The Project Gutenberg eBook of Short-stories Masterpieces, Vol. 2
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Short-stories Masterpieces, Vol. 2
French
Editor: J. Berg Esenwein
Release date: June 18, 2024 [eBook #73859]
Language: English
Original publication: Massachusetts: The Home correspondence school, 1912
Credits: Andrés V. Galia, Ed Leckert and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT-STORIES MASTERPIECES, VOL. 2 ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
In the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores
(_italics_), small caps are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS
and words in bold are represented as in =bold=.
A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.
Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.
The cover art included with this ebook was modified by the transcriber
and is granted to the public domain.
* * * * *
[Illustration: =Anatole France=]
SHORT-STORY
MASTERPIECES
VOLUME II--FRENCH
DONE INTO ENGLISH AND
WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY
J. BERG ESENWEIN
_EDITOR OF LIPPINCOTTS MAGAZINE_
THE HOME CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL
Springfield, Massachusetts
1912
Copyright 1911 and 1912--J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Copyright 1912--THE HOME CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
VOLUME II
PAGE
THE MANY-SIDED BALZAC 3
STORY: AN EPISODE UNDER THE TERROR 27
LUDOVIC HALÉVY, PARISIAN 59
STORY: THE INSURGENT 71
ANDRÉ THEURIET, HUMANIST 79
STORY: LA BRETONNE 87
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER, LOVER OF BEAUTY 97
STORY: THE MUMMY’S FOOT 107
ANATOLE FRANCE, FORMER MAN AND NEW 129
STORY: JUGGLER TO OUR LADY 141
THE MANY-SIDED BALZAC
Honoré Balzac, or de Balzac, as he loved to call himself--though really
there was no “noble” blood in his veins--was baptized under the name
of Balssa. He was born on May 20, 1799, at Tours. His mother, Laure
Sallambier, was a Parisian; his father, a provincial from Languedoc.
After completing his studies in Paris, Honoré began the study of law
at the age of seventeen, but after eighteen months’ apprenticeship to
an attorney and a second year and a half’s service to a notary, his
literary ambition began to turn him away from the law. Already at the
age of twenty he had conceived the idea of a drama on Cromwell, but
after fifteen months’ labor, he read it to a company of friends who
received it coldly. In 1822, he made his first essay at the novel,
under the title, _The Inheritress de Birague_. From this time on
he labored incessantly in producing the gigantic works which have
immortalized his name.
Debt was always threatening to overwhelm Balzac, for in the days of
his largest income his free life and passion for luxuries kept him
constantly in danger of going down in the flood. Once, in 1825, when
his first novels produced but little return, he felt compelled to
leave his vocation of letters to become bookseller, printer, and
type-founder. But after three years of disaster, resulting in one
hundred thousand francs of debt, he once more took up his pen, this
time to succeed most splendidly--though it required ten years of
strenuous, almost frenzied, production to clear him of his obligations.
The story of his loves is closely knit with his literary career, as are
also the records of his minglings with the men of his day, but no such
brief monograph as this can even refer adequately to the details of his
personal life. Inspiration, observation, and labor were its dominant
notes throughout. Two thousand distinct characters move as in life
through his forty-seven volumes of more than sixteen thousand aggregate
pages, all produced in twenty-five years of actual pen-craft. What a
monument for the titan who in 1850 passed away in his prime!
* * * * *
There are two marked tendencies of extreme displayed by the
short-story: The first, and the more modern, is a fondness for
over-compression; that is, the practice of skeletonizing the story,
of giving little more than a bare, swift outline of the action, and
only so much accessory material as may be needed to round out a body
decently clothed upon with flesh. The story is everything, the
setting almost nothing. It scarcely need be said that this tendency
comes perilously near to robbing the short-story of the literary
qualities which it should rightly display. A few of Maupassant’s
compact and abrupt shorter fictions may serve to illustrate this
characteristic--not to mention unhappy examples all too prevalent
to-day.
The second tendency is quite in the other extreme. I speak of it now
because most of Balzac’s shorter stories are of this type,--which gives
much space to detail, the development of setting, and the building up
of a well-rounded and fully-garbed body to carry the soul of the story.
If the scenario-story is likely to swing to an extreme of compression,
the leisurely type is prone to over-leisureliness, as is often seen in
the shorter work of Mr. James, and the later little fictions by Mr.
Howells, wherein, and so far properly too, the story is not made to
be everything, but wherein--not so wisely--circumstances and air are
accorded even more than due value. The effect is to draw the narrative
away from the unity and compression characteristic of the short-story
type, and range it with those other fictional forms which, while
cognate to, are really something different from the short-story.
Balzac’s short-stories--so to call them--were written from three
to five years before Poe wrote “Berenice” (1835), which was his
first short-story to anticipate and meet fully the requirements of
the type as formulated by the author himself, in his criticism of
Hawthorne’s “Tales,” in 1842. But Balzac drew more and more away
from the impressionistic, unified, condensed short-story, for it was
evidently not his ideal form, and took up the detailed psychological
novel of manners. Even in the story given herewith in translation, we
find a wealth of detail and an extent of time covered in the action
which are not part and parcel of the true short-story, technically
considered. But, lest these comments seem to cite these qualities in
derogation of Balzac’s art be it noted that Balzac’s little fictions,
with all their fullness, are greater than many technically perfect
short-stories in their miraculous compression. Certainly it is only
this dual element of fullness and consequent diffused final effect
which prevented him from anticipating Poe as the first _conscious_
artist of the short-story--yet with this one reservation I reserve
much, for compression and unity of final impression are the very twin
arteries of this fictional form. Balzac’s short-stories approached
technical perfection just as closely as did the short-stories of those
two American forerunners of Poe--Irving and Hawthorne.
It is illuminating to observe that Balzac’s full-method of short-story
art was not the reflex of the successful novelist who was sure of his
public and for that reason dared the expansive treatment. The truth is
that of his successful novels only _The Chouans_ had been written in
1829 before he began, in 1830, that brilliant series of shorter stories
which place him among the masters.
The fictive art of Balzac is more clearly displayed in his
short-stories than in his novels. By far the greater number of his
novels are filled with a vast amount of contributory detail not always
germane to the plot. As stories, they often mark time. The author’s
great motive was to make faithful transcripts from life, to present
realities, to penetrate into the deeps of the human soul and disclose
its inner life, to delineate the high and the low places of the whole
social system of his era. On this giant-journey he was often allured
from the highway of his story by side-paths rich in interest, and the
great realistic novelist did not any more hesitate to follow out these
beckoning byways than did Victor Hugo in his equally great romances.
The inevitable in each case was a far from unified type of fiction.
In Balzac’s short-stories, however, we discern but very little of
this tendency, fully expanded though they are, and that is why I
have ventured to assert their artistic superiority to his novels.
True, the genius of this greatest of French novelists can be fully
appreciated only by those who make a study of his longer works with
their tremendous sweep of character presentment, minuteness of setting,
and depth of psychological inquiry. But for approximate singleness of
effect--a great factor in the consideration of fictional merit--we must
turn to his short-stories.
This contrast in method is due not merely to Balzac’s fondness for
making excursions in his novels, but it is largely attributable to
the nature of the _nouvelle_, or expanded short-story form. Any
short-story, being complete in itself and not one of a series,
necessarily bears a much less close relation to any other of its kind
than does any one of Balzac’s novels to his other novels. Each of these
is an integrated part of a great life-record which he was engaged in
completing--but which, unhappily, was never consummated.
The themes of all Balzac’s short-stories are consistent with the
artistic requirements of the _nouvelle_; that is to say, they are
transcriptions of _exceptional marginalia_ from common life, always
dealing with the unusual, and occasionally with the unique. Because
of this quality, it seems evident that, as Brunetière has pointed
out, Balzac elected to develop these incidents in short-story form
rather than expand them into novels. Treated in the short-story, they
stand for what they are--extraordinary happenings in common life (as
distinguished from impossible “incidents” which are told in fantastic
and ultra-romantic short-stories); in the novel, they would have been
enlarged out of their true focus, and so have seemed to bear a more
important, a more typical, relation to life as a whole than any such
exceptional incidents ever do. Hence, again, Balzac has used in his
short-stories less the realistic method of narration than the romantic.
Pure realism as a method is suited to the novel, where life shows
whole; but the short-story, which presents a section, a phase, an
incident of life, and by which we do not hope to gain a picture of an
age, of a whole social system, or even of an entire individual life, is
almost compelled to adopt the methods of romanticism even when laying
its fictional foundations, as Balzac did, deep in the ground of reality.
In attempting to get a view of his broad genius we must remember our
author’s versatility, not alone of gift but of temper; and since a
consideration of his novels is not pertinent to this paper, let us see
if the many-sided Balzac is not clearly revealed in a varied half-dozen
of his greatest short-stories.
Picture this powerful worker spending endless days and nights, months
on end, roaming the streets of Paris, haunting purlieu and boulevard,
absorbing with the thirsty passion of a universal analyst the knowledge
of what man is. But he is more than a terrifically industrious
observer, he is sincere, and he codifies his observations as _The
Connoisseur of Life_.
This first phase of our social psychologist--and as such he blazed
new trails in French literature--is well illustrated in one of his
greatest stories (it seems trite to aver that it must be read to be
appreciated!) which is a romantic _nouvelle_ of about ten thousand
words, “The Unknown Masterpiece.” It is well to note in this connection
that the typical psychological-study differs from the character-study
in that the former concerns itself with _workings_ of the inner life,
while the latter notes the _effect_ of life on character, disposition,
bearing, and conduct.
Nicolas Poussin, a poor and ambitious young artist, timidly visits
François Porbus, another artist of ability, in his studio. There Master
Frenhofer, an eccentric, wealthy old artist, is discoursing on his
theories of art (set forth brilliantly and at length in the story, and
illustrating the marvellous sweep of Balzac’s knowledge). Frenhofer
is obsessed by the conviction that the artists of the day do not make
their subjects live, and illustrates by criticising the painting, “St.
Mary the Egyptian,” which Porbus has about completed. “Your saint is
not badly put together, but she is not alive. Because you have copied
nature, you imagine that you are painters, and that you have discovered
God’s secret! Bah! To be a great poet, it is not enough to know syntax,
and to avoid errors in grammar.” “The mission of art is not to copy
nature, but to express it” (an illuminating passage when applied to
Balzac’s own work). At length the old man seizes the brushes, and with
a few strokes imparts vivacity to the figure, and makes the “Saint”
stand out from the canvas.
Old Master Frenhofer himself has been laboring for ten years to perfect
his painting of a woman, but despairs of adding the final touches, and
determines to travel in search of a perfect model. In his enthusiasm
for art, and hoping to gain Frenhofer’s secret, as well as instruction
from the old painter, Nicolas asks his beautiful mistress and model,
Gillette, to pose for the old man. A protracted struggle ensues between
her abhorrence of the idea and her wish to serve her lover. At last,
however, she yields.
When Nicolas and Porbus are permitted to view Frenhofer’s completed
canvas, they discover that in his long effort to perfect his work the
old painter has entirely covered the original picture, and that not
more than a shadowy human foot is to be seen; only the imaginative eye
of the artist himself is able to see the figure!
The dénouement is a double one: As she feared would be the case,
Gillette loses her love for Nicolas, who could sacrifice the sacredness
of her beauty in order to advance his own career by capturing the
secrets of a great master; and the old artist, after burning all his
paintings, dies in despair upon discovering the truth, for he has lived
all these years with his painting as the well-loved companion of his
labors and his dreams.
A great story, illustrating Balzac as a connoisseur--a knower of life.
* * * * *
A second phase of Balzac’s genius is that of _The Impressionistic
Literary Artist_. In his inner life some pictures were born, others
were caught on the retina from his attentive journeyings afield. To
produce in the reader precisely the impression which the originator
feels, is impressionism, and this transfusion of spirit, tone, and
feeling, Balzac now and then accomplished, though not often.
One of the most striking of these impressionistic sketches, more
atmospheric, more simply pictorial, than any of his others, is “A
Passion in the Desert.”
A Provençal soldier of Napoleon tells the story over a bottle to a
friend, and he retells it in a letter to a lady who had just seen a
wonderful example of animal-training in a menagerie.
When General Desaix was in upper Egypt “a provincial soldier, having
fallen into the hands of the Maugrabins, was taken by these Arabs
into the deserts that lie beyond the cataracts of the Nile.” Freeing
himself, he secures a carbine, a dagger, a horse, and some provisions,
and makes away. But, eager to see camp once more, he rides his horse to
death and finds himself alone in the desert.
At length he seeks shelter and sleep in a grotto, but awakens to
find his asylum shared by a huge lioness. He considers well the
possibilities while he waits for her to wake. When she opens her eyes
her pretty, coquettish movements remind him of “a dainty woman.” The
soldier expects immediate conflict and draws his dagger; but the
lioness stares steadily at him for a moment, then walks slowly but
confidently toward him. Forcing himself to smile into her face, he
reaches out his hand caressingly, and she accepts these overtures with
seeming pleasure, even purrs like a cat, but the sound is so loud that
it is not unlike the dying notes of a church organ. Believing himself
safe for the present, the man rises and leaves the grotto; she follows,
rubbing against his legs and uttering a wild, peculiar cry, whereupon
he again goes through the petting motions usual with domestic animals,
at the same time weighing the chance of killing her with one blow
of his weapon. On her side, the lioness scrutinizes him kindly, yet
prudently--then she licks his shoes.
Visions of what may happen when his unwelcome companion is hungry bring
a shudder to the soldier. He tries to come and go, as an experiment,
but her eyes never leave him for the fraction of a minute. Near
the spring he sees the remains of his horse partly consumed--and
understands her forbearance thus far. He determines to try to tame her
ladyship and to win her affection. In these endeavors the day wears on
until she becomes responsive enough to his voice to turn to him when he
calls “Mignonne.”
The Provençal is now relying on his nimble feet to take him out of
danger so soon as the lioness is asleep, and when the right moment
comes he walks quickly in the direction of the Nile. But he has gone
only a short distance when he hears her in pursuit, uttering the same
wild cry. Even in this extremity the Frenchman reflects humorously,
“It may be that this young lioness has never met a man before; it is
flattering to possess her first love!”
He accompanies his hostess back to the grotto, and from this moment
feels that the desert has become friendly, human; and he sleeps. When
he awakes he sees nothing of Mignonne until, upon ascending the hill,
he discovers her bounding along in his direction. Her chops are bloody;
but she manifests her pleasure in his society by beginning to play like
a large puppy.
Several days go by filled with warring sensations for the Frenchman.
Solitude reveals her mysteries, and he feels their charm. He studies
the effects of the moon on the limitless sand; the wonderful light of
the Orient; the terrifying spectacle of a storm on the plain where sand
rises in death-dealing clouds. In the cool nights he imagines music in
the heavens above. He ponders on his past life.
The magnetic will of the Provençal seems to control brute nature,
or else she has not felt the pangs of hunger, for her amiability is
unbroken, and he trusts her completely. Whatever she may be doing,
she stops short at the word “Mignonne.” One day when he shows acute
interest in a flying eagle, the lioness is evidently jealous, and the
Provençal now declares that “she has a soul.”
Here the lady who received the Provençal’s letter about his adventure
wants to know how it ended. He replies that “it ended as all great
passions do, by a misunderstanding,” and goes on to explain that he
must have unintentionally hurt the lioness’s feelings, as one day she
turned and caught his thigh in her teeth. Fearing she meant to kill
him, the soldier plunged his dagger into her throat, but his remorse
was immediate; he felt that he had murdered a friend.
* * * * *
The brief outlines of two stories must suffice to illustrate a third
and more characteristic phase of Balzac’s genius--his sternness as _The
Recorder of Tragedy_. Both are romantic themes treated with relentless
realism of detail.
The first story bears the Spanish title, _El Verdugo_ (“The
Executioner”).
During the Napoleonic era, a certain Spanish town, Menda, is under
French government. A suspicion that the Spanish Marquis de Légañès
has made an attempt to raise the country in favor of Ferdinand VII
has caused a battalion of French soldiers to be placed here, the
garrison of occupation being in command of one Victor Marchand. On
the night of the feast-day of St. James, the English capture the town,
but Clara, the daughter of the old Spanish nobleman, had warned the
young French Commandant, Marchand, with whom she was in love, and he
had escaped. The English suspect her father of having made Marchand’s
escape possible, so the entire family of the Marquis is condemned to be
hanged. The old noble offers to the English general all that he has if
he will spare the life of his youngest son, and allow the rest to be
beheaded instead of ignominiously hanged. Both requests are granted.
The Marquis then goes to his youngest son, Juanito, and commands him
that for this day he shall be the executioner. After heart-breaking
protests, the lad is compelled to yield. As his sister Clara places her
head on the block, the young French officer, Victor, now friendly with
the English, runs to her and tells her that if she will marry him her
life will be saved. Her only reply is to her brother, “Now, Juanito,”
and her head falls at the feet of her lover. When the day is done, the
youngest son, Juanito, is alone. To save the family honor, he has been
the executioner of the day.
Only a little less tragic is “The Conscript,” which is part sketch,
part short-story.
Madame de Dey, aged thirty-eight, is the widow of a lieutenant-general.
She is possessed of a great soul and an attractive personality. During
the Reign of Terror she takes refuge in the village of Carentan.
Motives of policy influence her to open her house every evening to
the principal citizens, Revolutionary authorities, and the like. Her
only relative in the world is her son, aged twenty, whom she adores.
The Mayor, and others in authority in the town, aspire to marry her,
but her heart is bound up in her boy. Suddenly her _salon_ is closed
without explanation. Two nights pass, and gossip finds all sorts of
reasons--she is hiding a lover; or her son; or a priest. The third day
in the morning an old merchant insists upon seeing her. She shows him a
letter written by her son in prison, saying he hopes to escape within
three days and will come to her house. This is the third day, and she
is greatly agitated. The merchant tells her that people are suspicious,
and that she must surely receive as usual that night. Then he goes out
and spreads plausible tales of her recent extreme illness and marvelous
cure. That night many come to see for themselves, and, notwithstanding
her terrible anxiety, she keeps up until they all go--except the
Public Prosecutor, who is one of her suitors. He tells her he knows
she is expecting her son Auguste, and that if he comes she must get
him away early in the morning, as he, the Prosecutor, must come then
with a “denunciation,” to search her house. While they talk, a young
man arrives and is taken to the room prepared for Auguste. When she
discovers him to be only a conscript sent there by the Mayor, her grief
is great. After spending the night awake in her room, still listening
for her boy’s arrival, she is found at daybreak dead--at the hour when,
unknown to his mother, her son was shot at Morbihan.
* * * * *
No view of Balzac, the short-story writer, would be complete without
considering him as _The Social Philosopher_--by far his preponderating
character also as a novelist.
There are not lacking undiscerning folk who judge Balzac’s
short-stories by the tone of his _Contes Drolatiques_. It is far from
true, however, that Balzac preferred to deal with the corrupt side of
life. In reality, he was a great moralist, with robust convictions
of right and wrong, and a nicely balanced moral judgment. Yet this
contradictory spirit did wallow in filthy imaginations all too often,
committed personal follies, pictured the courtesan and the pander,
marital infidelity and sordidness in countless manifestations. But
let it be remembered that he chose to depict a society which was not
only the product of his age, but the outcome of a national life. No one
could be more fearless in exposing vice, and while it may be questioned
whether the world greatly profits morally by such vivid picturings, it
cannot be doubted that Balzac’s social philosophy was not that of the
literary pander. His soul had altitude, as one has said, as well as
latitude.
Balzac was keenly sensitive to criticism of his moral influence, and
himself answered the charge of being a creator of vicious feminine
types:
“The author cannot end these remarks without publishing here the
result of a conscientious examination which his critics have forced
him to make in relation to the number of virtuous women and criminal
women whom he has placed on the literary stage. As soon as his first
terror left him time to reflect, his first care was to collect his
_corps d’armée_, in order to see if the balance which ought to be
found between those two elements of his written world was exact,
relatively to the measure of vice and virtue which enters into the
composition of our present morals. He found himself rich by thirty-odd
virtuous women against twenty-two criminal women, whom he here takes
the liberty of ranging in order of battle, in order that the immense
results already obtained may not be disputed. To this he adds that
he has not counted-in a number of virtuous women whom he has left in
the shade--where so many of them are in real life.” (Here followed
tabulated lists of his prominent women characters, as arranged by
himself).
In considering the big plot of the social study, _La Grande
Brétêche_--not perfectly translated “The Great House”--we are
interestingly reminded of the similar _motifs_ in Poe’s “The Cask of
Amontillado,” and Mrs. Wharton’s “The Duchess at Prayer”--just as our
author’s “A Seashore Drama” recalls the more artistic story of fatherly
execution, “Mateo Falcone,” by Mèrimèe.
In _La Grande Brétêche_ a company of friends are spending an evening
together and one is asked to tell a story--a conventional opening
enough.
He describes a house which has been deserted, the large and once
beautiful gardens overgrown with weeds. Neglect and decay are
everywhere. The story of the house is this--told with much Balzacian
preliminary circumstance:
Monsieur de Merret one night came home quite late, and as he was about
to enter his wife’s apartments he heard a closet door, opening into her
room, close very quietly. He thought it was his wife’s maid, but just
then the maid entered the room from another door. The husband sent the
maid away and asked his wife who had gone into the closet. She answered
him that no one was there.
He said, “I believe you. I will not open it. But see, here is your
crucifix--swear before God that there is no one in there. I will
believe you--I will never open that door.”
Madame de Merret took up the crucifix and said, “I swear it.”
Monsieur de Merret sent away the servants--all but one trusted one.
He then sent for a mason, and had the closet securely walled in. At
dawn the work was completed, the mason had gone, and Monsieur, on some
pretext, left the house. As soon as he was gone, Madame de Merret
called her maid, and together they began to tear down the wall--hoping
to replace the bricks before Monsieur returned. They had just begun the
work when Monsieur entered the room. For twenty days he remained in
his wife’s apartment, and when a noise was heard in the closet and she
wished to intercede for the dying man, her husband would answer:
“You swore on the cross that there was no one there.”
No need even for a Balzac to read a moral!
A fifth side of Balzac’s genius is sweeter to contemplate--that of
_The Idealistic Philosopher_. Take time to read _The Personal Opinions
of Honoré de Balzac_, edited by Katharine Prescott Wormeley, you who
would know how the man interpreted himself, and you will find idealism
lifting its lily crest from the field of ooze.
Doubtless “A Legend of Jesus Christ in Flanders” is Balzac’s most
ethically idealistic story--a true symbolical tale of Hawthorne’s
legendary type.
Night was falling. The ferry-boat that carried passengers from the
island of Cadzand to Ostend was ready to depart. Just then a man
appeared who wished to enter the boat. It was already full. There
was no place in the stern for the stranger, for the “aristocrats” of
Flanders were seated there--a baroness, a cavalier, a young lady, a
bishop, a rich merchant, and a doctor. So he made his way to the bow,
where the more humble folk were seated. They at once made room for him.
As soon as the boat had moved out on the water, the skipper called to
his rowers to pull with all their might, for they were in the face of a
storm. All the while the tempest was growing more terrifying, and all
the while the men and women in the boat questioned in their hearts who
might the stranger be. On his face shone a light and a quiet peace
they could not understand.
Finally, the boat was capsized. Then the stranger said to them, “Those
who have faith shall be saved; let them follow me.” With a firm step he
walked upon the waves, and those who followed him came safe to shore.
When they were all seated near the fire in a fisherman’s hut, they
looked round for the man who had brought them safely out of the sea.
But he was not there, having gone down to the water to rescue the
skipper, who had been washed ashore. He carried him to the door of the
hut, and when the door of the humble refuge was opened, the Saviour
disappeared--for it was He.
And so on this spot the convent of Mercy was built, as a shelter for
storm-beleaguered sailors, and it was said by humble folk that for many
years the foot-prints of Jesus Christ could be seen there in the sands
of Flanders.
* * * * *
There is little charm in Balzac’s work, much coarseness, much detail
of vileness, much to cause the sensitive to shudder; but there is
much, too, that causes the soul to judge itself honestly, and many a
beauty-crowned peak rising nobly from the valley darkness.
In the story which here follows in full, in translation, appear all of
Balzac’s characteristic traits. Happily, its theme leads us above the
sordid and the filthy, up to the heights which he knew and sometimes
extolled.
“An Episode Under the Terror,” which Ferdinand Brunetière has
pronounced to be “in its artistic brevity one of Balzac’s most tragic
and finished narratives,” was written in 1830 as an introduction to the
fictitious Memoirs of Sanson, who is the Stranger referred to in the
story.
AN EPISODE UNDER THE TERROR
(_UN ÉPISODE SOUS LA TERREUR_)
By Honoré de Balzac
_Done into English by the Editor_
On the twenty-second of January, 1793, about eight o’clock in the
evening, an old lady was walking down the steep hill that ends in front
of the church of Saint Laurent, in the Faubourg Saint Martin in Paris.
It had snowed so much throughout the day that foot-falls could scarcely
be heard. The streets were deserted. The very natural dread inspired
by the silence was augmented by all the terror which at that time
caused France to groan; then, too, the old lady had not as yet met any
one; her sight had long been feeble, so for this and for other reasons
she could not discern by the lights of the lanterns the few distant
passers-by, who were scattered like phantoms on the broad highway of
the quarter. She went on courageously alone through that solitude, as
though her age were a talisman which would preserve her from all evil.
When she had passed the rue des Morts, she thought she could
distinguish the heavy and resolute steps of a man walking behind her.
She fancied that she had heard that sound before; she was frightened
at having been followed, and tried to walk more rapidly in order to
reach a brightly lighted shop, hoping to be able in the light to settle
the suspicions that had seized her. As soon as she found herself within
the direct rays of light which came from the shop, she quickly turned
her head and glimpsed a human form in the haze; that indistinct vision
sufficed. She faltered a moment under the weight of the terror which
oppressed her, for she doubted no longer that she had been followed
by the stranger from the first step that she had taken outside of her
home, but the desire to escape from a spy lent her strength. Incapable
of reasoning, she doubled her pace, as though she could escape from
a man who was, necessarily, more agile than she. After running for
several minutes she reached the shop of a pastry-cook, rushed in, and
tumbled rather than sat down upon a chair in front of the counter.
The moment she rattled the door-latch, a young woman who was occupied
in embroidering raised her eyes, recognized through the glass
partition the old-fashioned mantle of violet silk in which the old
lady was enveloped, and hastened to open a drawer, as though to take
out something which she intended to give her. Not only did the young
woman’s movement and expression indicate a wish to be rid promptly of
the unknown, as if she were one of those persons whom one is not glad
to see, but she even allowed an expression of impatience to escape her
upon finding that the drawer was empty; then, without looking at the
lady, she rushed from the counter, turned toward the back shop, and
called her husband, who appeared immediately.
“Now, where did you put--,” she demanded of him, with a mysterious air,
and designated the old lady by a turn of the eye, without finishing her
sentence.
Although the pastry-cook could see only the immense black silk bonnet,
surrounded by knots of violet ribbons, which formed the head-dress
of the unknown, he turned away, after having given his wife a look
which seemed to say, “Did you suppose that I would leave _that_ on
your counter?” and quickly disappeared. Astounded by the old lady’s
silence and immobility, the tradeswoman walked toward her, and as she
examined her she was conscious of a feeling of compassion, and perhaps
also of curiosity. Although the stranger’s complexion was naturally
pallid, like that of a person vowed to secret austerities, it was easy
to recognize that some recent emotion had given her an extraordinary
pallor. Her head-dress was so disposed as to hide her hair--doubtless
whitened by age, since the neatness of the collar of her dress
proclaimed that she did not use hair-powder. That article of adornment
lent to her figure a sort of religious severity. Her features were
grave and dignified. Formerly the manners and the habitudes of people
of quality were so different from those of people belonging to the
other classes that one easily divined a person of the nobility. So the
young woman was herself persuaded that the unknown was a member of the
outlawed nobility, and that she had belonged to the court.
“Madame--” she said to her, involuntarily, and with respect, forgetting
that this title was proscribed.
The old lady did not respond. She held her eyes fixed upon the window
of the shop, as if some terrifying object had there been descried.
“What is the matter, Citizeness?” asked the proprietor of the shop who
reappeared at that moment.
The citizen pastry-cook aroused the lady from her revery by handing to
her a little pasteboard box, covered with blue paper.
“Nothing, nothing, my friends,” she replied in a mild voice.
She raised her eyes to the pastry-cook as though to cast upon him a
glance of gratitude; but upon seeing him with a red bonnet upon his
head, she allowed a cry to escape her:
“Ah! you have betrayed me!”
The young woman and her husband replied by a gesture of horror which
caused the Unknown to blush--perhaps for having suspicion, perhaps from
pleasure.
“Excuse me,” she said, with a childlike gentleness.
Then, taking a _louis d’or_ from her pocket, she presented it to the
pastry-cook.
“Here is the price agreed upon,” she added.
There is an indigence which the poor know how to divine. The
pastry-cook and his wife looked at each other and watched the old lady,
while they exchanged the same thought. That _louis d’or_ seemed to
be the last. The hands of the lady trembled in offering that piece,
which she looked upon with sadness and without avarice, for she seemed
to realize the full extent of the sacrifice. Fasting and misery were
graven upon that face in lines quite as legible as those of fear and
her habits of asceticism. There were in her garments some vestiges
of magnificence: the silk was threadbare, the cloak neat though
old-fashioned, the lace carefully mended--in short, the tatters of
opulence! The tradespeople, placed between pity and self-interest,
commenced to solace their consciences by words:
“But Citizeness, you seem very feeble--”
“Perhaps Madame would like to take some refreshment?” asked the woman,
cutting the words of her husband short.
“We are not so black as we are painted!” cried the pastry-cook.
“It’s so cold! Madame was perhaps chilled by her walk? But you may rest
here and warm yourself a little.”
Won by the tone of benevolence which animated the words of the
charitable shopkeepers, the lady avowed that she had been followed by a
stranger, and that she was afraid to return home alone.
“It is no more than that?” replied the man with the red hat. “Wait for
me, Citizeness.”
He gave the _louis_ to his wife; then, moved by that species of
restitution which glides into the conscience of a merchant when he has
received an exorbitant price for merchandise of mediocre value, he went
to put on his uniform of the National Guard, took his chapeau, thrust
his sabre into his belt, and reappeared under arms; but his wife had
had time to reflect. As in many other hearts, reflection closed the
hand opened by beneficence. Disturbed, and fearing to see her husband
in a bad affair, the pastry-cook’s wife essayed to stop him by tugging
at the skirt of his coat. But, obedient to a sentiment of charity, the
brave man offered to escort the old lady at once.
“It seems that the man who frightened the Citizeness is still prowling
about the shop,” said the young woman nervously.
“I am afraid so,” artlessly replied the lady.
“If he should be a spy! If it should be a conspiracy! Don’t go; and
take back from her the box.”
These words, breathed into the ear of the pastry-cook by his wife,
froze the impromptu courage which had possessed him.
“Eh’ I’ll just go out and say two words to him, and rid you of him
quickly,” cried the pastry-cook, opening the door and rushing out.
The old lady, passive as an infant, and almost dazed, reseated herself
upon the chair. The honest merchant was not slow in reappearing; his
face, naturally red, and still more flushed by the heat of his oven,
had suddenly become livid; such a great fright agitated him that his
legs trembled and his eyes looked like those of a drunken man.
“Do you wish to have our heads cut off, miserable aristocrat?” he
shrieked at her with fury. “Just show us your heels, never come back
here again, and don’t count any more on me to furnish you the stuff
for conspiracy.”
As he ejaculated these words, the pastry-cook tried to take from the
old lady the little box which she had put in one of her pockets. But
scarcely had the bold hands of the pastry-cook touched her vestments
than the Unknown, preferring to face the dangers of her way home
without other defense than God, rather than to lose that which she had
come to purchase, recovered the agility of her youth; she darted toward
the door, opened it abruptly, and disappeared before the eyes of the
stupefied and trembling woman and her husband.
As soon as the Unknown found herself outside, she began walking
rapidly; but her strength soon failed her, for she heard the spy by
whom she was pitilessly followed make the snow craunch under the
pressure of his heavy steps. She was obliged to stop--he stopped. She
dared neither to speak to him nor to look at him, whether on account
of the fear with which she was seized or from lack of intelligence.
She continued her way, walking slowly; thereupon the man slackened
his steps so as to remain standing at a distance which permitted him
to keep his eye upon her. He seemed to be the very shadow of that
old woman. Nine o’clock was striking when the silent couple repassed
in front of the church of Saint Laurent. It is in the nature of all
souls, even the most infirm, that a feeling of calm should succeed
one of violent agitation, for if our feelings are infinite, our
organs are limited. And so the Unknown, not experiencing any harm
from her supposed persecutor, chose to see in him a secret friend,
eager to protect her. She reconstructed all the circumstances which
had accompanied the Stranger’s appearances, as if to find plausible
arguments for that consoling opinion, and she then took pleasure in
recognizing in him good rather than evil intentions.
Forgetting the fright which that man had inspired in the pastry-cook,
she advanced with a firm step into the higher regions of the Faubourg
Saint-Martin. After a half-hour of walking, she reached a house
situated near the junction formed by the main street of the Faubourg
and that which leads to the Barrière de Pantin. Even to-day that spot
is one of the most deserted of all Paris. The north wind, passing over
the Buttes Chaumont and from Bellville, whistles athwart the houses, or
rather the hovels, scattered about in that almost uninhabited valley
where the dividing lines are walls made of earth and bones. That
desolate place seemed to be the natural asylum of misery and despair.
The man who had persisted in the pursuit of the poor creature who
had the hardihood to traverse those silent streets at night seemed
impressed by the spectacle presented to his eyes. He rested pensively,
standing and in an attitude of hesitation, in the feeble light of a
lantern whose uncertain rays with difficulty pierced the mist.
Fear gave eyes to the old woman, who fancied that she could perceive
something sinister in the features of the Stranger. She felt her
terrors reawake, and profited by the sort of uncertainty which had
retarded the man’s advance to glide in the darkness toward the door of
the lonely house. She pressed a spring, and disappeared like a ghost.
The Stranger, immobile, contemplated that house, which stood in some
sort as the type of the miserable habitations of the quarter. That
rickety hovel, built of rubble, was covered by a coat of yellow
plaster, so deeply cracked that one thought to see it tumble before
the least effort of the wind. The roof, of brown tiles and covered
with moss, had so sunk in several places as to make it seem likely
to give way under the weight of the snow. Each floor there had three
windows, whose sashes, rotted by dampness and disjointed by the action
of the sun, announced that the cold must penetrate into the room. That
isolated house resembled an old tower which time had forgotten to
destroy. A feeble light shone through the windows which irregularly
cleft the mansard roof by which the poor edifice was crowned, while
all the rest of the house was in complete obscurity. The old woman
climbed, not without difficulty, the steep and rough staircase, whose
length was supplied with a rope in the guise of a baluster. She knocked
mysteriously at the door of the apartment which she found in the attic,
and dropped hastily upon a chair which an old man offered her.
“Hide! hide yourself!” she said to him. “Although we go out very
rarely, our movements are known, our footsteps are spied upon.”
“What is there new in that?” demanded another old lady, seated beside
the fire.
“The man who has been prowling around the house since yesterday
followed me to-night.”
At these words the three occupants of the attic regarded one another,
allowing signs of profound terror to appear on their faces. The old
man was the least agitated of the three, perhaps because he was in the
greatest danger. Under the weight of a great calamity, or under the
yoke of persecution, a courageous man begins, so to say, by making the
sacrifice of himself; he looks upon his days as just so many victories
won back from destiny. The looks of the two women, fastened upon this
old man, made it easy to divine that he was the sole object of their
intense solicitude.
“Why despair of God, my sisters?” said he in a voice low but
impressive. “We sang His praises amid the cries which the assassins
raised, and the groans of the dying at the Carmelite convent. If He
decreed that I should be saved from that butchery, it was doubtless
in order to reserve me for a destiny which I must accept without
murmuring. God protects his own, He may dispose of them at His
pleasure. It is of you, and not of me, that we must think.”
“No,” said one of the old ladies; “what are our lives in comparison
with that of a priest?”
“When once I found myself outside of the Abbey of Chelles, I considered
myself as dead,” said that one of the two nuns who had not gone out.
“Here,” replied the one who had come in, handing the priest the little
box, “here are the wafers.... But,” she cried, “I hear some one
mounting the stairs!”
All three thereupon listened intently. The sounds ceased.
“Do not be affrighted,” said the priest, “if some one should essay to
enter. A person upon whose fidelity we can count has undoubtedly taken
all needful measures to pass the frontier, and will come to seek the
letters which I have written to the Duc de Langeais and to the Marquis
de Beauséant, asking them to consider the means of rescuing you from
this terrible country, from the death or the misery which awaits you
here.”
“You do not mean to go with us, then?” cried the two nuns gently,
manifesting a sort of despair.
“My place is where there are victims,” said the priest with simplicity.
They remained silent, and gazed at their companion with devout
admiration.
“Sister Martha,” he said, addressing the nun who had gone to get the
wafers, “that messenger I speak of will reply ‘_Fiat voluntas_’ to the
word ‘_Hosanna_.’”
“There is some one on the stairs!” cried the other nun, opening the
door of a hiding-place under the roof.
This time they could easily hear, amid the most profound silence,
the footsteps of a man resounding upon the stairs, whose treads were
covered with ridges made by the hardened mud. The priest crept with
difficulty into a species of cupboard, and the nun threw over him some
garments.
“You may close the door, Sister Agatha,” said he in a muffled voice.
The priest was scarcely hidden before three taps on the door gave a
shock to the two saintly women, who consulted each other with their
eyes, without daring to pronounce a single word. They each seemed to be
about sixty years old. Separated from the world for forty years, they
were like plants habituated to the air of a hothouse, which wilt if
they are taken from it. Accustomed to the life of a convent, they were
no longer able to conceive of any other. One morning, their grating
having been shattered, they shuddered to find themselves free. One can
easily imagine the species of artificial imbecility which the events
of the Revolution had produced in their innocent hearts. Incapable of
reconciling their conventual ideas with the difficulties of life, and
not even comprehending their situation, they resembled those children
who have been zealously cared for hitherto, and who, abandoned by
their motherly protector, pray instead of weeping. And so, in face of
the danger which they apprehended at that moment, they remained mute
and passive, having no conception of any other defense than Christian
resignation.
The man who desired to enter interpreted that silence in his own
manner. He opened the door and appeared suddenly before them. The two
nuns shuddered as they recognized the man who for some time had been
prowling about their house and making inquiries about them. They
remained stock-still, but gazed at him with anxious curiosity, after
the manner of savage children, who examine strangers in silence.
The man was tall and large; but nothing in his demeanor, in his
air, nor in his physiognomy indicated an evil man. He imitated the
immobility of the nuns, and moved his eyes slowly about the room in
which he found himself.
Two straw mats, laid upon boards, served the two nuns as beds. A single
table was in the middle of the room and upon it they had placed a
copper candlestick, a few plates, three knives, and a round loaf of
bread. The fire on the hearth was meagre. A few sticks of wood piled in
a corner attested the poverty of the two recluses. The walls, coated
with an ancient layer of paint, proved the bad state of the roof, for
stains like brown threads marked the infiltrations of the rainwater.
A relic, rescued doubtless from the pillage of the Abbey of Chelles,
adorned the chimney mantel. Three chairs, two coffers, and a wretched
chest of drawers completed the furniture of the room. A door beside the
chimney allowed one to conjecture the existence of a second chamber.
The inventory of the cell was speedily made by the person who had
thrust himself under such alarming auspices into the midst of that
group. A sentiment of commiseration painted itself upon his face, and
he cast a benevolent glance upon the two women, at least as embarrassed
as they. The singular silence preserved by all three lasted but a
short time, for the Stranger at last divined the moral simplicity and
the inexperience of the two poor creatures, and he said to them in
a voice which he tried to soften: “I do not come here as an enemy,
Citizenesses.”
He paused, and then resumed: “My sisters, if there should come to you
any misfortune, believe that I have not contributed to it.... I have a
favor to ask of you.”
They still maintained their silence.
“If I seem importunate, if ... I embarrass you, tell me so freely....
I will go; but understand that I am entirely devoted to you; that if
there is any good office that I am able to render you, you may employ
me without fear; and that I alone, perhaps, am above the law, since
there is no longer a king.”
There was such an accent of truth in these words that Sister Agatha,
the one of the two nuns who belonged to the family of Langeais,
and whose manners seemed to say that she had formerly known the
magnificence of fêtes and had breathed the air of the court, instantly
pointed to one of the chairs, as if to ask their guest to be seated.
The Stranger manifested a sort of joy mingled with sadness as he
recognized that gesture; and he waited until the two venerable women
were seated, before seating himself.
“You have given shelter,” he continued, “to a venerable unsworn priest,
who has miraculously escaped the massacre at the Carmelites.”
“_Hosanna!_” said Sister Agatha, interrupting the Stranger, and gazing
at him with anxious inquiry.
“I don’t think that is his name,” he replied.
“But, monsieur,” said Sister Martha hastily, “we haven’t any priest
here, and----”
“In that case, you must be more careful and more prudent,” retorted the
Stranger gently, reaching to the table and taking up a breviary. “I do
not believe that you understand Latin, and----”
He did not continue, for the extraordinary emotion depicted on the
faces of the two poor nuns made him feel that he had gone too far; they
were trembling, and their eyes were filled with tears.
“Reassure yourselves,” he said to them in a cheery voice; “I know the
name of your guest, and yours; and three days ago I was informed of
your destination and of your devotion to the venerable Abbé of----”
“_Chut!_” said Sister Agatha naïvely, putting her finger to her lips.
“You see, my sisters, that if I had formed the horrible design of
betraying you, I might already have accomplished it more than once.”
When he heard these words, the priest emerged from his prison and
reappeared in the middle of the room.
“I cannot believe, monsieur,” he said to the Stranger, “that you can be
one of our persecutors, and I have faith in you. What do you want of
me?”
The saintlike confidence of the priest, the nobility that shone in
all his features, would have disarmed assassins. The mysterious
personage who had enlivened that scene of misery and resignation gazed
for a moment at the group formed by these three; then he assumed a
confidential tone, and addressed the priest in these words:
“Father, I have come to implore you to celebrate a mortuary mass for
the repose of the soul of a--a consecrated person, whose body, however,
will never repose in holy ground.”
The priest involuntarily shuddered. The two nuns, not understanding as
yet of whom the Stranger was speaking, stood with necks outstretched,
and faces turned towards the two speakers in an attitude of curiosity.
The ecclesiastic scrutinized the Stranger; unfeigned anxiety was
depicted upon his face, and his eyes expressed the most ardent
supplication.
“Very well,” replied the priest; “to-night, at midnight, return, and I
shall be ready to celebrate the only funeral service which we can offer
in expiation of the crime of which you speak.”
The Stranger started; but a satisfaction, at once gentle and solemn,
seemed to triumph over some secret grief. After having respectfully
saluted the priest and the two holy women, he disappeared, manifesting
a sort of mute gratitude which was comprehended by those three noble
hearts.
About two hours after this scene the Stranger returned, knocked
discreetly at the attic door, and was admitted by Mademoiselle de
Beauséant, who conducted him into the second room of that modest
retreat, where everything had been prepared for the ceremony.
Between the flues of the chimney the two nuns had carried the old
chest of drawers, whose decrepit outlines were concealed beneath a
magnificent altar-cloth of green moiré silk. A large crucifix of
ebony and ivory was fastened upon the yellow wall, which served to
emphasize its nakedness, and irresistibly drew the eye. Four little
fluttering wax-tapers, which the sisters had succeeded in fixing upon
that improvised altar by means of sealing wax, threw a light pale and
sickly, which was reflected by the wall. That feeble glow scarcely
illuminated the rest of the room, but by shedding its glory only over
those holy things upon that unadorned altar, it seemed a ray from the
torch of heaven. The floor was damp. The roof, which on two sides
declined abruptly, as in a loft, had several cracks, through which
passed an icy wind.
Nothing displayed less pomp, and yet perhaps nothing could have been
more solemn than that sad ceremony.
A profound silence that would have permitted them to hear the faintest
sound on distant thoroughfares diffused a sort of sombre majesty over
that nocturnal scene. In short, the grandeur of the occasion contrasted
so strongly with the poverty of the surroundings that the result was a
sentiment of religious awe. On either side of the altar, the two old
nuns, kneeling on the damp floor, heedless of the deadly moisture,
prayed in concert with the priest, who, clad in his pontifical
vestments, prepared a golden chalice ornamented with precious stones,
a consecrated vessel rescued doubtless from the pillage of the Abbey
of Chelles. Beside that pyx, a monument of royal magnificence, were
the water and wine destined for the sacrament, contained in two
glasses scarcely worthy of the lowest tavern. In default of a missal,
the priest had placed his breviary on a corner of the altar. A common
plate was provided for the washing of those innocent hands, pure of
bloodshed. All was majestic, and yet paltry; poor, but noble; profane
and holy at the same time. The Stranger knelt piously between the two
nuns. But suddenly, when he noticed a band of crape on the chalice and
on the crucifix--for, having nothing to indicate the purpose of that
mortuary mass, the priest had draped God Himself in mourning--he was
assailed by such an overpowering memory that drops of sweat gathered
upon his broad forehead. The four silent actors in that scene gazed at
one another mysteriously; then their hearts, acting upon one another,
communicated their sentiments to one another and flowed together into a
single religious commiseration; it was as if their thoughts had evoked
the martyr whose remains had been devoured by quicklime, and whose
shade stood before them in all its royal majesty. They celebrated an
_obit_ without the body of the deceased. Beneath those disjointed tiles
and laths, four Christians had come to intercede before God for a king
of France, and perform his obsequies without a bier. It was the purest
of all possible devotions, an astounding act of fidelity, accomplished
without a selfish thought. Doubtless, in the eyes of God, it was like
the cup of cold water which balances the greatest virtues. The whole of
monarchy was there, in the prayers of a priest and of two poor women;
but perhaps also the Revolution was represented, by that man whose face
betrayed too much remorse not to cause a belief that he was fulfilling
the vows of an immense repentance.
In lieu of pronouncing the Latin words, “_Introibo ad altare Dei_,”
etc., the priest, by a divine inspiration, looked at the three
assistants who represented Christian France, and said to them, in order
to efface the poverty of that wretched place:
“We are about to enter into the sanctuary of God!”
At these words, uttered with an impressive unction, a holy awe
seized the assistant and the two nuns. Beneath the arches of St.
Peter’s at Rome God could not have appeared with more majesty than
He then appeared in that asylum of poverty, before the eyes of those
Christians; so true is it that between man and Him every intermediary
seems useless, and that He derives His grandeur from Himself alone.
The fervor of the Stranger was genuine, and so the sentiment which
united the prayers of those four servitors of God and the king was
unanimous. The sacred words rang out like celestial music amid the
silence. There was a moment when tears choked the Stranger; it was
during the paternoster. The priest added to it this Latin prayer, which
was evidently understood by the Stranger: “_Et remitte scelus regicidis
sicut Ludovicus eis remisit semetipse!_ (And pardon the guilt of the
regicides even as Louis himself forgave them!)”
The two nuns saw two great tears leave a humid trace adown the manly
cheeks of the Stranger, and fall upon the floor. The Office for the
Dead was recited. The _Domine salvum fac regem_, chanted in a deep
voice, touched the hearts of those faithful royalists, who reflected
that the infant king, for whom at that moment they were supplicating
the Most High, was a prisoner in the hands of his enemies. The Stranger
shuddered at the thought that there might yet be committed a new crime,
in which he would doubtless be forced to participate. When the funeral
service was terminated, the priest made a sign to the two nuns, who
retired. As soon as he found himself alone with the Stranger, he walked
towards him with a mild and melancholy expression, and said to him in a
paternal voice:
“My son, if you have dipped your hands in the blood of the martyr
king, confess yourself to me. There is no sin which, in the eyes of
God, may not be effaced by repentance as touching and sincere as yours
seems to be.”
At the first words pronounced by the ecclesiastic, the Stranger allowed
an involuntary movement of terror to escape him; but he resumed a calm
countenance, and regarded the astonished priest with assurance.
“Father,” he said to him in a perceptibly altered voice, “no one is
more innocent than I of bloodshed.”
“I am bound to believe you,” said the priest.
There was a pause, during which he examined his penitent more closely;
then, persisting in taking him for one of those timid members of the
Convention who sacrificed an inviolable and consecrated head in order
to preserve their own, he continued in a solemn voice:
“Remember, my son, that it is not enough, in order to be absolved
from that great crime, not to have actually taken part in it. Those
who, when they might have defended the king, left their swords in the
scabbard, will have a very heavy account to render before the King of
the Heavens.... Ah, yes!” added the old priest, shaking his head with
an expressive movement, “yes, very heavy; for, by remaining idle, they
became the involuntary accomplices of that hideous crime.”
“Do you think,” demanded the stupefied Stranger, “that an indirect
participation will be punished?... The soldier who is ordered to join
the shooting-squad, is he also culpable?”
The priest hesitated. Pleased with the dilemma in which he had placed
that puritan of royalty by planting him between the dogma of passive
obedience, which, according to the partisans of monarchy, dominates
the military codes, and the no less important dogma which consecrates
the respect due to the persons of kings, the Stranger was ready to see
in the hesitation of the priest a favorable solution of the doubts
by which he seemed to be tormented. Then, in order not to allow the
venerable Jansenist any more time to reflect, he said to him:
“I should blush to offer you any sort of compensation for the funeral
service which you have celebrated for the repose of the king’s soul
and for the relief of my conscience. One cannot pay for an inestimable
thing except by an offering which is also priceless. Deign, then,
monsieur, to accept the gift of a blessed relic which I offer you. A
day will come, perhaps, when you will understand its value.”
As he said these words, the Stranger handed the ecclesiastic a small
box of light weight; the priest took it involuntarily, so to speak,
for the solemnity of the man’s words, the tone in which he said them,
and the respect with which he handled the box, had plunged him into a
profound surprise. They then returned to the room where the two nuns
were awaiting them.
“You are,” said the Stranger, “in a house whose owner, Mucius Scaevola,
the plasterer who occupies the first floor, is celebrated throughout
the section for his patriotism; but he is secretly attached to the
Bourbons. He used to be a huntsman of Monseigneur the Prince of Conti,
and to him he owes his fortune. If you do not go out of his house,
you are in greater safety here than in any place else in France. Stay
here. Devout hearts will attend to your necessities, and you may await
without danger less evil times. A year hence, on the twenty-first of
January”--(in uttering these words he could not conceal an involuntary
movement)--“if you continue to adopt this dismal place of asylum, I
will return to celebrate with you the expiatory mass.”
He said no more. He bowed to the silent occupants of the attic, cast a
last glance upon the evidences which testified of their indigence, and
went away.
To the two innocent nuns, such an adventure had all the interest of
a romance; and so, as soon as the venerable abbé informed them of the
mysterious gift so solemnly bestowed upon him by that man, the box
was placed upon the table and the three faces, unquiet, dimly lighted
by the candle, betrayed an indescribable curiosity. Mademoiselle de
Langeais opened the box, and found therein a handkerchief of very
fine linen, drenched with perspiration; and, on unfolding it, they
recognized stains.
“It is blood!” said the priest.
“It is marked with the royal crown!” cried the other nun.
The two sisters dropped the precious relic with horror. To those two
naïve souls the mystery in which the Stranger was enveloped became
altogether inexplicable; and as for the priest, from that day he did
not even seek an explanation.
The three prisoners were not slow in perceiving that in spite of the
Terror a powerful arm was stretched over them.
In the first place, they received some wood and some provisions; then
the two nuns realized that a woman must be associated with their
protector, when some one sent them linen and clothing which enabled
them to go out without being remarked on account of the aristocratic
fashion of the garments which they had been forced to retain; and
lastly, Mucius Scaevola gave them two cards of citizenship. Often,
advice necessary to the priest’s safety reached him by devious ways;
and he found this advice so opportune that it could have been given
only by one initiated in secrets of state.
Despite the famine which prevailed in Paris, the outcasts found at
the door of their lodging rations of white bread which were regularly
brought there by invisible hands; nevertheless, they believed that
they could recognize in Mucius Scaevola the mysterious agent of that
benefaction, which was always as ingenious as it was discerning. The
noble occupants of the attic could not doubt that their protector was
the person who had come to ask the priest to celebrate the expiatory
mass on the night of the twenty-second of January, 1793; so that he
became the object of a peculiar cult of worship to those three beings,
who had no hope except in him, and lived only through him. They had
added special prayers for him to their devotions; night and morning
those pious hearts lifted their voices for his happiness, for his
prosperity, for his health, and supplicated God to deliver him from
all snares, to deliver him from his enemies, and to accord him a long
and peaceable life. Their gratitude, renewed every day, so to speak,
was necessarily accompanied by a sentiment of curiosity which became
more lively from day to day. The circumstances which had accompanied
the appearance of the Stranger were the subject of their conversations;
they formed a thousand conjectures regarding him, and the diversion
afforded them by their thoughts of him was a benefaction of a new kind.
They promised themselves not to allow the Stranger to evade their
friendship on the evening when he should return, according to his
promise, to commemorate the sad anniversary of the death of Louis XVI.
That night, so impatiently awaited, came at last. At midnight the sound
of the Stranger’s heavy steps was heard on the old wooden staircase;
the room had been arrayed to receive him, the altar was dressed. This
time the sisters opened the door beforehand and both pressed forward to
light the stairway. Mademoiselle de Langeais even went down a few steps
in order to see her benefactor the sooner.
“Come,” she said to him in a tremulous and affectionate voice, “come,
we are waiting for you.”
The man raised his head, cast a sombre glance upon the nun, and made
no reply. She felt as if a garment of ice had fallen upon her, and
she said no more; at his aspect the gratitude and curiosity expired
in all their hearts. He was perhaps less cold, less taciturn, less
terrible, than he appeared to those hearts, the exaltation of whose
feelings disposed to outpourings of friendliness. The three poor
prisoners, understanding that the man desired to remain a Stranger to
them, resigned themselves. The priest fancied that he detected upon
the Stranger’s lips a smile that was promptly repressed the moment he
saw the preparations that had been made to receive him. He heard the
mass, and prayed; but he disappeared after having responded negatively
to a few words of polite invitation upon the part of Mademoiselle de
Langeais to partake of the little collation they had prepared.
After the ninth of Thermidor, the nuns and the Abbé de Marolles were
able to go about Paris without incurring the least danger. The first
errand of the old priest was to a perfumer’s shop, at the sign of _La
Reine des Fleurs_, kept by Citizen and Citizeness Ragon, formerly
perfumers to the Court, who had remained faithful to the royal family,
and of whose services the Vendeans availed themselves to correspond
with the princes and the royalist committee in Paris. The abbé, dressed
according to the style of that epoch, was standing on the doorstep of
that shop, between Saint-Roch and _Rue des Frondeurs_, when a crowd
which filled the _Rue Saint-Honoré_ prevented him from going out.
“What is it?” he asked Madame Ragon.
“It is nothing,” she replied; “just the tumbril and the executioner,
going to the Place Louis XV. Ah, we saw him very often last year; but
to-day, four days after the anniversary of the twenty-first of January,
we can look at that horrible procession without distress.”
“Why so?” said the abbé. “It is not Christian, that which you say.”
“Eh, it’s the execution of the accomplices of Robespierre. They
defended themselves as long as they could, but they’re going now
themselves where they have sent so many innocents.”
The crowd passed like a flood. Over the sea of heads, the Abbé de
Marolles, yielding to an impulse of curiosity, saw standing on the
tumbril the man who, three days before, had listened to his mass.
“Who is that?” he said, “that man who----”
“That is the headsman,” replied Monsieur Ragon, calling the executioner
of the great by his monarchical name.
“My friend, my friend,” cried Madame Ragon, “_monsieur l’abbé_ is
fainting!”
And the old woman seized a phial of salts, in order to bring the old
priest to himself.
“Without doubt he gave me,” said he, “the handkerchief with which the
King wiped his brow when he went to his martyrdom.... Poor man! ...
That steel knife had a heart, when all France had none!”
The perfumers thought that the unhappy priest was delirious.
LUDOVIC HALÉVY, PARISIAN
That there is a real distinction between a short-story in French and
a French short-story, Ludovic Halévy’s fictional work illustrates
perfectly, for in theme, tone, and treatment it is French. More
specifically still, it is Parisian. As Professor Brander Matthews
observes in his discerning introduction to _Parisian Points of View_,
a collection of our author’s stories, “Cardinal Newman once said that
while Livy and Tacitus and Terence and Seneca wrote Latin, Cicero wrote
Roman; so while M. Zola on the one side, and M. Georges Ohnet on the
other, may write French, M. Halévy writes Parisian.” His was indeed
the Parisian point of view, his the sympathetic understanding of the
pursuits, the temperament, the ideals, of the dwellers in the Capital
of Europe.
One service above others Halévy rendered to his Paris: while so many
writers have given an unfortunate though piquant character to the
French short-story by depicting chiefly the _roué_ and the woman of
easy manners, the vulgar money-king and the broken-down noble, the
complacent pander and the sordid tradesman of Paris, this writer mostly
chose to depict other types. He knew the gay city as few other writers
of his day knew it, yet nearly all of his little fictions may be read
aloud in a mixed company. The explanation of this wholesome spirit is
simple--unlike the others, Halévy had not come up from the provinces
with eyes ready to pop out at the city sights. From boyhood he knew all
sides of Parisian life, and saw things in correct perspective, so he
did not interpret light-heartedness to be lightness, nor gayety to be
abandon. All sorts and conditions of men move in his stories, but the
vicious, the sensual, the mean, are no more prominent in the Paris he
paints than they are in the real Paris--and that means that they exist
in much the same numerical proportion as in any other metropolis.
Halévy’s life does not lend itself to anecdote, for it lacked stirring
events, yet his every large step marked a specific advance in his work.
On the first day of January, 1834, he was born in Paris, of Hebrew
parents. His father, Léon Halévy, had attained to some distinction as a
poet, and his uncle, Fromental Halévy, was not only director of singing
at the Opera, but a celebrated composer as well. Upon completing his
formal education at the _lycée Louis-le-Grand_, the youth entered the
civil service in the Ministry of State, in six years rose to be _chef
de bureau_ at the Colonial Office, and finally became editor of the
publications of the Legislative Corps. In these public offices he
gained that inside view of official life which is apparent in his works.
Very early Halévy began to know the theatre, for through his uncle’s
influence he was as a youngster of fourteen on the free-list of the
principal theatres of Paris. Scarcely was he a man before he began the
writing of numberless books for operas, burlesques, and dramas, the
materials for which he had been gathering while meeting theatrical
people of all grades. By and by some of these were published, some were
acted, and at length he enjoyed a vogue. In collaboration with Henri
Meilhac he wrote a number of opera books, notably _La Belle Hélène_,
_Blue-Beard_, _The Grand-Duchess of Gerolstein_, _The Brigands_ (all
with music by Offenbach), _Carmen_ (founded on Mérimée’s story), with
music by Bizet, and _The Little Duke_, with music by Lecocq. These
bright operettas and operas are typical of that mocking and practical
spirit of the Second Empire which laughed away the old ideals with a
zest worthy of a nobler occupation. His heavier play, _Frou-Frou_,
though well known about a generation ago, is not so meritorious as his
dramatic skits and sketches.
But Halévy’s work for the stage bore heavily upon his later success,
for when he left the dramatic field to give almost exclusive service to
the novel and shorter fiction, he by no means forgot the training of
the earlier period. Always his understanding of the people of the stage
is apparent. In many a tale these folk appear, and never is the hand
that leads them forward ungentle, even when the words of the introducer
are tinged with irony.
As for form, it is not especially in his plot-structure that we see
traces of Halévy’s training in the drama, for he seldom emphasizes
plot at all. But when he does depart from his favorite sketch form to
attempt the short-story, he still writes simply; and so inevitably do
the incidents succeed one another that there scarcely seems to be even
a plot. Halévy’s early apprenticeship to the drama is most clearly
seen, however, in his precision of outline, clear characterization,
sense of dramatic values, unerring climax, and suppression of needless
details.
Halévy took an active part in the Franco-Prussian War, vivid
impressions of which he has given us in _Notes and Memories_ and _The
Invasion_--volumes which are half chronicle, half story-telling, and
wholly delightful. After the catastrophe of Sedan, his fictional work
dealing with theatrical folk began to appear. _Madame Cardinal_
(1870), _Monsieur Cardinal_ (1871), _The Little Cardinals_ (1880),
and _Criquette_ (1883), are not really novels, but connected
stories and sketches, giving a panorama of people and affairs
theatrical--naturally, not of the loftiest tone. Halévy has drawn
no more vivid characters than the Cardinals, father and mother,
with their comedy anxiety as to the immoralities of their young
ballet-dancing daughters, Pauline and Virginie, whose love affairs
are portrayed with gayety and comical reality. The little Criquette
is an actress who makes her début at the Theatre Porte-Saint-Martin.
About this interesting central figure flit a score of perfect types
of player-folk--clown, provincial manager, ardent young actor, the
demi-mondaine actress, authors, chorus girls, and all the rest.
_Criquette_ is Halévy’s longest tale, and shows the sketch-artist and
_raconteur_ at his best.
But American readers doubtless know Ludovic Halévy most affectionately
by his “Abbé Constantin,” which has gone through more than one hundred
and fifty editions in France, besides numberless printings in other
lands. In its first year of issue, 1882, at least thirty-five editions
were required to meet the demand. It is a novelette in length, and
a simple story in plot. Charming, ingenuous, idyllic, popular with
all classes, it is a refreshing breath from rural France. The large
estate of Longueval, comprising the castle and its dependencies, two
fine farms and a forest, is announced for sale at auction. The Abbé
Constantin, a warm-hearted, genial, self-sacrificing priest, quite
the typical Abbé of romance--“a Curé, neither young, nor gloomy, nor
stern; a Curé with white hair, and looking kind and gentle”--has been
for three decades the village priest. He is disconsolate at the thought
that all his associations must be broken up, and is all the more
distressed when he hears that an American millionaire has bought the
property. Lieutenant Jean Renaud, his godson, the orphaned son of the
Abbé’s old friend, the village doctor, is about to sit down at meat
with the old priest when two ladies arrive--the wife of the millionaire
purchaser of Longueval, Mrs. Scott, and her sister, Miss Bettina
Percival. How these bright and fascinating women win the heart of the
benevolent priest, and adapt themselves to their new surroundings, and
how Lieutenant Jean and Miss Bettina find their happiness, furnish the
incidents for this crystal little romance.
“A Marriage for Love” (1881) is the most popular of Halévy’s longer
short-stories. A young French officer marries a well-bred and ingenuous
girl. Soon each discovers that the other has kept a diary from
childhood. Thinking that the declarations of love which she sees
written in her husband’s journal refer to some other woman, the young
wife cries out, but is consoled by his protests, and it is agreed that
they shall read aloud passages from their own diaries, turn about.
With all the naïveté which it seems the special province of English
eighteenth-century and French nineteenth-century writers to depict,
these young people disclose in this fashion the birth and growth of
their mutual love. A simple story enough, yet refreshing in the midst
of so many Gallic records of marital infidelity.
Of Halévy’s shorter stories several stand out in particular. “Princess”
tells with admirable directness how “the bourgeois heroine ...
contrives to escape the lawyers ... and marry a real prince.” “A Grand
Marriage” is the equally uncomplicated narrative of how the betrothal
of an alert young Parisienne is arranged by her parents, with the
clever and worldly-wise assistance of the prospective bride.
“The Most Beautiful Woman in Paris” is more a study than a story, yet
the firmly wrought, breezy narrative style of the author is here at
its best. The story runs that a social connoisseur, Prince Agénor,
upon seeing at the Opera the wife of a lawyer, pronounces her to be
the most beautiful woman in Paris. Then ensue flattering newspaper
notices, the inflamed ambition of the advertised beauty, costly gowns,
a new coupé--all that madame may appear fittingly at a social function
at which it is announced that she is to appear, as well as the Prince.
Madame does appear, but she is neglected because the Prince forgets
to come to make her acquaintance--he has already found another “most
beautiful woman in Paris.” The author’s narration is lively, as
always, and his social observation confident and minute, while his
characteristic, playful irony is second only to that of another unique
story, “The Chinese Ambassador.”
In this we have as a _motif_ the unsettled political conditions
existing at the close of the Franco-Prussian War. The story is
told with delightful humor, in diary form, by a Chinese Ambassador
Extraordinary who has been sent to France and England with rich
presents to placate the French and English governments, and also to
arrange official reparation, for the massacre of some foreign residents
in China. Then follow a series of confusions. There is no longer an
Emperor in France, there are three rival French Republics, and another
_coup d’état_ seems imminent. So the Ambassador, not knowing whom to
approach, keeps the presents, and waits. Soon he goes to England,
where he meets the Queen. She accepts the apologies as well as the
presents, but in conversation with some French women at a social
function in London he finds that there are three claimants to the
French throne, Napoleon III, the Duke of Orleans, and the Count of
Paris--all in exile--to say nothing of the three rival presidents,
Gambetta, Thiers, and Favre. He is again much in doubt as to which to
approach with his mission, as he receives such contrary advice from all
quarters. Upon his return to Paris, however, he finds the government
has again changed its capitol, and that a seventh government is in
the ascendancy--the Commune. When he learns that Paris is burning, he
concludes that it is “a dead, destroyed, and annihilated city.” In two
weeks, however, order is restored, and the Ambassador decides that it
is still the most beautiful city in Europe, and the most brilliant, for
the Republic of M. Thiers is now undisputed. To him he delivers his
mission.
“The Story of a Ball Dress” is couched in an old form--the ball dress
tells its own story; but we have a kaleidoscopic picture of the change
of affairs before, during, and after the war--that war which plays so
large a part in the writings of both Daudet and Halévy.
“The Insurgent,” first published in 1872, follows, in translation.
It is without doubt Ludovic Halévy’s most intense and dramatic short
narrative, yet none is more simply told. In this expanded anecdote the
writer actually becomes the Insurgent, and so vigorous, so sympathetic,
is the portraiture that every word comes sincerely and naturally
from the soul of the speaker. Halévy does not speak _as_ such a one
would--he _is_ the Insurgent--life, breath, and word. It is a miracle
of compression--not the compression of conscious literary art, but
the tense, naïve, open brevity of one who has no embroideries for his
words, no masks for his sentiment, no apologies for his acts, but goes,
as with the cleavage of an axe, straight to the heart of what he means.
Yet with all of this brusk, speedy simplicity, abrupt, halting and
rudely frank in style, there is a note of poignant pathos at the close
that leaves the eye misty and the heart warm.
In no one of Halévy’s stories do we see so clearly the application of
his robust, sincere literary creed as confessed in his own words:
“We must not write simply for the refined, the blasé, and the
squeamish. We must write for that man who goes there on the street with
his nose in his newspaper and his umbrella under his arm. We must
write for that fat, breathless woman whom I see from my window, as she
climbs painfully into the Odéon omnibus. We must write courageously for
the _bourgeois_, if it were only to try to refine them, to make them
less _bourgeois_. And if I dared, I should say that we must write even
for fools.”
THE INSURGENT
(_L’INSURGÉ_)
By Ludovic Halévy
_Done into English by the Editor_
“Prisoner,” said the president of the court-martial, “have you anything
to add in your defense?”
“Yes, my colonel,” responded the accused; “you have given me a little
advocate who has defended me according to his idea. I want to defend
myself according to my own.
“My name is Martin--Louis Joseph; I am fifty-five years old. My father
was a locksmith. He had a little shop in the upper part of the Faubourg
Saint-Martin and did a small business. We just about lived. I learned
to read in _Le National_, which was, I believe, the paper of Monsieur
Thiers.
“The 27th of July, 1830, my father went out early in the morning. That
evening at ten o’clock they brought him back to us dying on a litter.
He had received a bullet in the chest. By his side upon the litter was
his musket.
“‘Take it,’ he said to me; ‘I give it to you, and every time there is
to be an insurrection, be against the government--always! always!
always!’
“An hour afterward he was dead. I went out in the night. At the first
barricade I stopped and offered myself. A man examined me by the light
of a lantern. ‘A child!’ he cried. I was not yet fifteen. I was very
small, quite undersized. I answered: ‘A child, that’s possible; but my
father was killed about two hours ago. He gave me his musket. Teach me
how to use it.’
“Starting with that moment, I became what I have been always, for forty
years: an insurgent! If I fought during the Commune, it was neither
from compulsion nor for the thirty _sous_, it was from taste, from
pleasure, from habit, from routine.
“In 1830, I bore myself rather bravely at the attack on the Louvre.
That gamin who--the first--climbed the iron fence under the bullets
of the Swiss--that was I. I received the medal of July; but the
_bourgeoisie_ gave us a king. Everything had to be done over again. I
joined a secret society, I learned to mould bullets, to make powder. In
short, I completed my education--and I waited.
“I had to wait nearly two years. The 5th of June, 1832, at midday,
before the Madeleine, I began by unhitching one of the horses from
the hearse of General Lamarque. I passed the day shouting, ‘_Vive
Lafayette!_’ and the night in making barricades. The next morning we
were attacked by the soldiers. That afternoon towards four o’clock we
were pocketed, cannonaded, fired upon with grape-shot, crushed, in the
Church of St. Méry. I had a bullet and three bayonet thrusts in my body
when I was picked up by the soldiers on the flag-stones of a little
chapel on the right--the chapel of St. John. I used often to return
to that little chapel--not to pray, I was not brought up in those
ideas--but to see the trace of my blood which is still marked upon the
stones.
“Because of my youth, I got only ten years in prison. I was sent
to Mont-Saint-Michel. That was why I didn’t take any part in the
uprisings of 1834. If I had been free, I should have been fighting in
the Rue Transnonian as I had fought in the Rue St. Méry. Against the
government--always!--always!--always! That was the last word of my
father, that was my gospel, my religion! I called that my catechism in
six words. I got out of prison in 1842 and again I began to wait.
“The revolution of ’48 made itself--without help. The _bourgeoisie_
were stupid and cowardly. They were neither for us nor against us.
The City Guards alone defended themselves. We had a little trouble in
capturing the post of the Château-d’Eau. The evening of the 24th of
February I stayed three or four hours on the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville.
The members of the Provisional Government one after another made
speeches to us, said to us that we were ‘heroes,’ ‘noble citizens,’
‘the first people of the world;’ that we had shaken off the yoke of
tyranny. After having regaled us with these fine words, they gave us a
republic which wasn’t any better than the monarchy which we had tumbled
to the ground.
“In June I took up my musket again--but that time things were not
successful. I was arrested, condemned, sent to Cayenne. It seems that
out there I behaved myself well. One day I saved a captain of marines
who was drowning. They thought that very fine. Notice that I would
very cheerfully have shot at that captain--if he had been on one side
of a barricade and I on the other; but a man who is drowning, who is
dying----. In short, I received my pardon. I got back to France in
1852, after the _Coup d’État_. I had missed the insurrection of 1851.
“At Cayenne I had made a friend, a tailor named Bernard. Six months
after my departure for France, Bernard died. I went to see his widow.
She was in destitution. I married her. We had a son in 1854. You will
understand all in good time why I speak of my wife and of my son. Only,
you ought already to suspect that an insurgent who marries the widow of
an insurgent does not have royalist children.
“Under the Empire, nothing was going on. The police held a firm grip.
We were dispersed, disarmed. I worked, I brought up my son in the ideas
that my father had given me. The wait was long--Rochefort, Gambetta,
public reunions; all those things put us in motion again.
“On the first serious occasion I showed myself. I was of that little
band that assaulted the barracks of the firemen of Villette. Only,
there a stupid thing was done. They killed a fireman unnecessarily.
I was taken, thrown into prison; but the government of the Fourth of
September set us free--from which I concluded that we had done quite
right in attacking that barracks and in killing that fireman, even
unnecessarily.
“The siege commenced. At once I was against the government, and for the
Commune. I marched against the Hôtel-de-Ville on the 31st of October
and the 22d of January. I loved revolt for the sake of revolt. An
insurgent, I told you at the start, I am an insurgent. I cannot see a
club without joining it, an insurrection without running after it, a
barricade without bringing my paving-stone to it. That goes with my
blood.
“And then, besides, I wasn’t altogether ignorant, and I said to myself:
‘We only need to succeed some day, clear to the foundations, and then
in our turn we shall be the government and things will go a little
better than with all these lawyers who get behind us during the battle,
and who pass ahead of us after the victory.’
“The 18th of March came, and naturally I was in it. I cried ‘Hurrah
for the military!’ I fraternized with the soldiers. I went to the
Hôtel-de-Ville. I found there a government at work--absolutely as on
the 24th of February.
“Now you tell me that that insurrection was not legitimate. That’s
possible, but I don’t quite see why. I begin to be muddled, I do,
between these insurrections which are a duty and those insurrections
which are a crime! I do not clearly see the difference.
“I fired on the Versailles troops in 1871, as I fired on the Royal
Guards in 1830, and on the City Guards in 1848. After 1830 I received
the medal of July. After 1848, the compliments of Monsieur Lamartine.
This time, I’m going to have transportation or death.
“There are some insurrections that please you. You raise columns to
them, you give their names to streets, you distribute among yourselves
the offices, the promotions, the big salaries; and we others, who made
the revolution, you call us--noble citizens, heroes, a nation of brave
men, etc., etc. It is with such money that we are paid.
“And then, there are some other insurrections that displease you. As
a result of those, you distribute to us exile, transportation, death.
Well, see here: if you hadn’t paid us so many compliments after the
first, perhaps we would not have done the last. If you had not raised
the Column of July at the entrance to our quarter, perhaps we should
not have gone to demolish the Vendôme Column in your quarter. Those two
penny-trumpets were not in harmony. The one had to discord with the
other, and that is what came about.
“Now, I am going to tell you why I threw away my captain’s uniform at
the street corner on the 26th of May, why I was in a blouse when I was
arrested. When I learned that these gentlemen of the Commune, instead
of coming to fire with us upon the barricades, were distributing
thousand-franc notes to themselves at the Hôtel-de-Ville, shaving their
beards, dyeing their hair, and going to hide themselves in caves, I
didn’t wish to keep the shoulder-straps they had given me.
“Besides, they embarrassed me, those shoulder straps. ‘Captain
Martin,’ that was silly. ‘Insurgent Martin,’ quite as it should be.
I wanted to end as I had begun, to die as my father had died, an
insurrectionist in an insurrection, a barricader in a barricade.
“I couldn’t get myself killed. I got taken. I belong to you. Only, I
wish you would do me one favor. I have a son, a child of seventeen, he
is at Cherbourg, on the hulks. He has fought, it is true, and he will
not deny it; but it was I who put the musket in his hand, it was I who
told him that his duty was there. He listened to me. He obeyed me. That
alone is his crime. Do not condemn him too harshly.
“As for me, you have hold of me--do not let me go; that’s the advice
I give you. I’m too old to mend, and, besides, what would you have?
Nothing can change what is: I was born on the wrong side of the
barricade.”
ANDRÉ THEURIET, HUMANIST
André Theuriet was evidently in sympathy with the doctrine that those
lands and their dwellers are most happy which have the least history.
Singular as the statement may seem when made of a contemporary French
man of letters who had defeated Zola in a contest for election to the
Academy, it is nevertheless true that the tone of Theuriet’s work
is repose. “The short and simple annals of the poor” he penned with
simplicity and charm, and rarely did the hurly-burly tempt him to fare
among scenes either boisterous or sordid. Yet, he was never squeamish,
but wrote of a real life in a real world. What Alphonse Daudet became
when he occasionally left fevered Paris to lie on the turf at Montauban
and feel in fancy the gentle fanning of the old windmill, that André
Theuriet was by temperament. The bucolic, the gentle, the peaceful--all
met response in his nature and were mirrored in the placid pool of his
fiction.
Theuriet was born at Marly-le-Roi, September, 1833, and spent his
childhood in that lovely province. He got his education at Bar-le-duc,
and at Paris, where he took up the study of law, receiving the
degree of _Licencée en Droit_ at the age of twenty-four. Instead of
practising, however, he entered the Ministry of Finance the same year,
and began the routine of public life--as the intensely private career
of the bureaucrat is called.
At once he began to publish verse, winning a place, the very year
of his appointment to the Ministry of Finance, in the pages of that
distinguished exponent of letters, the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. _In
Memoriam_ was the title of his first success--a romance in verse,
quickly appraised by critics at a value which it still maintains,
and displaying the qualities for which the author’s writings are
appreciated to-day.
We never tire of debating as to whether distinguished men are more the
product of their times, than their era is moulded by its men. Doubtless
something of both views is the ultimate truth. Theuriet, however,
left no profound influence upon his age. During the ten years which
succeeded the publication of _In Memoriam_--1857 to 1867--his work
continued, unaffected by the French revolt, if that is not too strong a
term, against romanticism. This is shown in his first volume of poems,
_The Forest Path_ (_Le Chemin du Bois_), published in 1867, and awarded
the Vitel prize by the Academy. Another ten years, and he received the
coveted place among the Immortals, but the tone of his writings never
changed--his was always a quiet romanticism clothed upon with the
beauty of idealism.
Theuriet’s selection of themes is a happy index to his nature. The one
and the other are clean, uncomplicated by intrigue, and in the main
agreeable. Are there many to-day who will be attracted to this man when
his fiction is called restful and gentle? I do not know, since we are
all so busy and turbulent and--disillusioned. But we ought to be, if we
are not, drawn by thoughts of a melodious rhythm of words portraying
honest emotions, of country life that exhales the “perfume of new hay
and of ripe wheat,” of woodsy ways and forest folk--in a word, thoughts
of a world where, as in _La Bretonne_, the lowliest respond to human
need, and even crime cannot stamp out the image of the beautiful, a
world full of goodness rising out of the ooze of evil.
And so it was country-life--country-life in Lorraine, enriched and
made beautiful by the Loire--that inspired not only his early poems,
but also the numerous novels, plays, sketches, and short-stories which
stand to his credit--and I use the word designedly.
After a notable if not brilliant career as author and journalist,
Theuriet died in Paris, 1897.
Relatively little of Theuriet’s work is known to readers who know not
French, but of this little probably the long short-story, “The Abbé
Daniel,” is the most familiar. It is in the style of Ludovic Halévy’s
“Abbé Constantin,” and of about the same length--a little classic of
“polite rusticity,” of pastoral love, sorrow, loss, and happiness,
limpid in style and artistically balanced in structure.
The plot is simple: Young Daniel loves his beautiful cousin Denise,
but she marries Beauvais, the rough, hearty, typical bourgeois landed
proprietor. A daughter is born--a second Denise--but the mother does
not long survive. Young Daniel has entered the church and become “The
Abbé Daniel.” His simple goodness leads him to adopt an orphaned lad,
whom he cherishes as he would his own. One day the Abbé finds little
Daniel, as he is called, feeding a threshing machine. In terror for the
child’s danger, the Abbé shows his friends what the lad was doing, and
the loss of his own arm is the penalty. He now resigns his parish and
goes to live with the widowed father of the little Denise and assumes
charge of her education, lavishing upon the child the affection he was
forbidden to give to her mother. The children learn to love each other,
but young Daniel goes away to the Crimean War and seems to forget.
Meanwhile, Beauvais plans to marry his daughter Denise to a worthy
young nobody of means, but the loving Abbé sends for his protégé, who
promptly returns on leave, and the end is not difficult to surmise.
All this brief narration is but sketching the frame and omitting the
picture, for who can feel the charm of the simple but never insipid
story when it is bereft of the witchery of Theuriet’s style! It
is worth while knowing at first hand a real French home, with the
farmer-father, the daughter, the young soldier, and the Abbé Daniel.
That there are not many “intense thrills for jaded readers” in
Theuriet’s straightforward work will be further illustrated by a
reading of his novels--_Mademoiselle Guignon_, _Aunt Aurelia_,
_Claudette_, _The Maugars_, _Angela’s Fortune_, and others--with which
we have not here to deal; but it will also be quite evident in the
simplicity of his shorter fiction, which must now be considered.
“An Easter Story” tells of Juanito, an orphan boy of fifteen. Like a
weed on the pavement of Triana, he had grown up. Gipsy blood flowed in
his veins and, like the gipsies, he loved his independence, vagrancy,
and bull-fights. He earned a poor enough living by selling programmes
at the doors of the theatres, but during Holy Week the theatres were
closed, and now Good Friday finds him unhappy--for he has no money
to go to the bull-fight on Easter Sunday! However, he follows the
crowd until, tired and hungry, he lies down in a corner and sleeps.
Two lovers pass. They put into the hand of the pretty youth a piece of
silver, and so when he awakes his problem is solved. But as he starts
down the street he sees a girl crying. He goes to her. It is Chata,
whom he has known since childhood. Her mother is sick, she says, and
the apothecary will not give her medicine because she has no money.
Juanito looks into the girl’s eyes, hesitates a moment, then quickly
puts into her hand the piece of silver. So Juanito did not see the
bull-fight.
On Sunday Chata goes out to find her friend, and they go for a walk.
Coming to a secluded corner, the girl looks into the young man’s eyes
to thank him. But suddenly, moved by the sweetness of his deed, she
throws her arms about his neck and cries, “I love you!”
Human interest--tenderness rather than strength--marks all Theuriet’s
short fictions. “Little Gab” is quite without plot, which means that
its delicacy defies condensed narration. It is a sympathetic sketch of
a small hunchback whose parents are too hard-pressed in their struggle
with poverty to look after the boy. The physician tells Little Gab’s
sister that only the sea air and the baths at Berck can save her
brother’s life. Through the unceasing labors and savings of the sister,
this is at last accomplished, and both are on the heights of joy. The
change is magical, and the lad returns with some prospect of recovery;
but the dense air of the city is too much for Little Gab, and he dies
still thinking of the beautiful sea.
Less tragic, but quite as simple in scheme, is “The Peaches,” which
narrates how Herbelot is teased out of the service of the Ministry
of Finance by being detected carrying home for his wife two peaches
concealed in his hat.
Though its tone is not entirely typical of Theuriet, _La
Bretonne_--which follows, in translation--is probably his most dramatic
story, revealing, as it does, the good that lives in the worst of us.
LA BRETONNE
By André Theuriet
_Done into English by the Editor_
One evening in November, the Eve of Saint Catherine, the iron gate of
the Central Prison of Auberive turned on its hinges and allowed a woman
of about thirty years to pass out. She was clad in a faded woollen
gown, and her head was surmounted by a bonnet of linen that in an odd
fashion framed her face--pallid and puffed by that grayish fat which is
born of prison fare.
She was a prisoner whom they had just liberated. Her fellow-convicts
called her _La Bretonne_. Condemned for infanticide, it was just six
years since the prison van had brought her to _la Centrale_. At length,
after having donned again her street clothes, and drawing from the
registry the stock of money which had been saved for her, she found
herself once more free, with her road-pass viséed for Langres.
The post-cart for Langres had left; so, cowed and awkward, she directed
her way stumblingly toward the principal inn of the place, and in
scarcely a confident voice asked a lodging for the night. The inn was
full, and the landlady, who did not care to harbor “one of those
jail-birds,” advised her to push on as far as the little public-house
situated at the other end of the village.
_La Bretonne_, more awkward and frightened than ever, went on her
way, and knocked at the door of the public-house, which, to speak
precisely, was only a drinking place for laborers. This proprietress
also cast over her a distrustful eye, doubtless scenting a woman from
_la Centrale_, and finally turned her away on the pretense that she did
not keep lodgers. _La Bretonne_ dared not insist, she merely moved away
with her head down, while from the depths of her soul arose a sullen
hate against this world which so repulsed her.
She had no other recourse than to travel to Langres on foot.
In late November night comes quickly. Soon she found herself enveloped
in darkness, on the gray road which stretched between the edges of the
woods, and where the north wind whistled rudely as it drove the heaps
of dead leaves hither and yon.
After six years of sedentary life as a recluse, she no longer knew how
to walk; and the joints of her knees were rickety; her feet, accustomed
to sabots, were tortured in her new shoes. After about a league they
were blistered, and she herself was exhausted. She sat down on a
milestone, shivering and asking herself if she must die of cold and
hunger in this black night, under that icy wind which so chilled her.
Suddenly, in the solitude of the road, over the squalls of wind she
seemed to hear the trailing sounds of a voice in song. She strained
her ears and distinguished the cadence of one of those caressing and
monotonous chants with which one lulls children to sleep. Thereupon,
rising again to her feet, she pressed on in the direction of the voice,
and at the turn of a cross-road she saw a light which reddened through
the branches.
Five minutes later she reached a mud hovel, whose roof, covered with
clods of earth, leaned against the rock, and whose single window had
sent forth that luminous ray. With anxious heart she decided to knock.
The song ceased and a peasant opened the door--a woman of the same
age as _la Bretonne_, but already faded and aged by work. Her bodice,
torn in places, showed a rough and swarthy skin; her red hair escaped
dishevelled from under a little cloth cap; her gray eyes regarded with
amazement this stranger whose figure revealed something of loneliness.
“Well, good evening,” said she, raising higher the lamp which she held
in her hand. “What do you want?”
“I can go no further,” murmured _la Bretonne_ in a voice broken by a
sob. “The town is far, and if you will lodge me for this night, you’ll
render me a service. I have some money, and will pay you for your
trouble.”
“Come in!” replied the other, after a moment of hesitation; then she
continued in a tone more of curiosity than of suspicion, “Why didn’t
you sleep at Auberive?”
“They were not willing to lodge me”--and, lowering her blue eyes, _la
Bretonne_, seized with a scruple, added--“because, you see, I come from
the Central Prison, and that does not give folks confidence.”
“Ah! Come in all the same. I, who never knew anything but poverty--I
fear nothing! I have a conscience against turning a Christian from the
door on a night like this. I’ll go make you a bed by strewing some
heather.”
She proceeded to take from under a shed several bundles of dry
sweet-heather and spread them in a corner before the chimney.
“You live here alone?” timidly asked _la Bretonne_.
“Yes, with my youngster, who is nearly seven years old. I earn our
living by working in the woods.”
“Your man is dead?”
“I never had one,” said _la Fleuriotte_ bruskly. “The poor child hasn’t
any father. As the saying is, ‘to each his sorrow.’ There, your bed
is made, and here are two or three potatoes which are left over from
supper--it’s all I have to offer you.”
She was interrupted by a childish voice coming from a dark closet,
separated from the main room by a board partition.
“Good night!” she repeated. “I must go look up the little one--she’s
crying. Have a good night’s sleep!”
She took the lamp and went to the adjacent closet, leaving _la
Bretonne_ in darkness.
Soon she was stretched upon her bed of heather. After having eaten,
she tried to close her eyes, but sleep would not come. Through the
partition she heard _la Fleuriotte_ talking softly with her baby,
whom the arrival of the stranger had awakened, and who did not wish
to go to sleep again. _La Fleuriotte_ petted her, she embraced her
with caressing words--naïve expressions which strangely stirred _la
Bretonne_.
The outburst of tenderness awakened a confused instinct of motherhood
buried deep in the soul of that girl who had once been condemned for
having stifled her new-born babe. _La Bretonne_ reflected that “if
things had not gone badly” with her, her own child would have been just
as old as this little girl. At that thought, and at the sound of the
childish voice, she shuddered in her inmost soul; something tender and
loving was born in that embittered heart, and she felt an overwhelming
need for tears.
“Come, my pet,” said _la Fleuriotte_, “hurry off to sleep. If you are
good, I’ll take you to-morrow to the fête of Saint Catherine.”
“Saint Catherine’s--that’s the fête for little girls, isn’t it, Mamma?”
“Yes, my own.”
“Is it true, then, that on this day Saint Catherine gives playthings to
the children?”
“Yes--sometimes.”
“Why doesn’t she ever bring anything to our house?”
“We live too far away; and, besides, we are too poor.”
“Then, she brings them only to rich children! Why? I--I’d love to have
some playthings.”
“Ah, well! Some day--if you are quite good--if you go to sleep
nicely--perhaps she will bring you some.”
“All right--I’m going to sleep--so that she’ll bring me some to-morrow.”
Silence. Then regular and gentle breathing. The child had fallen
asleep, and the mother too. Only _la Bretonne_ did not sleep. An
emotion both poignant and tender wrung her heart, and she thought more
fixedly than ever of that little one whom long ago she had stifled.
This lasted until the first gleams of dawn.
At early daylight _la Fleuriotte_ and her child still slept. _La
Bretonne_ furtively glided out of the house, and, walking hastily in
the direction of Auberive, did not pause until she reached the first
houses. Once there, she again passed slowly up the single street,
scanning the signs of the shops. At last one of these seemed to
fix her attention. She rapped upon the window-shutter, and by and
by it was opened. It was a dry-goods shop, but they also had some
children’s playthings--poor shopworn toys--paper dolls, a Noah’s ark,
a sheep-fold. To the great amazement of the shopkeeper, _la Bretonne_
bought them all, paid, and went out.
She was again on the road to _la Fleuriotte’s_ hovel when a hand was
laid heavily on her shoulder. Tremblingly she turned and found herself
facing a corporal of _gensdarmes_. The unhappy woman had forgotten
that convicts were not permitted after their release to remain in the
neighborhood of the prison!
“Instead of loafing here, you should be already at Langres,” said the
corporal severely. “Go along--on your way!”
She sought to explain--her pains were lost! In the twinkling of an
eye a cart was requisitioned, she was put in under the escort of a
_gendarme_, and the driver whipped up his horse.
The cart rumbled joltingly over the frozen road. Poor _la Bretonne_
heart-brokenly clutched the package of playthings in her chilled
fingers.
At a turn of the highway she recognized the cross-path through the
woods. Her heart leaped, and she pleaded with the _gendarme_ to
stop--she had an errand for _la Fleuriotte_, a woman who lived there,
only a couple of steps away. She pleaded with so much earnestness
that the _gendarme_, a good fellow at heart, allowed himself to be
persuaded. They tied the horse to the tree and went up the path.
In front of her door _la Fleuriotte_ was chopping up wood into faggots.
Upon seeing her visitor back again, accompanied by a _gendarme_, she
stood open-mouthed, her arms hanging.
“Chut!” said _la Bretonne_, “is the little one still asleep?”
“Yes, but----”
“Lay these playthings gently on her bed, and tell her that Saint
Catherine sent them. I went back to Auberive to hunt for them, but it
seems that I hadn’t the right to do so, and they are sending me to
Langres.”
“Holy Mother of God!” cried _la Fleuriotte_.
“Pshaw!”
She drew near the bed. Followed always by her guard, _la Bretonne_
spread over the coverlet the dolls, the ark, and the flock of sheep.
Then she kissed the bare arm of the sleeping child, and, turning toward
the _gendarme_, who stood staring:
“Now,” said she, “we can go on.”
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER, LOVER OF BEAUTY
While one is reading the tales of Gautier, he feels himself to be in
a playhouse, confronted by a bewildering array of stage-settings,
incredibly correct in detail and grouping, oppressively rich in
appointment, and colorful--always colorful. At times characters are
felt to be subordinated to background, yet these surroundings are
so picturesque--or better, perhaps, so pictorial--that they furnish
contrasts and harmonies which bring out rather than overpower the
people who move amidst this very forest of accessory riches.
An examination of Gautier the man, both temperamentally and as his
life was lived--if, indeed, there can be such a distinction--at once
provides an explanation of this pervading love for setting: he was a
passionate lover of the beautiful, and he was a persistent traveller in
quest of things beautiful to look upon.
To speak of an artist, whether in pigments, marbles, or words, as a
lover of the beautiful will at once suggest to the “practical” reader
a deep-eyed dreamer with soulful, upturned look, devoid of humour, and
affecting a Bunthorne stride. Not so Gautier. Robust of body, almost
coarse of physiognomy, and bubbling with life, he could mix his colors
with humor, tone his admirations with censure, charge his prodigious
memory with endless detail, and train his observation to the minutest
accuracy. There was something sensual as well as sensuous in his mind,
and he was saved from grovelling only by the dominance of that subtle
perception and admiration for the beautiful in _all_ its phases, which
challenges continual comment in any consideration of the man and his
work. Gautier was esthetic without being an esthete, witty yet not a
wit, sentient but not sentimental, sensual though not gross.
* * * * *
A journey to the heart of Gautier leads by way of his outward life.
Tarbes, in the south of France, Department of the Hautes-Pyrénées,
was the place of his birth, August 31, 1811. Jean-Pierre Gautier, his
father, was in the revenue service, and an ardent royalist. He hailed
from the Avignon of the Popes that Alphonse Daudet has chronicled so
delightfully. Our author’s mother, Adélaïde-Antoinette Cocard, was a
tailor’s daughter, and a noted beauty, whose sister had married into
the nobility.
When Théophile was only three years old, his parents removed to Paris,
but even at that elastic age the lad retained his love for the South,
and, like his father, often repined for its warmth and color. He was
a precocious youngster, beginning at five to devour books--_Paul and
Virginia_ and _Robinson Crusoe_ among others.
The inevitable _Lycée Louis-le-Grand_ was his academy, and by no means
a happy prison it proved for the impressionable child, so poetic in
temperament. Fortunately, his father soon took him home and entered him
as a day-pupil elsewhere.
In his boyhood Théophile became a worshiper of that master romanticist,
Victor Hugo, whom he was permitted to meet while yet a youth of
nineteen, and who graciously encouraged the boy to publish his verses.
Though Gautier afterward laughed delightedly and delightfully at
the extremes of the earlier romantic school, and though both in his
historical work on romanticism and in his papers on contemporaneous
writers, his biting satire searched out its weaknesses, he never ceased
to feel its influence and cherish a reverence for its anointed apostle,
the creator of _Les Misérables_.
In those formative days the young man was physically slight and almost
frail--remote as yet from the massive giant of flashing black eye and
dark leonine mane, whose physique enabled him to sustain many a bout
with the wine cup and rejoice in pleasures of table, until, his natural
powers otherwise unabated, and but sixty-one years of age, he succumbed
to an enlarged heart and died at Paris, October 23, 1872.
Gautier, like many another man of letters, presents some contradictions
of temperament and production, but for the most part his work is
infused with his own strong individuality.
Like Loti, he knew the life of many lands and wrote sympathetically of
Spain, Italy, Russia, the Netherlands, and the alluring East. A painter
turned art critic and journalist--and so indefatigable a journalist
that he himself has estimated that it would require three hundred
volumes to compass his collected writings--he pursued a painter’s
methods in his literary work. A poet of charm and attainment, and a
dramatic critic of secure place, he informed both verse and criticism
with the melodious spirit which issued from his love for music. In
faithful description the precursor of the realists, he still adhered
to his romanticist ideals. Word-connoisseur, and stylist of the first
order, he loved perfection of literary form because such harmonies were
the outward limbs of beauty.
Here was an aggressive, positive, individual man, strong in love as in
loathing, tender to all animals, living, like Balzac, joyously a life
of struggle against debt, and at last winning a place greater than the
forbidden seat in the Academy--a place among the most distinguished
romanticists that France ever gave to the world.
Gautier’s worship of beauty is not easy to formulate. M. de Sumichrast
has termed it “not immoral, but unmoral.” The presence or the absence
of virtue or of vice made no difference to him if only the person were
beautiful. He no more demanded moral qualities in his characters than
he did in the lovely lines of a hill crest. Beauty was the final flame
for the adoration of this sensuous acolyte. In all life, at home and
widely journeying abroad, he sought it, and when he found it, whether
in human form, in relics of ancient art, in modern picture and marble,
or in the unrivalled symmetry of nature, his whole being throbbed with
delight.
As a youth he fell in love with the robust, fleshy women that Rubens
had painted for the Louvre, and straightway pilgrimaged to Belgium to
find the originals. His experiences were laughable--perhaps a trifle
pathetic. The one slattern whose generous bulk met his Rubenic ideals
was scrubbing. But out of this boyish episode grew that exquisite tale,
“The Fleece of Gold”--a modern covering which, unlike Jason’s, was a
woman’s wealth of blonde hair.
As the story runs, Tiburce, a young dilettante painter, had always
found more beauty in the feminine creations of the great painters than
in the most lovely flesh-and-blood women he ever met, so he spent much
time in contemplating these exquisite creations of art. At length, from
having studied certain Flemish pictures, he decided to go into Belgium
“in search of the blonde”--he would love a Fleming.
In Brussels and in Laeken the quest of this new Jason was unsuccessful,
so he went to Antwerp, where he was as diligent as before--and equally
without reward. At length he saw in the Cathedral Rubens’ masterpiece,
“The Descent from the Cross,” and was stricken dumb by the beauty of
the Magdalen in this remarkable picture. “The sight of that face was to
Tiburce a revelation from on high; scales fell from his eyes, he found
himself face to face with his secret dream, with his unavowed hope; the
intangible image which he had pursued with all the ardor of an amorous
imagination, and of which he had been able to espy only the profile
or the ravishing fold of a dress; the capricious and untamed chimera,
always ready to unfold its restless wings, was there before him,
fleeing no more, motionless in the splendor of its beauty.”
Then followed daily visits to the Cathedral, rapt, dazed, worshiping.
One day on the street Tiburce catches sight of a woman who bears--a
striking resemblance to the Magdalen! Her--Gretchen--he eventually
meets, and to her he reluctantly gives his love. Yet, though Gretchen
comes to love Tiburce, she cannot evoke in him quite the same feelings
he knows in the presence of Rubens’ beautiful woman--the Magdalen is
still his ideal. Even when he christens the girl with the name of the
Penitent, the transformation is not complete. At length Gretchen,
hidden behind a pillar, overhears Tiburce sighing out his worship
toward the woman of the painting: “How I would love thee to-morrow if
thou wert living!”--and realizes that she is loved only vicariously.
By and by they go to Paris, where the artist feels his love for the
absent Magdalen grow instead of wane, and Gretchen can bear her
jealous unhappiness no longer. She breaks out into a tender eloquence
of reproach: “You are ambitious to love; you are deceived concerning
yourself, you will never love. You must have perfection, the ideal
and poesy--all those things which do not exist. Instead of loving in
a woman the love that she has for you, of being grateful to her for
her devotion and for the gift of her heart, you look to see if she
resembles that plaster Venus in your study.... You are not a lover,
poor Tiburce, you are simply a painter.”
And so she goes on, uncovering to him his foolish delusion, ending in a
passion of abandonment, of “sublime immodesty,” by appearing before him
like Aphrodite rising from the sea.
Swept by all this nobility of her discerning spirit, and all the
ravishing charm of her beauty, Tiburce seizes his brushes and does
master work--and then begs his new-found love to name the day for the
crying of their banns.
* * * * *
Perhaps it needs no word here to emphasize one phase of Gautier’s
nature--he _knew_ himself to be a beauty-lover, and he knew all the
limitations of character that this cult rendered inevitable.
* * * * *
A second force in Gautier’s life was his orientalism. In this he was
not only conscious of the strain of eastern blood that pulsed through
both body and temperament, but he was, by reason of long application,
constant travel, and the varied opportunities of a critic’s life, a
savant on matters oriental, particularly Pompeian and Egyptian.
Here, again, “The Romance of a Mummy,” a long tale, “One of Cleopatra’s
Nights,” a short tale, and “The Mummy’s Foot,” which follows in
translation, display the savant in his work. The movement of life in
ancient Egypt in the time of the Hebrew bondage, and all that highly
colored, picturesque civilization, afford him the always coveted
background which he valued as much for itself as for its use as a
setting.
In another of his shorter stories, “Arria Marcella,” the savant is
also evident. The familiar but terrible theme of the vampire woman is
set in an idealized reconstruction of Pompeian life; just as that one
perfect short-story from the pen of Gautier, “The Dead Leman” (_La
Morte Amoureuse_), marvellously made to live again the mediæval spirit
in the poignantly pitiful mistress whose end is the heart-break of
selfish passion; and “The Thousand-and-Second Night” evokes anew the
indistinct, subtle, alluring odors of the Arabian Nights.
The three best-known longer tales of Gautier--technically they are
not precisely novels--are _Mademoiselle de Maupin_, a prose-song to
beauty--immoral, daring, and beautiful; _Captain Fracasse_, whose
smash-’em-up, picaroon hero leads us through abundant adventures; and
_Spirite_, a notable contrast to the materialism displayed--almost
flaunted--in his other work. _Spirite_ is a story of fantasy; but it
is more: with a tender delicacy and spiritual subtlety which well may
surprise his public, Gautier presents the contrasting love-lure of
Lavinia d’Audefini, a disembodied woman, and the very real but--here
is the remarkable part--less attractive charms of Mme. d’Ymbercourt, a
red-ripe woman indeed. We are indebted to Gautier for this one story
as a demonstration that, while his tales are mostly as unmoral as
the pigments of his literary palette, he can at will delineate the
ethereal, and in so doing disclose a fine understanding of spiritual
values.
THE MUMMY’S FOOT
(_LE PIED DE MOMIE_)
By Théophile Gautier
_Done into English by the Editor_
I had idly entered the shop of one of those curiosity-venders who, in
that Parisian lingo which is so perfectly unintelligible to the rest of
France, are called _marchands de bric-à-brac_.
You have doubtless glanced through the windows into one of those shops
which have become so numerous since it is the mode to buy antique
furniture, and since the pettiest stockbroker thinks he must have his
“mediæval room.”
There is one thing that clings alike to the shop of the old-iron
dealer, the wareroom of the tapestry-maker, the laboratory of the
alchemist, and the studio of the artist: in these mysterious dens
through whose window-shutters filters a furtive twilight, the thing
that is the most manifestly ancient is the dust; there the spider-webs
are more authentic than the gimps, and the old pear-wood furniture is
younger than the mahogany which arrived yesterday from America.
The wareroom of my bric-à-brac dealer was a veritable Capernaum; all
centuries and all countries seemed to have rendezvoused there: an
Etruscan lamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet whose ebony panels
were brilliantly inlaid with filaments of brass; a Louis XV half-lounge
carelessly stretched its fawn-like feet under a massive table of
the reign of Louis XIII, with heavy oaken spirals, and carvings of
intermingled foliage and chimeras.
In one corner glittered the striped cuirass of a damascened suit of
Milanese armor; bisque cupids and nymphs, grotesques from China,
_céladon_ and _craquelé_ vases, Saxon and old Sèvres cups, encumbered
what-nots and corners.
Upon the fluted shelves of several dressers glittered immense plates
from Japan, with designs in red and blue relieved by gilt hatching,
side by side with several Bernard Palissy enamels, showing frogs and
lizards in relief work.
From disembowelled cabinets escaped cascades of Chinese silk lustrous
with silver, billows of brocade, sown with luminous specks by a
slanting sunbeam, while portraits of every epoch, in frames more or
less tarnished, smiled out through their yellow varnish.
The dealer followed me with precaution through the tortuous passage
contrived between the piles of furniture, fending off with his hand the
hazardous swing of my coat-tails, watching my elbows with the uneasy
attention of the antiquary and the usurer.
It was a singular figure, that of the dealer: an immense cranium,
polished like a knee, and surrounded by a meagre aureole of white hair
that brought out all the more vividly the clear salmon tint of the
skin, gave him a false air of patriarchal simplicity--contradicted,
on the other hand, by the sparkling of two little yellow eyes, which
trembled in their orbits like two _louis d’ors_ on a surface of
quicksilver. The curve of the nose presented an aquiline silhouette
which recalled the Oriental or Jewish type. His hands--thin, bony,
veined, full of sinews stretched like the strings on the neck of a
violin, and armed with talons resembling those which terminate the
membranous wings of a bat--shook with a senile movement disquieting
to see. But those feverishly nail-bitten hands became firmer than
lobster-claws or steel pincers when they lifted some precious piece--an
onyx carving, a Venetian cup, or a plate of Bohemian crystal. This old
rascal had an aspect so profoundly rabbinical and cabalistic that three
centuries ago they would have burned him merely from the evidence of
his face.
“Will you not buy something from me to-day, Monsieur? Here is a Malay
kris with a blade undulating like a flame: see those grooves to serve
as gutters for the blood, those teeth fashioned and set inversely so as
to rip out the entrails when the dagger is withdrawn. It is a fine type
of ferocious weapon, and would look very well among your trophies. This
two-handed sword is very beautiful--it is a José de la Hera; and this
_colichemarde_ with perforated guard, what a superb piece of work!”
“No, I have plenty of arms and instruments of carnage. I want a
figurine, something that would do for a paper-weight, for I cannot
endure those stock bronzes which the stationers sell, and which may be
found on any desk.”
The old gnome, foraging among his antiquities, finally arranged
before me several antique bronzes--so called, at least; fragments of
malachite; little Hindu or Chinese idols, a kind of poussah toys made
of jade, showing the incarnation of Brahma or of Vishnu, marvellously
well-suited for the sufficiently ungodlike purpose of holding papers
and letters in place.
I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon all starred with warts,
its jaws adorned with tusks and bristling whiskers, and a highly
abominable little Mexican fetich, representing the god Vitziliputzili
_au naturel_, when I noticed a charming foot which I at first took for
a fragment of an antique Venus.
It had those beautiful tawny and ruddy tints which give to Florentine
bronze that warm and vivacious look so preferable to the grayish
green tone of ordinary bronze, which might be taken for statues
in putrefaction. Satiny lights frisked over its form, rounded and
polished by the loving kisses of twenty centuries; for it seemed to
be a Corinthian bronze, a work of the best era, perhaps a casting by
Lysippus!
“This foot will be the thing for me,” said I to the merchant, who
regarded me with an ironical and saturnine air as he held out the
desired object for me to examine at will.
I was surprised at its lightness; it was not a foot of metal, but
indeed a foot of flesh, an embalmed foot, a foot of a mummy; on
examining it still more closely one could see the grain of the skin,
and the lines almost imperceptibly impressed upon it by the texture
of the bandages. The toes were slender, delicate, terminated by
perfect nails, pure and transparent as agates; the great toe, slightly
separate, and contrasting happily with the modelling of the other
toes, in the antique style, gave it an air of lightness, the grace of
a bird’s foot; the sole, scarcely streaked by several almost invisible
grooves, showed that it had never touched the earth, and had come in
contact with only the finest matting of Nile rushes and the softest
carpets of panther skin.
“Ha, ha! You wish the foot of the Princess Hermonthis!” exclaimed the
merchant, with a strange chuckle, fixing upon me his owlish eyes.
“Ha, ha, ha!--for a paper-weight! Original idea! Artistic idea! If
any one would have said to old Pharaoh that the foot of his adored
daughter would serve for a paper-weight, he would have been greatly
surprised, considering that he had had a mountain of granite hollowed
out to hold the triple coffin, painted and gilded and all covered
with hieroglyphics and beautiful paintings of the Judgment of Souls,”
continued the singular little merchant, half aloud, and as though
talking to himself.
“How much will you charge me for this mummy fragment?”
“Ah, the highest price I am able, for it is a superb piece: if I had
its counterpart, you could not have it for less than five hundred
francs; the daughter of a Pharaoh, nothing is more rare!”
“Assuredly it is not common; but still, how much do you want? In the
first place, let me tell you something, and that is, my entire treasure
consists of only five louis: I can buy anything that costs five louis,
but nothing dearer. You might search my innermost waistcoat pockets,
and my most secret desk-drawers, without finding even one miserable
five-franc piece more.”
“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! That is very
little, very little, in truth, for an authentic foot,” muttered the
merchant, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
“All right, take it, and I will give you the bandages into the
bargain,” he added, wrapping it in an ancient damask rag. “Very fine:
real damask, Indian damask, which has never been redyed; it is strong,
it is soft,” he mumbled, passing his fingers over the frayed tissue,
from the commercial habit which moved him to praise an object of so
little value that he himself judged it worth only being given away.
He poured the gold pieces into a sort of mediæval alms-purse hanging at
his belt, as he kept on saying:
“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to serve as a paper-weight!”
Then, turning upon me his phosphorescent eyes, he exclaimed in a voice
strident as the miauling of a cat that has swallowed a fish-bone:
“Old Pharaoh will not be pleased--he loved his daughter, that dear man!”
“You speak as if you were his contemporary; old as you are, you do not
date back to the Pyramids of Egypt,” I answered laughingly from the
shop door.
I went home, well content with my acquisition.
In order to put it to use as soon as possible, I placed the foot of
the divine Princess Hermonthis upon a heap of papers, scribbled over
with verses, an undecipherable mosaic work of erasures; articles just
begun; letters forgotten and mailed in the table-drawer--an error which
often occurs with absent-minded people. The whole effect was charming,
bizarre, and romantic.
Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went down into the street
with the becoming gravity and pride of one who feels that he has
the ineffable advantage over all the passers-by whom he elbows, of
possessing a fragment of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.
I looked upon as sovereignly ridiculous all those who did not possess,
like myself, a paper-weight so notoriously Egyptian; and it seemed to
me that the true occupation of every man of sense was to have a mummy’s
foot upon his desk.
Happily, my meeting some friends distracted me from my infatuation with
the recent acquisition; I went to dinner with them, for it would have
been difficult for me to dine by myself.
When I came back in the evening, my brain slightly confused by a few
glasses of wine, a vague whiff of Oriental perfume delicately tickled
my olfactory nerves: the heat of the room had warmed the sodium
carbonate, bitumen, and myrrh in which the paraschites, who cut open
the bodies of the dead, had bathed the corpse of the princess; it was a
perfume both sweet and penetrating, a perfume that four thousand years
had not been able to dissipate.
The dream of Egypt was Eternity: her odors have the solidity of
granite, and endure as long.
I soon drank to fulness from the black cup of sleep: for an hour or two
all remained opaque. Oblivion and nothingness inundated me with their
sombre emptiness.
Presently my mental obscurity cleared; dreams commenced to graze me
softly in their silent flight.
The eyes of my soul were opened, and I beheld my chamber precisely
as it was. I might have believed myself to be awake, but a vague
perception told me that I slept and that something fantastic was about
to take place.
The odor of the myrrh had intensely increased, and I felt a slight
headache, which--with great reasonableness--I attributed to several
glasses of champagne that we had drunk to the unknown gods, and our
future success.
I peered through my room with a feeling of expectation which nothing
actually justified; the furniture was precisely in place; the lamp
burned upon its bracket, softly shaded by the milky whiteness of its
dull crystal; the water-color sketches shone under their Bohemian
glass; the curtains hung languidly: everything had an air slumbrous and
tranquil.
Presently, however, this calm interior appeared to become troubled:
the woodwork cracked furtively, the log enveloped in cinders suddenly
emitted a jet of blue flame, and the circular ornaments on the frieze
seemed like metallic eyes, watching, like myself, for the things which
were about to happen.
My gaze by chance fell upon the desk where I had placed the foot of the
Princess Hermonthis.
Instead of being immobile, as became a foot which had been embalmed for
four thousand years, it moved uneasily, contracted itself and leaped
over the papers like a frightened frog: one would have imagined it to
be in contact with a galvanic battery. I could quite distinctly hear
the dry sound made by its little heel, hard as the hoof of a gazelle.
I became somewhat discontented with my acquisition, preferring my
paper-weights to be sedentary, and thought it a little unnatural that
feet should walk about without legs; indeed, I commenced to feel
something which strongly resembled fear.
Suddenly I saw the folds of one of my bed-curtains stir, and I heard
a bumping sound, like that of a person hopping on one foot. I must
confess I became alternately hot and cold, that I felt a strange
wind blow across my back, and that my suddenly rising hair caused my
nightcap to execute a leap of several yards.
The bed-curtains parted, and I beheld coming towards me the strangest
figure it is possible to imagine.
It was a young girl, of a deep _café-au-lait_ complexion, like the
bayadere[1] Amani, of a perfect beauty, and recalling the purest
Egyptian type. She had almond eyes with the corners raised, and brows
so black that they seemed blue; her nose was delicately chiselled,
almost Grecian in its fineness of outline, and indeed she might have
been taken for a statue of Corinthian bronze had not the prominence of
the cheekbones and the slightly African lips made it impossible not to
recognize her as belonging beyond doubt to the hieroglyphic race of the
banks of the Nile.
Her arms, slender and turned with the symmetry of a spindle--like
those of very young girls--were encircled by a kind of metal bands
and bracelets of glass beads; her hair was plaited in cords; and upon
her bosom was suspended a little idol of green paste, which, from its
bearing a whip with seven lashes, enabled one to recognize it as an
image of Isis, conductress of spirits. A disk of gold scintillated upon
her brow, and a few traces of rouge relieved the coppery tint of her
cheeks.
As for her costume, it was very strange. Imagine an under-wrapping of
linen strips, bedizened with black and red hieroglyphics, stiffened
with bitumen, and apparently belonging to a freshly unbandaged mummy.
In one of those flights of thought so frequent in dreams, I heard
the rough falsetto of the bric-à-brac dealer, which repeated like
a monotonous refrain the phrase he had uttered in his shop with an
intonation so enigmatical:
“Old Pharaoh will not be pleased--he loved his daughter, that dear man!”
Strange circumstance--and one which scarcely reassured me--the
apparition had but one foot; the other was broken off at the ankle!
She approached the desk where the foot was moving and wriggling with
redoubled liveliness. Once there, she supported herself upon the edge,
and I saw tears form and grow pearly in her eyes.
Although she had not as yet spoken, I clearly discerned her thoughts:
she looked at her foot--for it was indeed her own--with an infinitely
graceful expression of coquettish sadness; but the foot leaped and
coursed hither and yon, as though driven by steel springs.
Two or three times she extended her hand to seize it, but she did not
succeed.
Then commenced between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot--which
appeared to be endowed with a life of its own--a very fantastic
dialogue in a most ancient Coptic dialect, such as might have been
spoken some thirty centuries ago by voices of the land of Ser: luckily,
that night I understood Coptic to perfection.
The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweet and vibrant as a
crystal bell:
“Well, my dear little foot, you flee from me always, though I have
taken good care of you. I bathed you with perfumed water in a basin of
alabaster; I smoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed with oil of
palms; your nails were cut with golden scissors and polished with a
hippopotamus tooth; I was careful to select sandals for you, broidered
and painted and turned up at the toes, which made all the young girls
in Egypt envious; you wore on your great toe rings representing the
sacred Scarabæus, and you carried about the lightest body it was
possible for a lazy foot to sustain.”
The foot replied, in a tone pouting and chagrined:
“You well know that I do not belong to myself any longer. I have been
bought and paid for. The old merchant knew perfectly what he was doing;
he always bore you a grudge for having refused to espouse him: this
is an ill turn which he has done you. The Arab who robbed your royal
sarcophagus in the subterranean pits of the necropolis of Thebes was
sent by him: he desired to prevent you from going to the reunion of the
shadowy peoples in the cities below. Have you five pieces of gold for
my ransom?”
“Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and silver, were all
stolen from me,” answered the Princess Hermonthis, with a sigh.
“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never retained anybody’s foot
unjustly; even though you have not got the five louis which it cost me,
I give it to you gladly: I should be in despair to make so amiable a
person as the Princess Hermonthis lame.”
I delivered this discourse in a tone so royal and gallant that it must
have astonished the beautiful Egyptian.
She turned toward me a look charged with gratitude, and her eyes shone
with bluish gleams.
She took her foot--which, this time, let itself be taken--like a woman
about to put on her little shoe, and adjusted it to her leg with much
address.
This operation ended, she took two or three steps about the room, as if
to assure herself that she really was no longer lame.
“Ah, how happy my father will be--he who was so desolated because of my
mutilation, and who had, from the day of my birth, put a whole people
at work to hollow out for me a tomb so deep that he would be able to
preserve me intact until that supreme day when souls must be weighed in
the balances of Amenthi! Come with me to my father--he will receive you
well, for you have given me back my foot.”
I found this proposition natural enough. I enveloped myself in
a dressing-gown of large flowered pattern, which gave me a very
Pharaohesque appearance, hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers,
and told the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.
Hermonthis, before starting, took from her neck the tiny figurine of
green paste and laid it on the scattered sheets of paper which covered
the table.
“It is only fair,” she said smilingly, “that I should replace your
paper-weight.”
She gave me her hand, which was soft and cold, like the skin of a
serpent, and we departed.
For some time we spun with the rapidity of an arrow through a fluid and
grayish medium, in which faintly outlined silhouettes were passing to
right and left.
For an instant, we saw only sea and sky.
Some moments afterward, obelisks commenced to rise, porches and flights
of steps guarded by sphinxes were outlined against the horizon.
We had arrived.
The princess conducted me toward the mountain of rosy granite, where we
found an opening so narrow and low that it would have been difficult to
distinguish it from the fissures in the rock, if two sculptured columns
had not enabled us to recognize it.
Hermonthis lighted a torch and walked before me.
There were corridors hewn through the living rock; the walls, covered
with hieroglyphic paintings and allegorical processions, might
well have occupied thousands of arms for thousands of years; these
corridors, of an interminable length, ended in square chambers, in the
midst of which pits had been contrived, through which we descended by
means of cramp-hooks or spiral stairways; these pits conducted us into
other chambers, from which other corridors opened, equally decorated
with painted sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, and those
mystic symbols, the _tau_, the _pedum_, and the _bari_--prodigious
works which no living eye would ever examine, endless legends in
granite which only the dead have time to read throughout eternity.
At last we issued into a hall so vast, so enormous, so immeasurable,
that the eye could not perceive its confines. Flooding the sight were
files of monstrous columns between which twinkled livid stars of yellow
flame, and these points of light revealed further incalculable depths.
The Princess Hermonthis always held me by the hand, and graciously
saluted the mummies of her acquaintance.
My eyes accustomed themselves to the crepuscular light, and objects
became discernible.
I beheld, seated upon their thrones, the kings of the subterranean
races: they were magnificent, dry old men, withered, wrinkled,
parchmented, blackened with naphtha and bitumen--all wearing golden
headdresses, breast-plates, and gorgets starry with precious stones,
eyes of a sphinx-like fixity, and long beards whitened by the snows of
the centuries. Behind them, their embalmed people stood, in the rigid
and constrained pose of Egyptian art, preserving eternally the attitude
prescribed by the hieratic code. Behind these peoples, contemporary
cats mewed, ibises flapped their wings, and crocodiles grinned, all
rendered still more monstrous by their swathing bands.
All the Pharaohs were there--Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus,
Sesostris, Amenotaph--all the dark rulers of the pyramids and the
nymphs. On the yet higher thrones sat King Chronos, Xixouthros, who was
contemporary with the deluge, and Tubal Cain, who preceded it.
The beard of King Xixouthros had grown so full that it already wound
seven times around the granite table upon which he leaned, lost in a
somnolent revery.
Further back, through a dusty cloud across the dim centuries, I beheld
vaguely the seventy-two preadamite Kings, with their seventy-two
peoples, forever passed away.
After allowing me to gaze upon this astounding spectacle a few moments,
the Princess Hermonthis presented me to Pharaoh, her father, who
vouchsafed me a majestic nod.
“I have recovered my foot again! I have recovered my foot!” cried the
Princess, as she clapped her little hands one against the other with
all the signs of playful joy. “Here is the gentleman who restored it to
me.”
The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi, all the black, bronze, and
copper-colored nations, repeated in chorus:
“The Princess Hermonthis has recovered her foot!”
Even Xixouthros was visibly affected: he raised his dull eyelids,
passed his fingers over his mustache, and bent upon me his look weighty
with centuries.
“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and by Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of
Truth, there is a brave and worthy fellow!” exclaimed Pharaoh,
extending toward me his sceptre, terminated with a lotus-flower. “What
do you desire for recompense?”
Strong in that audacity which is inspired by dreams, where nothing
seems impossible, I asked the hand of Hermonthis: the hand seemed to me
a very proper antithetic recompense for such a good foot.
Pharaoh opened wide his eyes of glass, astonished by my pleasantry and
my request.
“From what country do you come, and what is your age?”
“I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh.”
“Twenty-seven years old--and he wishes to espouse the Princess
Hermonthis, who is thirty centuries old!” exclaimed at once all the
thrones and all the circles of nations.
Hermonthis alone did not seem to find my request unreasonable.
“If only you were even two thousand years old,” replied the ancient
King, “I would quite willingly give you the Princess; but the
disproportion is too great; and, besides, we must give our daughters
husbands who are durable--you no longer know how to preserve
yourselves: the oldest people that you can produce are scarcely fifteen
hundred years old, and they are no more than a pinch of dust. See
here--my flesh is hard as basalt, my bones are bars of steel!
“I shall be present on the last day of the world with the body and the
features which were mine in life; my daughter Hermonthis will endure
longer than a statue of bronze.
“Then the winds will have dispersed the last particles of your dust,
and Isis herself, who was able to recover the atoms of Osiris, would be
embarrassed to recompose your being.
“See how vigorous I still am, and how well my hands can grip,” he said
to me as he shook my hand _à l’Anglaise_, in a manner that cut my
fingers with my rings.
He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and found it was my friend Alfred
who was shaking me by the arm to make me get up.
“Ah, you maddening sleepyhead! Must I have you carried out into the
middle of the street, and fireworks exploded in your ears? It’s
afternoon; don’t you remember that you promised to take me with you to
see M. Aguado’s Spanish pictures?”
“_Mon Dieu!_ I didn’t remember it any more!” I answered as I dressed
myself. “We will go there at once; I have the permit here on my desk.”
I went forward to take it; but judge of my astonishment when instead
of the mummy’s foot I had purchased the evening before, I saw the tiny
figurine of green paste left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] An East-Indian dancing girl.
ANATOLE FRANCE, FORMER MAN AND NEW
The biographies of some great men of letters are little different from
their bibliographies. For many years this would seem to have been true
in the case of Anatole France, for the man of public import--apart from
his literary productions--came not into being until fifty-three years
after his physical birth.
Every book-lover who goes to Paris must visit the banks of the Seine
and revel among the riches of that vast exhibition of old books, art
objects, rare prints, and fascinating what-not, which for generations
have been the despair and the admiration of collectors. Over an
old-book mart on the Quai Malaquis, Jacques Anatole Thibault--now
everywhere known as Anatole France--was born April 16, 1844. From that
day to this he has never left as a residence that Paris whose every
paving-block he knows, as he himself says, and whose every stone he
loves. Year by year he has increasingly stood as a type of Parisian
literary life and thought.
His father was one of the prosperous booksellers of the Seine
banks--meditative, thoughtful, and even a maker of verses. He brought
with him from Anjou in western France all of the Vendéean’s passion
for monarchism and clericalism. Just how this harmonizes with the
assertion of one of our author’s biographers that the elder Thibault
was of Jewish blood, I do not pretend to say, but the statement may
pass on its face value. Certain it is that the father was concerned
that Anatole should be educated under the auspices of clerical
teachers, the priests of the old Collège Stanislas, and his son’s
early mastery of the classics and attainments in literary style amply
justified the choice. Indeed, the clerical schools of the period did
more to establish French letters than has since proven to be the case
under the public schools of present-day France.
Growing up in this bookish atmosphere, rich tokens of the past all
about him, inheriting his father’s scholarly tastes, trained under
the rigid system of classicists, and in the school that developed
Paul Bourget and François Coppée, Anatole France needed only one more
element to bring out in him the varied temperament his life and works
exhibit--the inspiration of the refined and tender mother whose love
for romantic fairy-tales charmed into being the first fancy-creations
of her gifted boy.
In 1868 M. France produced his first book--a study of Alfred de Vigny.
This made no great sensation, but his first volume of poems--many
French literary men, like Daudet, Maupassant, and Bourget, have opened
their literary careers with essays at verse--was published in 1873,
_Les Poèmes dorés_.
About this time M. France became reader for the publisher Lemerre,
and under his auspices brought out various of the thirty-some volumes
which stand to his credit. In 1876 he became an attaché of the Senate
library. Later, he was known as a regular contributor to _Le Temps_
and other Parisian journals, much of this review material being now
accessible in book-form.
That part of M. France’s work which covers the first twenty years of
his writing, ending with 1896, has largely fixed his place in the
average opinion, for two reasons: those years witnessed his largest
and most popular production, including nearly all of his novels and
stories; and, in consequence, the preponderance of published critical
estimates cover only those two decades.
The “first” Anatole France, then, must be considered almost as a
separate being, so far as we regard his spirit; his literary style,
however, changed scarcely at all with time. Classical training was
reflected in a passion for the Greek magic of words, Latin harmony
of phrasing, and the hedonistic philosophy; there was not even the
suggestion of his later direct appeal to reason and “the rights of
man.” His personal tone--for much of his writing is personal and even
autobiographical--was pessimistic, though untinged with bitterness;
and here again there was little to forecast his vigorous appeal for
a social better day. No thought of social uplift, no ray of hope,
appeared in his treatment of _Thaïs_, a study of the Egypt of the
Ptolemies; _The Red Lily_, a picture of present-day Florence; _The
Opinions of M. Jérome Coignard_, the modernization of sentiments
exploited in Rabelais, “Wilhelm Meister,” “Gil Blas,” and Montaigne;
_The Garden of Epicurus_, wherein the shades of great thinkers, from
Plato to Schopenhauer, hold converse, “while an Esquimaux refutes
Bossuet, a Polynesian develops his theory of the soul, and Cicero and
Cousin agree in their estimate of a future life.” In a word, the M.
France of those days viewed life as a spectacle, with dispassionate
yet pitying irony. Convinced, with the Preacher, that all is vanity,
this dilettante proposed no remedies for its ills, and was even frankly
skeptical that any such saving medicine existed. This is Anatole France
as most readers know him--the Anatole France who “died” fifteen years
ago, leaving only the stylist and the keen observer to identify him
with the decidedly living man of to-day.
Two important events in the life of our author took place respectively
in 1896 and 1897. In the former year he was elected on the first
ballot to a seat in the French Academy--the seat occupied by Ferdinand
de Lesseps, and on the occasion of his _séance de réception_ M.
France delivered a tactful and altogether admirable eulogy upon the
unfortunate genius whom he succeeded.
This distinction coming after more than fifty years of life would have
been enough to mark an epoch in his career, but one year later he
issued _L’Orme du Mail_, a series of notable comments upon contemporary
literary and social life. This may be regarded as the outgrowth of the
social, political, and literary notes which he had been contributing
to the newspapers, and which have been gathered in several volumes,
forming probably the most brilliant commentary upon things French which
is available to-day.
Doubtless this daily observation of the current trend gave birth to a
new man, for now Anatole France is no longer the satirical and lightly
ironical dilettante making excursions into the field of speculation,
but a robust devotee of the rights of the people. His powerful
arraignments of the social and political condition of the French
common-people are not the only proofs of a new birth in M. France.
Trenchant, witty, and apostolic as are his social sermons--for now and
then a sermon may ring true to its word-origin and be _a thrust_--they
were not so amazing and, happily, not so significant, as his brave
championship of the cause of Captain Dreyfus when there were few who
dared to lift voice against rampant militarism and a prejudiced,
Jew-baiting military tribunal.
From this courageous stand it was only a single step to a propagandum
to abolish the many abuses which he feels weigh heavily upon the
masses--war, plutocracy, clericalism, militarism. I have said that
it was only a single step, yet it represents a long journey for the
son of a monarchist, a boy educated by priests, the smiling literary
experimenter, the speculative pupil of Rénan, to have mounted the
Socialistic rostrum and produced anti-military and anti-clerical
papers of no doubtful sound. Such is M. France to-day; and though he
still fails not in his literary appeal to the intellectuals, the cry
that deeply stirs his being is that of the proletariat in need of
intelligent, vigorous leadership. Whether or not one agrees with his
propagandum, one cannot ignore its significance.
Anatole France has attained distinction in several literary forms. His
early poems are not of sufficient merit to make him famous, but they
consist of a piquant combination--humor, history, and philosophy.
His critical introductions to delightful editions of famous books
are charmingly done and sufficiently discriminating. His tractates
on questions of the times are earnest, direct, and vigorous. But
it is to his novels and stories that we must look to find his most
characteristic writings.
To the English reader, his best-known novel is _The Crime of Sylvestre
Bonnard_ (1881), which was crowned by the Academy. Like all of M.
France’s novels, it is practically plotless--a fictional framework
for the skeptical observations and good-natured ironies of the old
philosopher, whose name gives the book its title. A second novel of
distinction, if novel it may be called, is _The Book of Friendship_
(_le Livre de Mon Ami_). It is made up of two parts--_The Book of
Peter_ and _The Book of Suzanne_. The former owes its interest not
alone to charm of style, childlikeness of recital, and subtle beauty,
but also to its autobiographical character--which M. France has frankly
admitted. Three other works immediately rise up for comparison when
one reads this keen, sympathetic, and understanding story--Dickens’s
_David Copperfield_, Daudet’s _Little What’s-His-Name_ (_le Petit
Chose_), and Loti’s _The Story of a Child_; and the very fact of such
inevitable comparisons may sufficiently suggest its ingenuous charm,
its pseudo-naïvete, and its mingled humor and pathos. No Frenchman,
except Victor Hugo, quite entered into child-life as did M. France in
this notable compound of fiction and fact, and I am not forgetting
either Alphonse Daudet or Gustav Droz in making this assertion.
The inheritance of his mother’s love for fantasy is beautifully
illustrated in M. France’s _Abeille_, a fairy story of perhaps
twenty-thousand words. The author’s name will vouch for its style;
the simple outline will show the pretty framework for the fictional
conception.
La Duchesse des Clarides brings up her daughter Abeille, together with
Georges, the only son of la Comtesse Blanchelande, who at her death had
confided him to the care of her friend.
The two children one day set out secretly to find the distant lake
which they have seen from the high tower of the castle of Clarides. The
lake is the home of the Ondines, and the woods surrounding it the realm
of the Gnomes. Georges, seeking water and food for Abeille, is seized
by the Ondines. Abeille, waiting for Georges’ return, falls asleep, to
be wakened by the Gnomes, who carry her to their King Loc. They keep
Abeille in order to teach her the wisdom and secrets of their race and
they make her their Princess. Loc loves Abeille and offers her all
the treasures of his kingdom if she will become his wife. She refuses,
asking only to be sent back to her mother, whom she is allowed to see
each night in a dream, as her mother also sees her. Loc finally learns
that Abeille loves Georges, but that he has disappeared. The Gnome king
discovers that the youth is with the Ondines, held prisoner because he
wishes to leave the Ondine queen--who also loves him--in order to seek
Abeille. Loc magnanimously rescues Georges and sends him to Clarides,
but still cannot bring himself to free Abeille. The youth learns of the
fate of Abeille from his mother and his serving man, and goes to the
Gnome kingdom to rescue her.
Loc cannot keep Abeille longer because of a law allowing mortals,
prisoners of the Gnomes, to return to the world after seven years, so
he betroths Georges and Abeille and gives them rich gifts, among which
is a magic ring having power to bring Abeille and Georges at any time
to visit the Gnome realm, where they will be always welcome.
In the volumes, _Mother-of-Pearl_ (_L’Etui de Nacre_) and _St. Clara’s
Well_ (_Le Puits de Sainte-Claire_), we find our author’s best
short-story work.
As has been noted in previous introductory papers of this series,
there is a marked tendency among French writers of little fictions
to affect the sketch form, and in this field they have wrought with
great delicacy and spirit. It is hardly to be expected of a writer
whose novels give so much play to epigram, philosophy, dialogue, and
witty comment, that he should seek to tell his shorter stories with the
compression of a Maupassant and the plot-structure of a Mérimée. But
other qualities of the first-rate story-teller he does display--his
narration is lively and witty, and his climaxes are satisfying.
Only two of his short-stories can be given attention in this limited
space, both found in the first-named volume, and one of them reproduced
here in translation.
“The Procurator of Judea” tells in the author’s leisurely, pellucid
style how L. Ælius Lamia, after eighteen years of exile by Tiberius
Cæsar, returns to Rome. During his years of sojourn in Asia, here and
there, he has met Pontius Pilate. Now they meet again, and the physical
bulk of the story is taken up by their reminiscences. Just when that
seems to be all, they fall to discussing the charms of Judæan women,
when Lamia recalls with especial warmth a dancing girl.
“‘Some months after,’” he goes on, “‘I lost sight of her. I learned by
chance that she had attached herself to a small company of men and
women who were followers of a young Galilean thaumaturgist. His name
was Jesus; he came from Nazareth, and he was crucified for some crime,
I don’t know what. Pontius, do you remember anything about the man?’
“Pontius Pilate contracted his brows, and his hand rose to his forehead
in the attitude of one who probes the deeps of memory. Then after a
silence of some seconds--
“‘Jesus?’ he murmured. ‘Jesus of Nazareth? I cannot call him to mind.’”
This dramatic episode, which exists only for its climax, is no more
poignant than the pathos of that simple-hearted juggler-monk who
imitated the Widow, in that he gave all that he had.
JUGGLER TO OUR-LADY
(_LE JONGLEUR DE NOTRE-DAME_)
By Anatole France
_Done into English by the Editor_
I.
In the time of King Louis, there lived in France a poor juggler, native
of Compiègne, named Barnabas, who went among the villages doing feats
of strength and skill. On market days he would spread out on the public
square an old carpet very much worn, and, after having attracted the
children and the gazing bumpkins by some suitable pleasantries which he
had adopted from an old juggler and which he never changed at all, he
would assume grotesque attitudes and balance a plate on his nose.
The crowd at first looked at him with indifference. But when, standing
on his hands with his head downward, he tossed in the air six copper
balls which glittered in the sun, and caught them again with his feet;
or when, by bending backward until his neck touched his heels, he gave
his body the form of a perfect wheel, and in that posture juggled with
twelve knives, a murmur of admiration rose from the onlookers, and
pieces of money rained upon the carpet.
However, like the majority of those who live by their talents, Barnabas
of Compiègne had much difficulty in living. Earning his bread by
the sweat of his brow, he bore more than his part of the miseries
connected with the fall of Adam, our father. Moreover, he was unable
to work as much as he would have wished. In order to show off his fine
accomplishment, he needed the warmth of the sun and the light of day,
just as do the trees in order to produce their blossoms and fruits.
In winter he was nothing more than a tree despoiled of its foliage
and to appearance dead. The frozen earth was hard for the juggler.
And, like the grasshopper of which Marie of France tells, he suffered
from cold and from hunger in the bad season. But, since he possessed a
simple heart, he bore his ills in patience.
He had never reflected upon the origin of riches, nor upon the
inequality of human conditions. He believed firmly that, if this world
is evil, the other cannot fail to be good, and this hope sustained him.
He did not imitate the thieving mountebanks and miscreants who have
sold their souls to the devil. He never blasphemed the name of God; he
lived honestly, and, although he had no wife, he did not covet his
neighbor’s, for woman is the enemy of strong men, as appears from the
history of Samson, which is reported in the Scriptures.
In truth, he had not a spirit which turned to carnal desires, and it
would have cost him more to renounce the jugs than the women. For,
although without failing in sobriety, he loved to drink when it was
warm. He was a good man, fearing God and very devout toward the Holy
Virgin. He never failed, when he entered a church, to kneel before the
image of the Mother of God and address to her this prayer:
“Madame, take care of my life until it may please God that I die, and
when I am dead, cause me to have the joys of paradise.”
II.
Well, then, on a certain evening after a day of rain, while he was
walking, sad and bent, carrying under his arm his balls and knives
wrapped up in his old carpet, and seeking for some barn in which he
might lie down supperless, he saw on the road a monk who was travelling
the same way, and saluted him decorously. As they were walking at an
equal pace, they began to exchange remarks.
“Comrade,” said the monk, “how comes it that you are habited all in
green? Is it not for the purpose of taking the character of a fool in
some mystery-play?”
“Not for that purpose, father,” responded Barnabas. “Such as you see
me, I am named Barnabas, and I am by calling a juggler. It would be the
most beautiful occupation in the world if one could eat every day.”
“Friend Barnabas,” replied the monk, “take care what you say. There
is no more beautiful calling than the monastic state. Therein one
celebrates the praises of God, the Virgin, and the saints, and the life
of a monk is a perpetual canticle to the Lord.”
Barnabas answered:
“Father, I confess that I have spoken like an ignoramus. Your calling
may not be compared with mine, and, although there is some merit in
dancing while holding on the tip of the nose a coin balanced on a
stick, this merit does not approach yours. I should like very well to
sing every day, as you do, Father, the office of the most Holy Virgin,
to whom I have vowed a particular devotion. I would right willingly
renounce my calling, in which I am known from Soissons to Beauvais,
in more than six hundred towns and villages, in order to embrace the
monastic life.”
The monk was touched by the simplicity of the juggler, and, as he did
not lack discernment, he recognized in Barnabas one of those men of
good purpose whereof our Lord said: “Let peace abide with them on
earth!” This is why he replied to him:
“Friend Barnabas, come with me, and I will enable you to enter the
monastery of which I am the prior. He who conducted Mary the Egyptian
through the desert has placed me on your path to lead you in the way of
salvation.”
This is how Barnabas became a monk.
In the monastery where he was received, the brethren emulously
solemnized the cult of the Holy Virgin, and each one employed in her
service all the knowledge and all the ability which God had given him.
The prior, for his part, composed books which, according to the rules
of scholasticism, treated of the virtues of the Mother of God.
Friar Maurice with a learned hand copied these dissertations on leaves
of vellum.
Friar Alexander painted fine miniatures, wherein one could see the
Queen of Heaven seated upon the throne of Solomon, at the foot of
which four lions kept vigil. Around her haloed head fluttered seven
doves, which are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: gifts of fear,
piety, science, might, counsel, intelligence, and wisdom. She had for
companions six golden-haired Virgins: Humility, Prudence, Retirement,
Respect, Virginity, and Obedience. At her feet two small figures, nude
and quite white, were standing in a suppliant attitude. They were souls
who implored her all-powerful intercession for their salvation--and
certainly not in vain.
On another page Friar Alexander represented Eve gazing upon Mary, so
that thus one might see at the same time the sin and the redemption,
the woman humiliated and the Virgin exalted. Furthermore, in this book
one might admire the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the Lily,
the Moon, the Sun, and the closed Garden which is spoken of in the
Canticle, the Gate of Heaven and the Seat of God, and there were also
several images of the Virgin.
Friar Marbode was, similarly, one of the most affectionate children of
Mary. He carved images in stone without ceasing, so that his beard,
his eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes were
perpetually swollen and tearful; but he was full of strength and joy in
his advanced age, and, visibly, the Queen of Paradise protected the old
age of her child. Marbode represented her seated on a bishop’s throne,
her brow encircled by a nimbus whose orb was of pearls, and he took
pains that the folds of her robe should cover the feet of one of whom
the prophet said: “My beloved is like a closed garden.”
At times, also, he gave her the features of a child full of grace, and
she seemed to say: “Lord, thou art my Lord!”--“_Dixi de ventre matris
meæ: Deus meus es tu._” (Psalm 21, 11.)
They had also in the monastery several poets, who composed, in Latin,
both prose and hymns in honor of the most happy Virgin Mary, and there
was even found one Picardian who set forth the miracles of Our-Lady in
ordinary language and in rhymed verses.
III.
Seeing such a concourse of praises and such a beautiful in-gathering of
works, Barnabas lamented to himself his ignorance and his simplicity.
“Alas!” he sighed as he walked along in the little garden of the
convent, “I am very unfortunate not to be able, like my brothers, to
praise worthily the Holy Mother of God to whom I have pledged the
tenderness of my heart. Alas! Alas! I am a rude and artless man, and I
have for your service, Madam the Virgin, neither edifying sermons, nor
tracts properly divided according to the rules, nor fine paintings, nor
statues exactly sculptured, nor verses counted by feet and marching in
measure. I have nothing, alas!”
He moaned in this manner and abandoned himself to sadness.
One night that the monks were recreating by conversing, he heard one
of them relate the history of a religious who did not know how to
recite anything but the _Ave Maria_. This monk was disdained for his
ignorance; but, having died, there came forth from his lips five roses
in honor of the five letters in the name of _Maria_, and his sanctity
was thus manifested.
While listening to this recital Barnabas admired once again the bounty
of the Virgin; but he was not consoled by the example of that happy
death, for his heart was full of zeal, and he desired to serve the
glory of his Lady who was in Heaven. He sought the means without being
able to find them, and every day he grieved the more.
One morning, however, having awakened full of joy, he ran to the chapel
and stayed there alone for more than an hour. He returned there after
dinner. And beginning from that moment he went every day into the
chapel at the hour when it was deserted, and there he passed a large
part of the time which the other monks consecrated to the liberal and
the mechanical arts. No more was he sad and no longer did he complain.
A conduct so singular aroused the curiosity of the monks. They asked
themselves in the community why Friar Barnabas made his retreats so
frequent.
The Prior, whose duty it is to ignore nothing in the conduct of his
monks, resolved to observe Barnabas during his solitudes. One day
that he was closeted in the chapel as his custom was, Dom Prior went,
accompanied by two elders of the monastery, to observe through the
windows of the door what was going on in the interior.
They saw Barnabas, who--before the altar of the Holy Virgin, head
downward, feet in air--was juggling with six brass balls and twelve
knives. He was doing in honor of the Holy Mother of God the feats which
had brought to him the most applause. Not comprehending that this
simple man was thus placing his talent and his knowledge at the service
of the Holy Virgin, the two elders cried out at the sacrilege.
The Prior understood that Barnabas had an innocent heart; but he
thought that he had fallen into dementia. All three were preparing
to drag him vigorously from the chapel when they saw the Holy Virgin
descend the steps of the altar in order to wipe with a fold of her blue
mantle the sweat which burst from the brow of her juggler.
Then the Prior, prostrating his face against the marble slabs, recited
these words:
“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!”
“Amen,” responded the elders as they kissed the earth.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT-STORIES MASTERPIECES, VOL. 2 ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
