their
light summer gowns, alighted from coupes and barouches, descended the
flight of steps leading to the river, and crossed the plank to the boat,
with little coquettish graces and studied raising of the skirts, allowing
ravishing glimpses of pretty feet and ankles. The defile of merry, witty
Parisiennes, with their attendant cavaliers, while the orchestra played
the passionate notes of the Hungarian czardas, resembled some vision of a
painter, some embarkation for the dreamed-of Cythera, realized by the
fancy of an artist, a poet, or a great lord, here in nineteenth century
Paris, close to the bridge, across which streamed, like a living
antithesis, the realism of crowded cabs, full omnibuses, and hurrying
foot-passengers.
Prince Andras Zilah had invited his friends, this July morning, to a
breakfast in the open air, before the moving panorama of the banks of the
Seine.
Very well known in Parisian society, which he had sought eagerly with an
evident desire to be diverted, like a man who wishes to forget, the
former defender of Hungarian independence, the son of old Prince Zilah
Sandor, who was the last, in 1849, to hold erect the tattered standard of
his country, had been prodigal of his invitations, summoning to his side
his few intimate friends, the sharers of his solitude and his privacy,
and also the greater part of those chance fugitive acquaintances which
the life of Paris inevitably gives, and which are blown away as lightly
as they appeared, in a breath of air or a whirlwind.
Count Yanski Varhely, the oldest, strongest, and most devoted friend of
all those who surrounded the Prince, knew very well why this fanciful
idea had come to Andras. At forty-four, the Prince was bidding farewell
to his bachelor life: it was no folly, and Yanski saw with delight that
the ancient race of the Zilahs, from time immemorial servants of
patriotism and the right, was not to be extinct with Prince Andras.
Hungary, whose future seemed brightening; needed the Zilahs in the future
as she had needed them in the past.
"I have only one objection to make to this marriage," said Varhely; "it
should have taken place sooner." But a man can not command his heart to
love at a given hour. When very young, Andras Zilah had cared for
scarcely anything but his country; and, far from her, in the bitterness
of exile, he had returned to the passion of his youth, living in Paris
only upon memories of his Hungary. He had allowed year after year to
roll by, without thinking of establishing a home of his own by marriage.
A little late, but with heart still warm, his spirit young and ardent,
and his body strengthened rather than worn out by life, Prince Andras
gave to a woman's keeping his whole being, his soul with his name, the
one as great as the other. He was about to marry a girl of his own
choice, whom he loved romantically; and he wished to give a surrounding
of poetic gayety to this farewell to the past, this greeting to the
future. The men of his race, in days gone by, had always displayed a
gorgeous, almost Oriental originality: the generous eccentricities of one
of Prince Andras's ancestors, the old Magyar Zilah, were often cited; he
it was who made this answer to his stewards, when, figures in hand, they
proved to him, that, if he would farm out to some English or German
company the cultivation of his wheat, corn, and oats, he would increase
his revenue by about six hundred thousand francs a year:
"But shall I make these six hundred thousand francs from the nourishment
of our laborers, farmers, sowers, and gleaners? No, certainly not; I
would no more take that money from the poor fellows than I would take the
scattered grains from the birds of the air."
It was also this grandfather of Andras, Prince Zilah Ferency, who, when
he had lost at cards the wages of two hundred masons for an entire year,
employed these men in constructing chateaux, which he burned down at the
end of the year to give himself the enjoyment of fireworks upon
picturesque ruins.
The fortune of the Zilahs was then on a par with the almost fabulous,
incalculable wealth of the Esterhazys and Batthyanyis. Prince Paul
Esterhazy alone possessed three hundred and fifty square leagues of
territory in Hungary. The Zichys, the Karolyis and the Szchenyis,
poorer, had but two hundred at this time, when only six hundred families
were proprietors of six thousand acres of Hungarian soil, the nobles of
Great Britain possessing not more than five thousand in England. The
Prince of Lichtenstein entertained for a week the Emperor of Austria, his
staff and his army. Old Ferency Zilah would have done as much if he had
not always cherished a profound, glowing, militant hatred of Austria:
never had the family of the magnate submitted to Germany, become the
master, any more than it had bent the knee in former times to the
conquering Turk.
From his ancestors Prince Andras inherited, therefore, superb liberality,
with a fortune greatly diminished by all sorts of losses and misfortunes
--half of it confiscated by Austria in 1849, and enormous sums expended
for the national cause, Hungarian emigrants and proscribed compatriots.
Zilah nevertheless remained very rich, and was an imposing figure in
Paris, where, some years before, after long journeyings, he had taken up
his abode.
The little fete given for his friends on board the Parisian steamer was a
trifling matter to the descendant of the magnificent Magyars; but still
there was a certain charm about the affair, and it was a pleasure for the
Prince to see upon the garden-like deck the amusing, frivolous, elegant
society, which was the one he mingled with, but which he towered above
from the height of his great intelligence, his conscience, and his
convictions. It was a mixed and bizarre society, of different
nationalities; an assemblage of exotic personages, such as are met with
only in Paris in certain peculiar places where aristocracy touches
Bohemianism, and nobles mingle with quasi-adventurers; a kaleidoscopic
society, grafting its vices upon Parisian follies, coming to inhale the
aroma and absorb the poison of Paris, adding thereto strange
intoxications, and forming, in the immense agglomeration of the old
French city, a sort of peculiar syndicate, an odd colony, which belongs
to Paris, but which, however, has nothing of Paris about it except its
eccentricities, which drive post-haste through life, fill the little
journals with its great follies, is found and found again wherever Paris
overflows--at Dieppe, Trouville, Vichy, Cauteret, upon the sands of
Etretat, under the orange-trees of Nice, or about the gaming tables of
Monaco, according to the hour, season, and fashion.
This was the sort of assemblage which, powdered, perfumed, exquisitely
dressed, invaded, with gay laughter and nervous desire to be amused, the
boat chartered by the Prince. Above, pencil in hand, the little dark man
with the keen eyes, black, pointed beard and waxed moustache, continued
to take down, as the cortege defiled before him, the list of the invited
guests: and upon the leaves fell, briskly traced, names printed a hundred
times a day in Parisian chronicles among the reports of the races of
first representations at the theatres; names with Slav, Latin, or Saxon
terminations; Italian names, Spanish, Hungarian, American names; each of
which represented fortune, glory, power, sometimes scandal--one of those
imported scandals which break out in Paris as the trichinae of foreign
goods are hatched there.
The reporter wrote on, wrote ever, tearing off and handing to the page
attached to 'L'Actualite' the last leaves of his list, whereon figured
Yankee generals of the War of the Rebellion, Italian princesses, American
girls flirting with everything that wore trousers; ladies who, rivals of
Prince Zilah in wealth, owned whole counties somewhere in England; great
Cuban lords, compromised in the latest insurrections and condemned to
death in Spain; Peruvian statesmen, publicists, and military chiefs at
once, masters of the tongue, the pen, and the revolver; a crowd of
originals, even a Japanese, an elegant young man, dressed in the latest
fashion, with a heavy sombrero which rested upon his straight, inky-black
hair, and which every minute or two he took off and placed under his left
arm, to salute the people of his acquaintance with low bows in the most
approved French manner.
All these odd people, astonishing a little and interesting greatly the
groups of Parisians gathered above on the sidewalks, crossed the gangway
leading to the boat, and, spreading about on the deck, gazed at the banks
and the houses, or listened to the czardas which the Hungarian musicians
were playing with a sort of savage frenzy beneath the French tricolor
united to the three colors of their own country.
The Tzigani thus saluted the embarkation of the guests; and the clear,
bright sunshine enveloped the whole boat with a golden aureole, joyously
illuminating the scene of feverish gayety and childish laughter.