[A] This is possibly a reference to that once celebrated specimen of English didactic fiction, Fathers and Daughters, by Mrs. Amelia Opie.—Translator.
They did not find her name in the Biographie of Michaud.
There remained fairy tales. “They would be expecting palaces of diamonds,” said Pécuchet. Literature develops the intellect, but excites the passions.
Victorine was sent away from catechism on account of her conduct. She had been caught kissing the notary’s son, and Reine made no joke of it: her face looked grave under her cap with its big frills.
After such a scandal, why keep a young girl so corrupted?
Bouvard and Pécuchet called the curé an old fool. His housekeeper defended him, muttering:
“We know you!—we know you!”
They made a sharp rejoinder, and she went off rolling her eyes in a fearful manner.
Victorine was, in fact, smitten with a fancy for Arnold, so nice did she think him, with his embroidered collar, his velvet jacket, and his well-scented hair; and she had been bringing bouquets to him up to the time when Zephyrin told about her.
What foolishness was exhibited regarding this adventure, the two children being perfectly innocent!
The two guardians thought Victor required a stirring amusement like hunting; this would lead to the expense of a gun, of a dog. They thought it better to fatigue him, in order to tame the exuberance of his animal spirits, and went in for coursing in the fields.
The young fellow escaped from them, although they relieved each other. They could do nothing more; and in the evening they had not the strength to hold up the newspaper.
Whilst they were waiting for Victor they talked to the passers-by, and through the sheer necessity of playing the pedagogue, they tried to teach them hygiene, deplored the injuries from floods and the waste of manures, thundered against such superstitions as leaving the skeleton of a blackbird in a barn, putting consecrated wood at the end of a stable and a bag of worms on the big toes of people suffering from fever.
They next took to inspecting wet nurses, and were incensed at their management of babies: some soaked them in gruel, causing them to die of exhaustion; others stuffed them with meat before they were six months old, and so they fell victims to indigestion; several cleaned them with their own spittle; all managed them barbarously.
When they saw over a door an owl that had been crucified, they went into the farmhouse and said:
“You are wrong; these animals live on rats and field-mice. There has been found in a screech-owl’s stomach a quantity of caterpillars’ larvæ.”
The country-folk knew them from having seen them, in the first place, as physicians, then searching for old furniture, and afterwards looking for stones; and they replied:
“Come, now, you pair of play-actors! don’t try to teach us.”
Their conviction was shaken, for the sparrows cleanse the kitchen-gardens, but eat up the cherries. The owls devour insects, and at the same time bats, which are useful; and, if the moles eat the slugs, they upset the soil. There was one thing of which they were certain: that all game should be destroyed as fatal to agriculture.
One evening, as they were passing along by the wood of Faverges, they found themselves in front of Sorel’s house, at the side of the road. Sorel was gesticulating in the presence of three persons. The first was a certain Dauphin, a cobbler, small, thin, and with a sly expression of countenance; the second, Père Aubain, a village porter, wore an old yellow frock-coat, with a pair of coarse blue linen trousers; the third, Eugène, a man-servant employed by M. Marescot, was distinguished by his beard cut like that of a magistrate.
Sorel was showing them a noose in copper wire attached to a silk thread, which was held by a clamp—what is called a snare—and he had discovered the cobbler in the act of setting it.
“You are witnesses, are you not?”
Eugène lowered his chin by way of assent, and Père Aubain replied:
“Once you say so.”
What enraged Sorel was that anyone should have the audacity to set up a snare at the entrance of his lodge, the rascal imagining that one would have no idea of suspecting it in such a place.
Dauphin adopted the blubbering system:
“I was walking over it; I even tried to break it.” They were always accusing him. They had a grudge against him; he was most unlucky.
Sorel, without answering him, had drawn out of his pocket a note-book and a pen and ink, in order to make out an official report.
“Oh, no!” said Pécuchet.
Bouvard added: “Let him go. He is a decent fellow.”
“He—a poacher!”
“Well, such things will happen.”
And they proceeded to defend poaching: “We know, to start with, that the rabbits nibble at the young sprouts, and that the hares destroy the corn crops—except, perhaps, the woodcock——”
“Let me alone, now.” And the gamekeeper went on writing with clenched teeth.
“What obstinacy!” murmured Bouvard.
“Another word, and I shall send for the gendarmes!
“You are an ill-mannered fellow!” said Pécuchet.
“You are no great things!” retorted Sorel.
Bouvard, forgetting himself, referred to him as a blockhead, a bully; and Eugène kept repeating, “Peace! peace! let us respect the law”; while Père Aubain was groaning three paces away from them on a heap of pebbles.
Disturbed by these voices, all the dogs of the pack rushed out of their kennels. Through the railings their black snouts could be seen, and, rushing hither and thither they kept barking loudly.
“Don’t plague me further,” cried their master, “or I’ll make them go for your breeches!”
The two friends departed, satisfied, however, with having upheld progress and civilisation.
Next day a summons was served on them to appear at the police court for offering insults to the gamekeeper, and to pay a hundred francs’ compensation, “reserving an appeal to the public administration, having regard to the contraventions committed by them. Costs: 6 francs 75 centimes.—Tiercelin, Summoner.”
Wherefore a public administration? Their heads became giddy; then, becoming calm, they set about preparing their defence.
On the day named, Bouvard and Pécuchet repaired to the court-house an hour too early. No one was there; chairs and three cushioned seats surrounded an oval table covered with a cloth; a niche had been made in the wall for the purpose of placing a stove there; and the Emperor’s bust, which was on a pedestal, overlooked the scene.
They strolled up to the top room of the building, where there was a fire-engine, a number of flags, and in a corner, on the floor, other plaster busts—the great Napoleon without a diadem; Louis XVIII. with epaulets on a dress-coat; Charles X., recognisable by his hanging lip; Louis Philippe, with arched eyebrows and hair dressed in pyramid fashion, the slope of the roof grazing the nape of his neck; and all these objects were befouled by flies and dust. This spectacle had a demoralising effect on Bouvard and Pécuchet. Governing powers excited their pity as they made their way back to the main hall.
There they found Sorel and the field-keeper, the one wearing his badge on his arm, and the other his military cap.
A dozen persons were talking, having been summoned for not having swept in front of their houses, or for having let their dogs go at large, or neglecting to attach lanterns to their carts, or for keeping a public-house open during mass-time.
At length Coulon presented himself, wrapped in a robe of black serge and wearing a round cap with velvet edgings. His clerk sat down at his left, the mayor, scarfed, at his right; and shortly afterwards the case of Sorel against Bouvard and Pécuchet was called.
Louis-Martial-Eugène Lenepveur, valet at Chavignolles (Calvados), availed himself of his character as a witness to unburden himself of all he knew about a great many things that were foreign to the issue.
Nicolas-Juste Aubain, day-labourer, was afraid both of displeasing Sorel and of injuring “these gentlemen.” He had heard abusive words, and yet he had his doubts about it. He pleaded that he was deaf.
The justice of the peace made him sit down; then, addressing himself to the gamekeeper: “Do you persist in your declarations?”
“Certainly.”
Coulon then asked the two defendants what they had to say.
Bouvard maintained that he had not insulted Sorel, but that in taking the poacher’s part he had vindicated the rights of the peasantry. He recalled the abuses of feudal times and the ruinous huntings of the nobles.
“No matter! The contravention——”
“Allow me to stop you,” exclaimed Pécuchet.
The words “contravention,” “crime,” and “delict” were of no value. To seek in this way to class punishable acts was to take an arbitrary basis. As much as to say to citizens: “Don’t bother yourself as to the value of your actions; that is determined by the punishment inflicted by authority.” However, the penal code appeared to him an absurd production devoid of principles.
“That may be,” replied Coulon; and he proceeded to pronounce his judgment.
But here Foureau, who represented the public administration, arose. They had outraged the gamekeeper in the exercise of his functions. If no regard were shown for propriety, everything would be destroyed.
“In short, may it please Monsieur the Justice of the Peace to apply the maximum penalty.”
This was ten francs, in the form of damages to Sorel.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Bouvard.
“Impose on them, in addition, a fine of five francs for having been guilty of the contravention mentioned by the public administration.”
Pécuchet turned around to the audience:
“The fine is a trifle to the rich man, but a disaster to the poor man. As for myself, it matters nothing to me.”
And he presented the appearance of defying the court.
“Really,” said Coulon, “I am astonished that people of intelligence——”
“The law dispenses you from the possession of it,” retorted Pécuchet. “The justice of the peace occupies his post indefinitely, while the judge of the supreme court is reputed capable up to seventy-five years, and the judge of first instance is no longer so at seventy.”
But, at a gesture from Foureau, Placquevent advanced.
They protested.
“Ah! if you were appointed by competition!”
“Or by the General Council!”
“Or a committee of experts, and according to a proper list!”
Placquevent moved them on, and they went out while the other defendants’ names were being called, believing that they had made a good show in the course of these vile proceedings.
To give vent to their indignation they went that evening to Beljambe’s hostelry. His café was empty, the principal customers being in the habit of leaving about ten o’clock. The lamp had been lowered; the walls and the counter seemed shrouded in a fog. A female attendant came on the scene. It was Mélie. She did not appear agitated, and, smiling, she poured them out two bocks. Pécuchet, ill at ease, quickly left the establishment.
Bouvard came back there alone, entertained some of the villagers with sarcasms at the mayor’s expense, and after that went into the smoking-room.
Six months later Dauphin was acquitted for want of evidence. What a shame! These very witnesses who had been believed when testifying against them were now regarded with suspicion. And their anger knew no bounds when the registrar gave them notice to pay the fine. Bouvard attacked the registry as injurious to property.
“You are mistaken,” said the collector. “Why, it bears a third of the public expenditure!”
“I would have proceedings with regard to taxes less vexatious, a better system of land registration, alterations in the law as to mortgages, and would abolish the Bank of France, which has the privilege of usury.”
Girbal, not being strong on the subject, let the argument fall to the ground, and departed. However, Bouvard made himself agreeable to the innkeeper; he would attract a crowd around him; and, while he was waiting for the guests, he chatted familiarly with the barmaid.
He gave utterance to odd ideas on primary education. On leaving school, pupils ought to be capable of nursing the sick, understanding scientific discoveries, and taking an interest in the arts. The requirements of his programme made him fall out with Petit; and he offended the captain by maintaining that soldiers, instead of losing their time with drilling, would be better occupied in growing vegetables.
When the question of free trade turned up he brought Pécuchet along with him, and the whole winter there were in the café angry looks, contemptuous attitudes, insults and vociferations, with blows of fists on the table that made the beer-glasses jump.
Langlois and the other merchants defended national commerce; Oudot, owner of a spinning factory, and Mathieu, a goldsmith, national industry; the landowners and the farmers, national agriculture: everyone claiming privileges for himself to the detriment of the public at large.
The observations of Bouvard and Pécuchet had an alarming effect.
As they were accused of ignoring the practical side of life, of having a tendency towards levelling, and of immorality, they developed these three ideas: to replace the family name by a registered number; to arrange the French people in a hierarchy, and in such a way that, in order to preserve his grade, it would be necessary for one to submit from time to time to an examination; no more punishments, no more rewards, but in every village an individual chronicle of all persons living there, which would pass on to posterity.
Their system was treated with disdain. They wrote an article about it for the Bayeux daily paper, drew up a note to the prefect, a petition to the Chambers, and a memorial to the Emperor.
The newspaper did not publish their article.
The prefect did not condescend to reply.
The Chambers were silent; and they waited a long time for a communication from the Tuileries.
What, then, was the Emperor occupying his time with?
With women, no doubt.
Foureau, on the part of the sub-prefect, suggested the desirability of more reserve.
They laughed at the sub-prefect, the prefect, the councillors of the prefecture, even the council of state. Administrative justice was a monstrosity, for the administration by means of favours and threats unjustly controls its functionaries. In short, they came to be regarded as a nuisance, and the leading men of the place gave injunctions to Beljambe not to entertain two such fellows.
At this period, Bouvard and Pécuchet were burning to signalise themselves by a work which would dazzle their neighbours; and they saw nothing better than plans for the embellishment of Chavignolles.
Three fourths of the houses should be demolished. They would construct in the centre of the village a monumental square, on the way to Falaise a hospital, slaughter-houses on the way to Caen, and at the “Cows’ Pass” a Roman church of many colours.
Pécuchet manufactured a colouring mixture with Indian ink, and did not forget in preparing his plans to give a yellow tint to the woods, a red to the buildings, and a green to the meadows, for the pictures of an ideal Chavignolles pursued him in his daydreams, and he came back to them as he lay on his mattress.
Bouvard was awakened by him one night.
“Are you unwell?”
Pécuchet stammered, “Haussmann prevents me from going to sleep.”
About this time he received a letter from Dumouchel to know the cost of sea-baths on the Norman coast.
“Let him go about his business with his baths! Have we any time to write?”
And, when they had procured a land-surveyor’s chain, a semicircle, a water-level, and a compass, they began at other studies.
They encroached on private properties. The inhabitants were frequently surprised to see the pair fixing stakes in the ground for surveying purposes. Bouvard and Pécuchet announced their plans, and what would be the outcome of them, with the utmost self-complacency. The people became uneasy, for, perchance, authority might at length fall in with these men’s views! Sometimes they rudely drove them away.
Victor scaled the walls and crept up to the roof to hang up signals there; he exhibited good-will, and even a degree of enthusiasm.
They were also better satisfied with Victorine.
When she was ironing the linen she hummed in a sweet voice as she moved her smoothing-iron over the board, interested herself in looking after the household, and made a cap for Bouvard, with a well-pointed peak that won compliments for her from Romiche.
This man was one of those tailors who go about mending clothes in farmhouses. He was taken into the house for a fortnight.
Hunchbacked, with bloodshot eyes, he made up for his bodily defects by a facetious disposition. While the masters were out, he used to amuse Marcel and Victorine by telling them funny stories. He would put out his tongue as far as his chin, imitate the cuckoo, or give exhibitions of ventriloquism; and at night, saving the cost of an inn, he went to sleep in the bakehouse.
Now, one morning, at a very early hour, Bouvard, being cold, happened to go there to get chips to light his fire.
What he saw petrified him. Behind the remains of the chest, upon a straw mattress, Romiche and Victorine lay asleep together.
He had passed his arm around her waist, and his other hand, long as that of an ape, clutched one of her knees. She was smiling, stretched on her back. Her fair hair hung loose, and the whiteness of the dawn threw its pale light upon the pair.
Bouvard for a moment felt as if he had received a blow in the chest; then a sense of shame prevented him from making a single movement. He was oppressed by painful reflections.
“So young! Lost! lost!” He then went to awaken Pécuchet, and briefly told him everything.
“Ah! the wretch!”
“We cannot help it. Be calm!” And for some time they remained sighing, one after the other—Bouvard, with his coat off and his arms folded; Pécuchet, at the side of his bed, sitting barefooted in a cotton nightcap.
Romiche should leave that very day, when his work was finished. They would pay him in a haughty fashion, and in silence.
But Providence had some spite against them.
Marcel, a short time afterwards, led them to Victor’s room and showed them at the bottom of his chest of drawers a twenty-franc piece. The youngster had asked him to get the change of it.
Where did it come from? No doubt it was got by a theft committed while they were going about as engineers. But in order to restore it they would require to know the person; and if some one came to claim it they would look like accomplices.
At length, having sent for Victor, they ordered him to open his drawer: the napoleon was no longer there. He pretended not to understand. A short time before, however, they had seen it, this very coin, and Marcel was incapable of lying. This affair had revolutionised Pécuchet so much that he had, since morning, kept in his pocket a letter for Bouvard:
“Sir,—Fearing lest M. Pécuchet may be ill, I have recourse to your kindness——”
“Whose is the signature, then?”
“Olympe Dumouchel, née Charpeau.”
She and her husband were anxious to know in which bathing-place—Courseulles, Langrune, or Lucques—the best society was to be found, which was least noisy, and as to the means of transport, the cost of washing, etc.
This importunity made them angry with Dumouchel; then weariness plunged them into deeper despondency.
They went over all the pains that they had taken—so many lessons, precautions, torments!
“And to think that we intended at one time to make Victorine a teacher, and Victor an overseer of works!”
“Ah! how deceived we were in her!”
“If she is vicious, it is not the fault of the lessons she got.”
“For my part, to make her virtuous, I would have learned Cartouche’s biography.”
“Perhaps they needed family life—the care of a mother?”
“I was like one to them,” protested Bouvard.
“Alas!” replied Pécuchet. “But there are natures bereft of moral sense; and education in that case can do nothing.”
“Ah! yes, ’tis a fine thing, education!”
As the orphans had not learned any trade, they would seek two situations for them as servants; and then, with the help of God, they would have nothing more to do with them.
And henceforth “My uncle” and “Good friend” made them take their meals in the kitchen.
But soon they grew restless, their minds feeling the need of work, their existence of an aim.
Besides, what does one failure prove? What had proved abortive in the case of children might be more successful with men. And they conceived the idea of preparing a course of lectures for adults.
In order to explain their views, a conference would be necessary. The great hall of the inn would be perfectly suitable for this purpose.
Beljambe, as deputy mayor, was afraid to compromise himself, refused at first, then, thinking that he might make something out of it, changed his mind, and sent word to that effect by his servant-maid.
Bouvard, in the excess of his joy, kissed her on both cheeks.
The mayor was absent. The other deputy, M. Marescot, entirely taken up with his office, would pay little attention to the conference. So it was to take place; and, to the beating of the drum, the hour was announced as three o’clock on the following Sunday.
It was only on the day before that they thought about their costumes. Pécuchet, thank Heaven, had preserved an old ceremonial coat with a velvet collar, two white cravats, and black gloves. Bouvard put on his blue frock-coat, a nankeen waistcoat and beaver shoes; and they were strongly moved when they had passed through the village and arrived at the hostelry of the Golden Cross.
[Here Gustave Flaubert’s manuscript breaks off.]
THE inn of the Golden Cross—two wooden galleries at the sides on the first floor, with projecting balcony; main building at the bottom; café on the ground floor, dining-room, billiard-room; the doors and the windows are open.
Crowd: people of rank, ordinary folk.
Bouvard: “The first thing to do is to demonstrate the utility of our project; our studies entitle us to pronounce an opinion.”
Discourse by Pécuchet of a pedantic description.
Follies of the government and of the administration. Too much taxation. Two economies to be practised: the suppression of the religious and of the military budget.
He is accused of atheism.
“Quite the contrary; but there is need of a religious renovation.”
Foureau appears on the scene, and insists on dissolving the meeting.
Bouvard excites a laugh at the mayor’s expense by recalling his idiotic bounties for owls. Objection to this.
“If it is necessary to destroy animals that injure plants, it would likewise be necessary to destroy the cattle that devour the grass.”
Foureau withdraws.
Discourse by Bouvard—in a familiar style.
Prejudices: celibacy of priests, futility of adultery, emancipation of woman.
“Her earrings are the symbol of her former servitude.”
Studs of men.
Bouvard and Pécuchet are reproached with the misconduct of their pupils. Also, why did they adopt the children of a convict?
Theory of rehabilitation. They would dine with Touache.
Foureau, having returned, reads, with a view to having revenge on Bouvard, a petition from him to the municipal council, in which he asks for the establishment of a brothel at Chavignolles. (Contemptuous arguments.)
The meeting is brought to a close amid the utmost confusion.
On their return to their own residence, Bouvard and Pécuchet perceive Foureau’s man-servant galloping along the road from Falaise at full speed.
They go to bed, quite jaded, without suspecting how many plots are fermenting against them.—Explain the motives for ill-will towards them actuating the curé, the physician, the mayor, Marescot, the people, everybody.
Next day, at breakfast, they talk about the conference.
Pécuchet sees the future of humanity in dark colours.
The modern man is lessened, and has become a machine.
Final anarchy of the human race. (Buchner, I., II.)
Impossibility of peace. (Id.) Savagery traceable to the excess of individualism and the frenzy of science.
Three hypotheses—first: pantheistic radicalism will break every tie with the past, and an inhuman despotism will result; second: if theistic absolutism triumphs, the liberalism with which humanity has been penetrated since the era of reform succumbs—all is thrown back; third: if the convulsions which have been going on since ’89 continue, without an end between the two issues, these oscillations will carry us away by their own force. There will be no longer ideal, religion, morality.
The United States will have conquered the earth.
Future of literature.
Universal greed. There will be no longer anything but a debauch of workmen.
End of the world through the cessation of caloric.
Bouvard sees the future of humanity in a bright light. The modern man is progressive.
Europe will be regenerated by Asia. The historic law that civilisation travels from East to West—the part to be played by China—the two humanities will at length be fused.
Future inventions: modes of travelling. Balloons. Submarine barges with glass windows, in an unchanging calm, the sea’s agitation being only on the surface. Passing travellers shall see the fishes and the landscapes in the ocean’s depths. Animals tamed. All forms of cultivation.
Future of literature (opposite of industrial literature). Future sciences.—How to regulate the force of magnetism.
Paris will become a winter-garden; fruit will be grown on the boulevards; the Seine filtered and heated; abundance of precious stones artificially made; prodigality as to gilding; lighting of houses—light will be stored up, for there are bodies which possess this property, such as sugar, the flesh of certain molluscs, and the phosphorus of Bologna. People will be ordered to cover the fronts of the houses with a phosphorescent substance, and the radiations from them will illuminate the streets.
Disappearance of evil by the disappearance of want. Philosophy will be a religion.
Communion of all peoples. Public fêtes.
People will travel to the heavenly bodies; and when the earth is used up, humanity will set up housekeeping in the stars.
He has hardly finished when the gendarmes make their appearance. Entry of the gendarmes.
At the sight of them the children are terror-stricken, owing to vague recollections.
Marcel’s desolation.
Anxiety on the part of Bouvard and Pécuchet. Do they mean to arrest Victor?
The gendarmes exhibit an order to take them into custody.
It is the conference that brought it on. They are accused of having made attempts on religion, on order, having roused people to revolt, etc.
Sudden arrival of M. and Madame Dumouchel with their baggage; they have come to take sea-baths. Dumouchel is not changed; Madame wears spectacles and composes fables. Their perplexity.
The mayor, knowing that the gendarmes are with Bouvard and Pécuchet, arrives, encouraged by their presence.
Gorju, seeing that authority and public opinion are against them, has thought of profiting by it, and escorts Foureau. Assuming Bouvard to be the richer of the pair, he accuses him of having formerly debauched Mélie.
“I? Never!”
Bouvard breaks into a loud exclamation.
“Let him at least make allowance for the child that is about to be born, for she is pregnant.”
This second accusation is based on the liberties taken with her by Bouvard at the café.
The public gradually overrun the house.
Barberou, called into the country by a matter connected with his own business, has just learned at the inn what is going on, and comes on the scene.
He believes Bouvard to be guilty, takes him aside, and makes him promise to yield and give the allowance.
Next comes the doctor, the count, Reine, Madame Bordin, Madame Marescot, under her umbrella, and other persons of rank.
The village brats, outside the railing, scream out and fling stones into the garden. (It is now well kept, and this makes the inhabitants jealous.)
Foureau wishes to drag Bouvard and Pécuchet to prison.
Barberou interposes, and Marescot, the doctor, and the count likewise interpose with insolent pity.
Explain the order for the arrest. The sub-prefect, on receiving Foureau’s letter, has despatched an order to take them into custody, in order to frighten them, together with a letter to Marescot and Faverges, saying that they might be let alone if they exhibited repentance.
Vaucorbeil seeks likewise to defend them.
“’Tis rather to a madhouse that they ought to be sent; they are lunatics. I’ll write to the prefect.”
Everything is settled. Bouvard will make an allowance for Mélie.
The custody of the children cannot be left to them. They refuse to give them up; but as they have not adopted the orphans according to the forms of law, the mayor takes them back.
They display a revolting insensibility. Bouvard and Pécuchet shed tears at it.
M. and Madame Dumouchel go away.
So everything has gone to pieces in their hands.
They no longer have any interest in life.
A good idea cherished secretly by each of them. They conceal it from each other. From time to time they smile when it comes into their heads; then at last communicate it to each other:
To copy as in former times.
Designing of a bureau with a double desk. (For this purpose they seek the services of a joiner. Gorju, who has heard about their invention, proposes to make it. Recall the trunk incident.)
Purchase of books, writing materials, sandaracs, erasers, etc.
They sit down to write.
[This work may be called a prose poem. It is impregnated with the spirit of romanticism, which at the time of writing had a temporary but powerful hold on the mind of Gustave Flaubert.]
AT NIGHT, in winter, when the snowflakes fall slowly from heaven like great white tears, I raise my voice; its resonance thrills the cypress trees and makes them bud anew.
I pause an instant in my swift course over earth; throw myself down among cold tombs; and, while dark-plumaged birds rise suddenly in terror from my side, while the dead slumber peacefully, while cypress branches droop low o’er my head, while all around me weeps or lies in deep repose, my burning eyes rest on the great white clouds, gigantic winding-sheets, unrolling their slow length across the face of heaven.
How many nights, and years, and ages have I journeyed thus! A witness of the universal birth and of a like decay! Innumerable are the generations I have garnered with my scythe. Like God, I am eternal! The nurse of Earth, I cradle it each night upon a bed both soft and warm. The same recurring feasts; the same unending toil! Each morning I depart, each evening I return, bearing within my mantle’s ample folds all that my scythe has gathered. And then I scatter them to the four winds of Heaven!
When high the billows run, when the heavens weep, and shrieking winds lash ocean into madness, then in the turmoil and the tumult do I fling myself upon the surging waves, and lo! the tempest softly cradles me, as in her hammock sways a queen. The foaming waters cool my weary feet, burning from bathing in the falling tears of countless generations that have clung to them in vain endeavour to arrest my steps.
Then, when the storm has ceased, after its roar has calmed me like a lullaby, I bow my head: the hurricane, raging in fury but a moment earlier dies instantly. No longer does it live, but neither do the men, the ships, the navies that lately sailed upon the bosom of the waters.
‘Mid all that I have seen and known,—peoples and thrones, loves, glories, sorrows, virtues—what have I ever loved? Nothing—except the mantling shroud that covers me!
My horse! ah, yes! my horse! I love thee too! How thou rushest o’er the world! thy hoofs of steel resounding on the heads bruised by thy speeding feet.
Thy tail is straight and crisp, thine eyes dart flames, the mane upon thy neck flies in the wind, as on we dash upon our maddened course. Never art thou weary! Never do we rest! Never do we sleep! Thy neighing portends war; thy smoking nostrils spread a pestilence that, mist-like, hovers over earth. Where’er my arrows fly, thou overturnest pyramids and empires, trampling crowns beneath thy hoofs! All men respect thee; nay, adore thee! To invoke thy favour, popes offer thee their triple crowns, and kings their sceptres; peoples, their secret sorrows; poets, their renown. All cringe and kneel before thee, yet thou rushest on over their prostrate forms.
Ah, noble steed! Sole gift from heaven! Thy tendons are of iron, thy head is of bronze. Thou canst pursue thy course for centuries as swiftly as if borne up by eagle’s wings; and when, once in a thousand years, resistless hunger comes, thy food is human flesh, thy drink, men’s tears. My steed! I love thee as Pale Death alone can love!
Ah! I have lived so long! How many things I know! How many mysteries of the universe are shut within my breast!
Sometimes, after I have hurled a myriad of darts, and, after coursing o’er the world on my pale horse, have gathered many lives, a weariness assails me, and I long to rest.
But on my work must go; my path I must pursue; it leads through infinite space and all the worlds. I sweep away men’s plans together with their triumphs, their loves together with their crimes, their very all.
I rend my winding-sheet; a frightful craving tortures me incessantly, as if some serpent stung continually within.
I throw a backward glance, and see the smoke of fiery ruins left behind; the darkness of the night; the agony of the world. I see the graves that are the work of these, my hands; I see the background of the past—’tis nothingness! My weary body, heavy head, and tired feet, sink, seeking rest. My eyes turn towards a glowing horizon, boundless, immense, seeming to grow increasingly in height and depth. I shall devour it, as I have devoured all else.
When, O God! shall I sleep in my turn? When wilt Thou cease creating? When may I, digging my own grave, stretch myself out within my tomb, and, swinging thus upon the world, list the last breath, the death-gasp, of expiring nature?
When that time comes, away my darts and shroud I’ll hurl. Then shall I free my horse, and he shall graze upon the grass that grows upon the Pyramids, sleep in the palaces of emperors, drink the last drop of water from the sea, and snuff the odour of the last slow drop of blood! By day, by night, through the countless ages, he shall roam through fields eternal as the fancy takes him; shall leap with one great bound from Atlas to the Himalayas; shall course, in his insolent pride, from heaven to earth; disport himself by caracoling in the dust of crumbled empires; shall speed across the beds of dried-up oceans; shall bound o’er ruins of enormous cities; inhale the void with swelling chest, and roll and stretch at ease.
Then haply, faithful one, weary as I, thou finally shalt seek some precipice from which to cast thyself; shalt halt, panting before the mysterious ocean of infinity; and then, with foaming mouth, dilated nostrils, and extended neck turned towards the horizon, thou shalt, as I, pray for eternal sleep; for repose for thy
fiery feet; for a bed of green leaves, whereon reclining thou canst close thy burning eyes forever. There, waiting motionless upon the brink, thou shalt desire a power stronger than thyself to kill thee at a single blow—shalt pray for union with the dying storm, the faded flower, the shrunken corpse. Thou shalt seek sleep, because eternal life is torture, and the tomb is peace.
Why are we here? What hurricane has hurled us into this abyss? What tempest soon shall bear us away towards the forgotten planets whence we came?
Till then, my glorious steed, thou shalt run thy course; thou mayst please thine ear with the crunching of the heads crushed under thy feet. Thy course is long, but courage! Long time hast thou carried me: but longer time still must elapse, and yet we shall not age.
Stars may be quenched, the mountains crumble, the earth finally wear away its diamond axis; but we two, we alone are immortal, for the impalpable lives forever!
But to-day thou canst lie at my feet, and polish thy teeth against the moss-grown tombs, for Satan has abandoned me, and a power unknown compels me to obey his will. Lo! the dead seek to rise from their graves.
Satan, I love thee! Thou alone canst comprehend my joys and my deliriums. But, more fortunate than I, thou wilt some day, when earth shall be no more, recline and sleep within the realms of space.
But I, who have lived so long, have worked so ceaselessly, with only virtuous loves and solemn thoughts,—I must endure immortality. Man has his tomb, and glory its oblivion; the day dies into night, but I—!
And I am doomed to lasting solitude upon my way, strewn with the bones of men and marked by ruins. Angels have fellow-angels; demons their companions of darkness; but I hear only sounds of a clanking scythe, my whistling arrows, and my speeding horse. Always the echo of the surging billows that sweep over and engulf mankind!
Dost thou complain,—thou, the most fortunate creature under heaven? The only, splendid, great, unchangeable, eternal one—like God, who is the only Being that equals thee! Dost thou repine, who some day in thy turn shalt disappear forever, after thou hast crushed the universe beneath thy horse’s feet?
When God’s work of creating has ceased; when the heavens have disappeared and the stars are quenched; when spirits rise from their retreats and wander in the depths with sighs and groans; then, what unpicturable delight for thee! Then shalt thou sit on the eternal thrones of heaven and of hell—shalt overthrow the planets, stars, and worlds—shalt loose thy steed in fields of emeralds and diamonds—shalt make his litter of the wings torn from the angels,—shalt cover him with the robe of righteousness! Thy saddle shall be broidered with the stars of the empyrean,—and then thou wilt destroy it! After thou hast annihilated everything,—when naught remains but empty space,—thy coffin shattered and thine arrows broken, then make thyself a crown of stone from heaven’s highest mount, and cast thyself into the abyss of oblivion. Thy fall may last a million æons, but thou shalt die at last. Because the world must end; all, all must die,—except Satan! Immortal more than God! I live to bring chaos into other worlds!
But thou hast not, as I, this vista of eternal nothingness before thee; thou dost not suffer with this death-like cold, as I.
Nay, but I quiver under fierce and unrelaxing heats of molten lava, which burn the doomed and which e’en I cannot escape.
For thou, at least, hast only to destroy. But I bring birth and I give life. I direct empires and govern the affairs of States and of hearts.
I must be everywhere. The precious metals flow, the diamonds glitter, and men’s names resound at my command. I whisper in the ears of women, of poets, and of statesmen, words of love, of glory, of ambition. With Messalina and Nero, at Paris and at Babylon, within the self-same moment do I dwell. Let a new island be discovered, I fly to it ere man can set foot there; though it be but a rock encircled by the sea, I am there in advance of men who will dispute for its possession. I lounge, at the same instant, on a courtesan’s couch and on the perfumed beds of emperors. Hatred and envy, pride and wrath, pour from my lips in simultaneous utterance. By night and day I work. While men are burning Christians, I luxuriate voluptuously in baths perfumed with roses; I race in chariots; yield to deep despair; or boast aloud in pride.
At times I have believed that I embodied the whole world, and all that I have seen took place, in verity, within my being.
Sometimes I weary, lose my reason, and indulge in such mad follies that the most worthless of my minions ridicule me while they pity me.
No creature cares for me; nowhere am I loved,—neither in heaven, of which I am a son, nor yet in hell, where I am lord, nor upon earth, where men deem me a god. Naught do I see but paroxysms of rage, rivers of blood, or maddened frenzy. Ne’er shall my eyelids close in slumber, never my spirit find repose, whilst thou, at least, canst rest thy head upon the cool, green freshness of the grave. Yea, I must ever dwell amid the glare of palaces, must listen to the curses of the starving, or inhale the stench of crimes that cry aloud to heaven.
God, whom I hate, has punished me indeed! But my soul is greater even than His wrath; in one deep sigh I could the whole world draw into my breast, where it would burn eternally, even as I.
When, Lord, shall thy great trumpet sound? Then a great harmony shall hover over sea and hill. Ah! would that I could suffer with humanity; their cries and sobs should drown the sound of mine!
[Innumerable skeletons, riding in chariots, advance at a rapid pace, with cries of joy and triumph. They drag broken branches and crowns of laurel, from which the dried and yellow leaves fall continually in the wind and the dust.]
Lo, a triumphal throng from Rome, the Eternal City! Her Coliseum and her Capitol are now two grains of sand that served once as a pedestal; but Death has swung his scythe: the monuments have fallen. Behold! At their head comes Nero, pride of my heart, the greatest poet earth has known!
[Nero advances in a chariot drawn by twelve skeleton horses. With the sceptre in his hand, he strikes the bony backs of his steeds. He stands erect, his shroud flapping behind him in billowy folds. He turns, as if upon a race-course; his eyes are flaming and he cries loudly:]
Quick! Quick! And faster still, until your feet dash fire from the flinty stones and your nostrils fleck your breasts with foam. What! do not the wheels smoke yet? Hear ye the fanfares, whose sound reached even to Ostia; the clapping of the hands, the cries of joy? See how the populace shower saffron on my head! See how my pathway is already damp with sprayed perfume! My chariot whirls on; the pace is swifter than the wind as I shake the golden reins! Faster and faster! The dust clouds rise; my mantle floats upon the breeze, which in my ears sings “Triumph! triumph!” Faster and faster! Hearken to the shouts of joy, list to the stamping feet and the plaudits of the multitude. Jupiter himself looks down on us from heaven. Faster! yea, faster still!
[Nero’s chariot now seems to be drawn by demons; a black cloud of dust and smoke envelops him; in his erratic course he crashes into tombs, and the re-awakened corpses are crushed under the wheels of the chariot, which now turns, comes forward, and stops.]
Now let six hundred of my women dance the Grecian Dances silently before me, the while I lave myself with roses in a bath of porphyry. Then let them circle me, with interlacing arms, that I may see on all sides alabaster forms in graceful evolution, swaying like tall reeds bending over an amorous pool.
And I will give the empire and the sea, the Senate, and Olympus, the Capitol, to her who shall embrace me the most ardently; to her whose heart shall throb beneath my own; to her who shall enmesh me in her flowing hair, smile on me sweetest, and enfold me in the warmest clasp; to her who soothing me with songs of love shall waken me to joy and heights of rapture!
Rome shall be still this night; no barque shall cleave the waters of the Tiber, since ’tis my wish to see the mirrored moon on its untroubled face and hear the voice of woman floating over it. Let perfumed breezes pass through all my draperies! Ah, I would die, voluptuously intoxicated.
Then, while I eat of some rare meat, that only I may taste, let some one sing, while damsels, lightly draped, serve me from plates of gold and watch my rest. One slave shall cut her sister’s throat, because it is my pleasure—a favourite with the gods—to mingle the perfume of blood with that of food, and cries of victims soothe my nerves.
This night I shall burn Rome. The flames shall light up heaven, and Tiber shall roll in waves of fire!
Then, I shall build of aloes wood a stage to float upon the Italian sea, and the Roman populace shall throng thereto chanting my praise. Its draperies shall be of purple, and on it I shall have a bed of eagles’ plumage. There I shall sit, and at my side shall be the loveliest woman in the empire, while all the universe applauds the achievements of a god! And though the tempest roar around me, its rage shall be extinguished ’neath my feet, and sounds of music shall o’ercome the clamor of the waves!
What didst thou say? Vindex revolts, my legions fly, my women flee in terror? Silence and tears alone remain, and I hear naught but the rolling of thunder. Must I die, now?
Instantly!
Must I give up my days of feasting and delight, my spectacles, my triumphs, my chariots and the applause of multitudes?
All! All!
Haste, Master of the World! One comes—One who will put thee to the sword. An emperor knows how to die!
Die! I have scarce begun to live! Oh, what great deeds I should accomplish—deeds that should make Olympus tremble! I would fill up the bed of hoary ocean and speed across it in a triumphal car. I would still live—would see the sun once more, the Tiber, the Campagna, the Circus on the golden sands. Ah! let me live!
I will give thee a mantle for the tomb, and an eternal bed that shall be softer and more peaceful than the Imperial couch.
Yet, I am loth to die.
Die, then!
[He gathers up the shroud, lying beside him on the ground, and bears away Nero, wrapped in its folds.]