XII.
FATHER DODU.
I was about to reply, to fall at her feet and offer her my uncle's house which I could purchase, as the little estate had not been apportioned among the numerous heirs, but just then we reached Loisy, where supper awaited us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patriarchal odour. Neighbours had been invited to celebrate the day after the feast, and I recognised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood-cutter who used to amuse or frighten us, in the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier, gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by turns, Father Dodu made clocks and turnspits in his leisure moments. For a long time he acted as guide to the English tourists at Hermenonville, and while he recounted the last moments of the philosopher, would lead them to Rousseau's favourite spots for meditation. He was the little boy employed to classify the herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from which the sage pressed the juice into his cup of coffee. The landlord of the Golden Cross contested this point and a lasting feud resulted. Father Dodu had once borne the reproach of possessing some very innocent secrets, such as how to cure cows by saying a rhyme backwards and making the sign of the cross with the left foot, but he had renounced these superstitions—thanks, he declared, to his conversations with Jean Jacques.
"That you, little Parisian?" said Father Dodu; "have you come to carry off our pretty girls?"
"I, Father Dodu?"
"You take them into the woods when the wolf is away!"
"Father Dodu, you are the wolf."
"I was as long as I could find sheep, but at present I meet only goats, and they know how to take care of themselves! As for you, why, you are all rascals in Paris. Jean Jacques was right when he said, 'Man grows corrupt in the poisonous air of cities.'"
"Father Dodu, you know very well that men become corrupt everywhere."
"Father Dodu began to roar out a drinking song, and it was impossible to stop him at a questionable couplet that everyone knew by heart. Sylvie would not sing, in spite of our entreaties, on the plea that it was no longer customary to sing at table. I bad already noticed the lover of the ball, seated at her left, and his round face and tumbled hair seemed familiar. He rose and stood behind me, saying, "Have you forgotten me, Parisian?" A good woman who came back to dessert after serving us, whispered in my ear: "Do you not recognize your foster-brother?" Without this warning, I should have made myself ridiculous. "Ah, it is Big Curly-head!" I cried; "the very same who pulled me out of the water." Sylvie burst out laughing at the recollection.
"Without considering," said the youth em-bracing me, "that you had a fine silver watch and on the way home you were more concerned about it than yourself, because it had stopped. You said, 'the creature is drowned does not go tick-tack; what will Uncle say?'" "A watch is a creature," said Father Dodu; "that is what they tell children in Paris!"
Sylvie was sleepy, and I fancied there was no hope for me. She went upstairs, and as I kissed her, said: "Come again to-morrow." Father Dodu remained at table with Sylvain and my foster-brother, and we talked a long time over a bottle of Louvres ratafia.
"All men are equal," said Father Dodu between glasses; "I drink with a pastry-cook as readily as with a prince."
"Where is the pastry-cook?" I asked.
"By your side! There you see a young man who is ambitious to get on in life."
My foster-brother appeared embarrassed and I understood the situation. Fate had reserved for me a foster-brother in the very country made famous by Rousseau, who opposed putting children out to nurse! I learned from Father Dodu that there was much talk of a marriage between Sylvie and Big Curly-head, who wished to open a pastry-shop at Dammartin. I asked no more. Next morning the coach from Nanteuil-le-Haudouin took me back to Paris.
XIII
AURÉLIE.
To Paris, a journey of five hours! I was impatient for evening, and eight o'clock found me in my accustomed seat Aurélie infused her own spirit and grace into the lines of the play, the work of a contemporary author evidently inspired by Schiller. In the garden scene she was sublime. During the fourth act, when she did not appear, I went out to purchase a bouquet of Madame Prevost, slipping into it a tender effusion signed An Unknown, "There," thought I, "is something definite for the future," but on the morrow I was on my way to Germany.
Why did I go there? In the hope of com-posing my disordered fancy. If I were to write a book, I could never gain credence for the story of a heart torn by these two conflicting loves. I had lost Sylvie through my own fault, but to see her for a day, sufficed to restore my soul. A glance from her had arrested me on the verge of the abyss, and henceforth I enshrined her as a smiling goddess in the Temple of Wisdom. I felt more than ever reluctant to present myself before Aurélie among the throng of vulgar suitors who shone in the light of her favour for an instant only to fall blinded.
"Some day," said I, "we shall see whether this woman has a heart."
One morning I learned from a newspaper that Aurélie was ill, and I wrote to her from the mountains of Salzburg, a letter so filled with German mysticism that I could hardly hope for a reply, indeed I expected none. I left it to chance or ... the unknown.
Months passed, and in the leisure intervals of travel I undertook to embody in poetic action the life-long devotion of the painter Colonna to the fair Laura who was constrained by her relatives to take the veil. Something in the subject lent itself to my habitual train of thought, and as soon as the last verse of the drama was written, I hastened back to France.
Can I avoid repeating in my own history, that of many others? I passed through all the ordeals of the theatre. I "ate the drum and drank the cymbal," according to the apparently meaningless phrase of the initiates at Eleusis, which probably signifies that upon occasion we must stand ready to pass the bounds of reason and absurdity; for me it meant to win and possess my ideal.
Aurélie accepted the leading part in the play which I brought back from Germany. I shall never forget the day she allowed me to read it to her. The love scenes had been arranged expressly for her, and I am positive that I rendered them with feeling. In the conversation that followed I revealed myself as the "Unknown" of the two letters. She said: "You are mad, but come again; I have never found anyone who knew how to love me."
Oh, woman! you seek for love ... but what of me?
In the days which followed I wrote probably the most eloquent and touching letters that she ever received. Her answers were full of good sense. Once she was moved, sent for me and confessed that it was hard for her to break an attachment of long standing. "If you love me for myself alone, then you will understand that I can belong to but one."
Two months later, I received an effusive letter which brought me to her feet—in the meantime, someone volunteered an important piece of information. The handsome young man whom I had met one night at the club had just enlisted in the Turkish cavalry.
Races were held at Chantilly the next season, and the theatre troupe to which Aurélie belonged gave a performance. Once in the country, the company was for three days subject to the orders of the director. I had made friends with this worthy man, formerly the Dorante of the comedies of Marivaux and for a long time successful in lovers' parts. His latest triumph was achieved in the play imitated from Schiller, when my opera-glass had discovered all his wrinkles. He had fire, however, and being thin, produced a good effect in the provinces. I accompanied the troupe in the quality of poet, and persuaded the manager to give performances at Senlis and Dammartin. He inclined to Compiègne at first, but Aurélie was of my opinion. Next day, while arrangements with the local authorities were in progress, I ordered horses and we set out on the road to Commelle to breakfast at the castle of Queen Blanche. Aurélie, on horseback, with her blonde hair floating in the wind, rode through the forest like some queen of olden times, and the peasants were dazzled by her appearance. Madame de F—— was the only woman they had ever seen so imposing and so graceful. After breakfast we rode down to the villages like Swiss hamlets where the waters of the Nonette turn the busy saw-mills. These scenes, which my remembrance cherished, interested Aurélie, but did not move her to delay. I had planned to conduct her to the castle near Orry, where I had first seen Adrienne on the green. She manifested no emotion. Then I told her all; I revealed the hidden spring of that love which haunted my dreams by night and was realized in her. She listened with attention and said: "You do not love me! You expect me to say 'the actress and the nun are the same'; you are merely arranging a drama and the issue of the plot is lacking. Go! I no longer believe in you."
Her words were an illumination. The unnatural enthusiasm which had possessed me for so long, my dreams, my tears, my despair and my tenderness,—could they mean aught but love? What then is love?
Aurélie played that night at Senlis, and I thought she displayed a weakness for the director, the wrinkled "young lover" of the stage. His character was exemplary, and he had already shown her much kindness.
One day, Aurélie said to me: "There is the man who loves me!"
XIV.
THE LAST LEAF.
Such are the fancies that charm and beguile us in the morning of life! I have tried to set them down here, in a disconnected fashion, but many hearts will understand me. One by one our illusions fall like husks, and the kernel thus laid bare is experience. Its taste is bitter, but it yields an acrid flavour that invigorates,—to use an old-fashioned simile. Rousseau says that the aspect of nature is a universal consolation. Sometimes I seek again my groves of Clarens lost in the fog to the north of Paris, but now, all is changed! Hermenonville, the spot where the ancient idyl blossomed again, transplanted by Gessner, thy star has set, the star that glowed for me with two-fold lustre. Blue and rose by turns, like the changeful Aldebaran, it was formed by Adrienne and Sylvie, the two halves of my love. One was the sublime ideal, the other, the sweet reality. What are thy groves and lakes and thy desert to me now? Othys, Montagny, Loiseaux, poor neighbouring hamlets, and Chaâlis now to be restored, you guard for me no treasures of the past. Occasionally, I feel a desire to return to those scenes of lonely musing, where I sadly mark the fleeting traces of a period when affectation invaded nature; sometimes I smile as I read upon the granite rocks certain lines from Boucher, which I once thought sublime, or virtuous maxims inscribed above a fountain or a grotto dedicated to Pan. The swans disdain the stagnant waters of the little lakes excavated at such an expense. The time is no more when the hunt of Condé swept by with its proud riders, and the forest-echoes rang with answering horns! There is to-day no direct route to Hermenonville, and sometimes I go by Creil and Senlis, sometimes by Dammartin.
It is impossible to reach Dammartin before night, so I lodge at the Image of Saint John. They usually give me a neat room hung with old tapestry, with a glass between the windows. This room shows a return to the fashion for bric-à-brac which I renounced long ago. I sleep comfortably under the eider-down covering used there. In the morning, when I throw open the casement wreathed with vines and roses, I gaze with rapture upon a wide green landscape stretching away to the horizon, where a line of poplars stand like sentinels. Here and there the villages nestle guarded by their protecting church-spires. First Othys, then Eve and Ver; Hermenonville would be visible beyond the wood, if it had a belfry, but in that philosophic spot the church has been neglected. Having filled my lungs with the pure air of these uplands, I go down stairs in good humour and start for the pastry-cook's. "Helloa, big Curly-head!" "Helloa, little Parisian!" We greet each other with sly punches in the ribs as we did in childhood, then I climb a certain stair where two children welcome my coming. Sylvie's Athenian smile lights up her classic features, and I say to myself: "Here, perhaps, is the happiness I have missed, and yet...."
Sometimes I call her Lotty, and she sees in me some resemblance to Werther without the pistols, which are out of fashion now. While Big Curly-head is busy with the breakfast, we take the children for a walk through the avenues of limes that border the ruins of the old brick towers of the castle. While the little ones practise with their bows and arrows, we read some poem or a few pages from one of those old books all too short, and long forgotten by the world.
I forgot to say that when Aurélie's troupe gave a performance at Dammartin, I took Sylvie to the play and asked her if she did not think the actress resembled someone she knew.
"Whom, pray?"
"Do you remember Adrienne?"
She laughed merrily, in reply. "What an idea!"
Then, as if in self-reproach, she added with a sigh: "Poor Adrienne! she died at the convent of Saint S—— about 1832."
APPENDIX.
'EL DESDICHADO.'
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
I am that dark, that disinherited.
That all dishonoured Prince of Aquitaine,
The Star upon my scutcheon long hath fled;
A black sun on my lute doth yet remain!
Oh, thou that didst console me not in vain,
Within the tomb, among the midnight dead,
Show me Italian seas, and blossoms wed,
The rose, the vine-leaf, and the golden grain.
Say, am I Love or Phoebus? have I been
Or Lusignan or Biron? By a Queen
Caressed within the Mermaid's haunt I lay,
And twice I crossed the unpermitted stream,
And touched on Orpheus' lute as in a dream,
Sighs of a Saint, and laughter of a Fay!
(ANDREW LANG.)
TO ALEXANDER DUMAS.
When it was currently reported that Gérard de Nerval had become insane, Alexander Dumas, who was then publishing that amusing journal Le Mousquetaire, endeavored to explain and interpret the poet's peculiar form of mental alienation. Gérard, who presently came to himself, as was his wont, took note of the study, and in return dedicated to Dumas his Filles du Feu, thus acknowledging the obligation conferred by the great novelist in inditing the epitaph of the poet's "lost wits."
This dedication, now done into English for the first time, is interesting and important, as embodying the author's own interpretation of his singular mental constitution. He confesses that he is unable to compose without incarnating himself in his creations so thoroughly as to lose his own identity. In illustration, he throws into the text the tragic history of a mythical hero. It is easy to trace in this story of a nameless prince, unable to prove his lofty origin, involved in a network of misfortunes through the crafty machinations of the arch plotter La Rancune (malice) and abandoned by his mistress, the beautiful guiding Star of his destiny, allegorical allusions to the poet, the heir of genius and of glory, unable to prove or justify his noble birthright, his highest impulses misunderstood and trampled upon by a heartless and vulgar world.
LUCIE PAGE.
I dedicate this book to you, my dear Master, as I dedicated Lorely to Jules Janin. I was indebted to him for the same service that I owe to you. A few years ago, it was reported that I was dead, and he wrote my biography. A few days ago, I was thought to have lost my reason, and you honoured me by devoting some of your most graceful lines to the epitaph of my intelligence. Such an inheritance of glory has fallen to me before my time. How shall I venture, yet living, to deck my forehead with these shining crowns? It becomes me to assume an air of modesty and beg the public to accept, with suitable deductions, the eulogy bestowed upon my ashes, or rather upon the lost wits contained in the bottle which, like Astolpho, I have been to seek in the moon, and which, I trust, I have now restored to their normal place in the seat of thought.
Being, therefore, no longer mounted upon the hippogriff, and having, in the popular conception, recovered what is vulgarly termed reason,—let us proceed to the exercise of that faculty.
Here is a fragment of what you wrote concerning me, the tenth of last December:
"As you can readily perceive, he possesses a subtle and highly cultivated intellect, in which is manifested from time to time a singular phenomenon which, fortunately, let us hope, has no serious import to himself or his friends. At intervals, when preoccupied by literary toil, imagination goaded to frenzy masters reason and drives it from the brain; then, like an opium-smoker of Cairo, or a hashish-eater of Algiers, Gérard finds again the talismans that evoke spirits. Now he is King Solomon waiting for the Queen of Sheba; then by turns Sultan of the Crimea, Count of Abyssinia, Duke of Egypt, or Baron of Smyrna. Next day, he declares himself mad and relates the whole series of events from which his madness sprung, with such a joyous abandon, such an ingenious fertility of resource that one is ready to part with his wits in order to follow such a fascinating guide through the desert of dreams and hallucinations, sprinkled with oases fresher and greener than any which dot the route from Alexandria to Ammon. Finally, melancholy becomes his muse of inspiration, and now, restrain your tears if you can, for never did Werther, René, or Antony pour forth sobs and complaints more tender and pathetic!"
I shall now endeavour to explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon which you mention above. There are, as you well know, certain writers who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the creations of their imagination. You remember with what conviction our old friend Nodier related how he had the misfortune to be guillotined in the Revolution. The narrative was so convincing that we wondered instinctively how he had contrived to fasten his head on again.
Understand, therefore, that the ardour of production may conduce to a like result, that the author incarnates himself, as it were, in the hero of his imagination so completely that he loses himself and burns with the imaginary flames of this hero's love and ambition! This was precisely the effect produced upon me in narrating the history of a personage who figured under the title of Brisacier, about the time of Louis XV, I believe. Where did I read the fatal biography of this adventurer? I have found again that of the Abbé of Bucquoy, but I cannot recall the slightest historical proof of the existence of this illustrious unknown. What for you, dear Master, would have been but a pastime,—you, who have with clever artifices so bewildered our minds concerning the old chronicles, that posterity will never be able to disentangle truth from fiction, and is certain to credit your invention with all the characters from history that figure in your romances—this became for me a veritable obsession. To invent, is in reality only to recollect, says a certain moralist. Finding no proofs of the material existence of my hero, I suddenly came to believe in the transmigration of souls, not less firmly than Pythagoras or Peter Leroux. Even the eighteenth century, in which I believed myself to have lived, was full of these illusions. Do you remember that courtier who recalled distinctly that he was once a sofa? Whereupon Schahabaham exclaimed with enthusiasm, "What, you were once a sofa! why, that is delightful!—Tell me, were you embroidered?"
As for me, I was embroidered at every seam. From the moment when I first
grasped the continuity of all my previous existences, I figured as
readily in one character as another, prince, king, mage, genie, or even
god; could I unite my memories in one masterpiece, it would represent
the Dream of Scipio, the Vision of Tasso or the Divine Comedy of Dante.
Renouncing, henceforth, all pretensions to inspiration or illumination,
I can offer only what you so justly call impracticable theories, an
impossible book, whose first chapter, subjoined below, seems but to
furnish the context of the Comic Romance of Scarron.... Read and judge
for yourself:
A TRAGIC ROMANCE.
Here I still languish in my prison, Madame, still rash and culpable and alas! still trusting in that beautiful star of comedy, which, for one brief instant, deigned to call me her destiny The Star and its Destiny! what a charming couple to figure in a romance like the poet Scarron's! And yet, how difficult we should find it to sustain the two characters now! The heavy vehicles which used to jolt us over the uneven pavements of Mons, have been superseded by coach, post-chaise and other new inventions. Where shall we find to-day those wild adventures, that gay, Bohemian life that united us, poets and actresses, as comrades and equals? You have betrayed and deserted us, and left us to perish in some miserable inn, while you share the fortunes of some rich and gallant lord. Here, in sooth, am I, but lately the brilliant actor, the prince in disguise, the disinherited son and the banished lover, no better treated than some provincial rhymer! My countenance disfigured by an enormous plaster only adds to my discomfiture. The landlord, tempted by the plausible story poured into his ears by La Rancune, has consented to hold as security for the settlement of his account the person of the son of the great Khan of the Crimea, sent here to finish his education and well known throughout Christian Europe as Brisacier. Had the old intriguer, La Rancune, left me a few gold pieces, or even a paltry watch set with false brilliants, I could, doubtless, have won the respect of my accusers and extricated myself from this unfortunate situation. But in addition, you have left my wardrobe furnished only with a puce-coloured smock-coat, a blue and black striped waist-coat and small clothes in a doubtful state of repair. The suspicions of the landlord were awakened upon lifting my valise after your departure, and he insulted me to my face by calling me an imposter, and a contraband prince, I sprang up to stab him, but La Rancune had removed my sword, fearing lest despair on account of the ungrateful mistress who has abandoned me, might lead me to thrust it through my heart. This precaution was needless, O La Rancune! An actor never stabs himself with the sword that he has worn in many a comedy; nor does he who is himself the hero of tragedy ape the hero of a romance. I call all my comrades to witness that such a death could never be represented with dignity upon the stage. I know that one may plant his sword in the earth and fall upon it with outstretched arms; but in spite of the cold weather, I have here a bare floor with no carpet. The window, too, is wide enough and at sufficient height to aid in putting an end to all despair. But ... but as I have told you a thousand times, I am an actor with a conscience.
Do you remember how I used to play Achilles, when in passing through some third or fourth-rate town, the whim would seize us to re-establish the neglected cult of the old French tragedians? Was I not noble and puissant in the gilded helmet with streaming locks of purple blackness, the glittering armor and azure cloak? What a spectacle to see a father as weak and cowardly as Agamemnon contend with the priest Calchas for the honour of immolating such a victim as poor, weeping Iphigenia! I rushed like a thunderbolt into the midst of the forced and cruel action; I restored hope to the mothers and reawakened courage in the daughters, always sacrificed from a sense of duty, to stay the anger of a god, allay the vengeance of a nation, or advance the interests of a family. For it is easy to recognize here the eternal type of human marriage. The father will forevermore deliver up his daughter through ambition, and the mother will sell her through cupidity; but the lover is not always the worthy Achilles, so gallant and terrible, albeit a trifle too rhetorical for a man of war!
As for me, I often rebelled against declaiming long tirades in defense of a course so evidently just, in the face of an audience so easily convinced that I was in the right. I was tempted to stab the whole idiotic court of the king of kings, with its sleepy rows of super-numeraries, and so put an end to the piece. The public would have been delighted, but on second thoughts would have found the play too short, considering that time sufficient to witness the sufferings of a princess, a lover and a queen, was its rightful due; a period long enough to see them weep, rage and pour forth a torrent of poetic invective against the established authority of priest and king. That was well worth five acts and two hours of close attention, and the audience would not content itself with less. It desires the humiliation of this proud race seated upon the throne of Greece, before whom Achilles himself dares to thunder but in words; it must sound all the depths of misery hidden beneath this royal purple whose majesty seems so irresistible. The tears which fall from the most glorious eyes in the world upon the swelling bosom of Iphigenia, excite the crowd no less than her beauty, her grace and the splendour of her royal robes. Listen to the sweet voice that pleads for life with the touching reminder that, as yet, she stands but upon its threshold. Who does not favour her lover? Who could wish to see her slain? Great gods, what heart so hard! None, surely!... On the contrary, the whole audience has already decided that she must die for the general good rather than live for one individual. Achilles seems to all too grand, too superb! Shall Iphigenia be borne away by this Thessalian vulture, as, not long ago, the daughter of Leda was stolen by a shepherd prince from the voluptuous shores of Asia? This is the question of paramount importance to the Greeks and to the audience as well, which takes our measure when we act the part of hero. I felt myself as much an object of hatred to the men as of admiration to the women when I thus played the part of victorious lover, because it was no indifferent actress, taught to listlessly drone those immortal verses, that I was defending, but a true Greek maiden, a pearl of grace, purity and love, worthy, indeed, to be rescued by all human efforts from the hands of the jealous gods. Not Iphigenia alone, she was Junia, Berenice, all the heroines rendered illustrious by the fair blue eyes of Mlle. de Champmeslé, or the charming graces of the noble maidens of Saint Cyr. Poor Aurélie! My comrade and my sister, wilt thou never regret those hours of triumph and rapture? Didst thou not love me for an instant, cold star, when I fought and wept and suffered for thee? The audience questioned nightly: "Who, pray, is this actress, so far beyond all that we have ever applauded? Are we not mistaken? Is she really as young, as dazzling, and as pure as she seems?" The young women envied, criticised or admired sadly. As for me, I needed to see her constantly, so as not to feel overpowered by her beauty and to be able to meet her eyes whenever the exigencies of the plot demanded....
This is why Achilles was my triumph, although I was often embarrassed in other parts. What a pity that I could not change the situations to suit me, and sacrifice even the thoughts of genius to my love and respect! The character of a timid and captive lover like Britannicus or Bajazet, did not please me. The purple of the young Caesar attracted me more; but what a misfortune to declaim in conclusion only cold and perfidious speeches! What! Was this young Nero, the idol of Rome, the handsome athlete, the dancer, the poet whose only wish was to please the populace? Is this what history and the conceptions of our poets have left of him? Ah! give me his fury to interpret; his power I would fear to accept. Nero! I have comprehended thee, not alas! according to Racine, but according to my own heart, torn with agony whenever I have ventured to impersonate thee! Yes, thou wast a god, thou who wouldst have burned Rome. Thou wast right, perhaps, since Rome had insulted thee!...
A hiss, a miserable hiss, in her presence, and because of her! A hiss of scorn which she attributes to herself—through my mistake, be it understood! Alas! my friends, for an instant, I felt an impulse to show myself truly great, immortal, upon the stage of your theatre. Instead of replying to the insult by another, which brought upon me the assault from which I still suffer, instead of provoking a vulgar audience to rush upon the scene and cowardly beat and belabour me, I held for a moment a sublime purpose, worthy of Caesar himself, a purpose which none could hesitate to pronounce in harmony with the dramatic conceptions of the great Racine himself! I thought to set fire to the theatre, and while the audience perished in the flames, bear away Aurélie in my arms, her disheveled tresses streaming over her disordered dress. O remorse that fills my feverish nights and days of agony! What! I might have done this and I refrained! What! Do ye still insult me, ye, who owe your lives to pity, rather than any fear on my part? I might have burned them all! Judge for yourselves: the theatre of P—— has but one exit; ours opened upon a little street in the rear, but the green-room, where you were all assembled, is on the other side of the stage. In order to set fire to the curtain, I had only to snatch down one of the lamps; I ran no risk of detection, for the manager could not see me and I was alone listening to the insipid dialogue between Britannicus and Junia, waiting for my cue to reappear; all through that scene I was struggling with myself, and when I entered upon the stage I was turning and twisting in my fingers a glove that I had picked up; I expected to avenge myself more nobly than Caesar himself of an insult that I had felt with all the heart of a Caesar.... Ah, well! the cowards dared not begin again; my glance confounded them, and I was on the point of pardoning the audience, if not Junia herself, when she dared.... Immortal gods!... Hold, let me speak my mind! ... Yes, since that night, it is my delusion to imagine myself a Roman, an emperor; I have identified myself with my part, and the tunic of Nero clings to my burning limbs as that of the centaur to the dying Hercules. Let us jest no more with sacred things, not even those of an age and nation long since past, lest perchance some tongue of flame yet quiver in the ashes of the gods of Rome!...
Consider, friends, that in this scene more than a mere repetition of measured lines was involved and three hearts contended with equal chances, where as in the arena, life-blood itself might flow! The audience, that of a small town where there are no secrets, knew it well; those women, many of them ready to fall at my feet, could I be false to my one love, those men all jealous of me on her account, and the third, well chosen for the part of Britannicus, the poor, stammering suitor, who trembled before me in her presence, but who was destined to be my conqueror in that fearful contest where all the honours were reserved for the latest comer.... Ah! the no-vice in love knew his part well.... However, he had nothing to fear, for I am too just to condemn another for the same love that I feel myself; in this particular, I am far removed from the ideal monster of the poet Racine; I could burn Rome without hesitation, but, in saving Junia, I should also save my brother, Britannicus.
Yes, my brother, yes, frail child of art and fancy like myself, thou hast conquered in the struggle, having merited the prize for which we two contended. Heaven preserve me from taking advantage of my age, strength, or the fierce courage of returning health to question the choice or the caprice of her, the all-powerful, impartial divinity of my dreams and life!... I only feared, for a time, lest my defeat profit thee nothing and the gay suitors of the town wrest from us both the prize lost only for me.
The letter which I have just received from La Caverne reassures me fully on that point. She advises me to renounce an art for which I have no capacity and which is incompatible with my necessities. The jest, in sooth, is bitter, for never did I stand in greater need, if not of my art, at least of its swift returns. This is just the point that you do not understand. You consider that you have acquitted yourself of all obligations toward me in recommending me to the authorities of Soissons as a distinguished personage, whom his family cannot abandon, but whose violent illness has forced you to leave him behind in your journey. Your tool, La Rancune, presented himself at the town hall and the inn with all the airs of a Spanish grandee forced by unpleasant circumstances to spend a couple of nights in such a disagreeable place; the rest of you obliged to leave P—— the day after my disaster, had, as I conceive, no reason to allow yourselves to pass merely for disreputable players: it is quite enough to wear that mask in places where no other course is possible. As for me, what can I say, how shall I extricate myself from the infernal network of conspiracy in which I find myself caught and held through the machinations of La Rancune? The famous couplet from Corneille's "Menteur" assuredly aided him in his invention for the wit of such a rascal as he never reached such a pitch. Think for a moment.... But what can I tell you that you do not know already and have not devised together to ruin me? Have not the white fingers of the ingrate who is the cause of all my misfortunes, tangled inextricably all the silken threads that she could weave about her poor victim?... What a master-plot! Ah, well! I am a captive and I confess it; I yield and implore mercy. You can take me back without fear now, and if the rapid post-chaises that bore you swiftly over the Flanders' route, three months ago, have already given place to the humble equipages of our first adventures, deign at least to receive me in the quality of monster or phenomenon, fit to draw the crowd, and I promise to acquit myself of these duties in a manner calculated to appease the most exacting amateur of the province.... Answer immediately and I will send a trusty messenger to bring me the letter from the post, as I fear the curiosity of mine host....
BRISACIER.
How dispose now of this hero deserted by his mistress and his companions? Is he, in truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished for insulting the public, for indulging in his mad jealousy and alleging ridiculous claims? How can he prove that he is the legitimate son of the Khan of the Crimea, according to the crafty recital of La Rancune? How, from the depths of misery where he is plunged, can he rise to the highest destiny? These are points which would, doubtless, trouble you but little, but which have thrown my mind into a strange disorder. Once persuaded that I was writing my own history, I was touched by this love for a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark night of my destiny; I have wept and shuddered over these visions. Then a ray divine illumined my inferno; surrounded by dim and monstrous shapes of horror against which I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic clue, the thread of Ariadne, and since then all my visions have become celestial. One day, I shall write the history of this "Descent to Hades," and you will see that it has not been entirely devoid of reason, if it has always been wanting in fact. And, since you have been so rash as to cite one of my sonnets composed in this state of supernatural trance, as the Germans call it, you must hear the rest. You will find them among my poems. They are little more obscure than the metaphysics of Hegel or the Visions of Swedenborg, and would lose their charm with any attempt at explanation, were that possible;—probably my last illusion will be that of thinking myself a poet; criticism must dispel it.
1854.