EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste Restante (Rouen).
Richeport, July 23d 18—.
I am mad with rage, wild with grief! That Louise! I do not know what keeps me from setting fire to the house that conceals her! I must go away; I shall commit some insane act, some crime, if I remain! I have written her letter after letter; I have tried in every way to see her; all my efforts unavailing! It is like beating your head against a wall! Coquette and prude!—appalling combination, too common a monstrosity, alas!
She will not see me! all is over! nothing can overcome her stupid, obstinacy which she takes for virtue. If I could only have spoken to her once, I should have said—I don't know what, but I should have found words to make her return to me. But she entrenches herself behind her obstinacy; she knows that I would vanquish her; she has no good arguments with which to answer me; for I love her madly, desperately, frantically! Passion is eloquent. She flies from me! O perfidy and cowardice! she dare not face the misery she has caused, and veils her eyes when she strikes!
I am going to America. I will dull my mental grief by physical exhaustion; I will subdue the soul through the body; I will ascend the giant rivers whose bosoms bloom with thousands of islands; penetrate into the virgin forests where no trapper has yet set his foot; I will hunt the buffalo with the savage, and swim upon that ocean of shaggy heads and sharp horns; I will gallop at full speed over the prairie, pursued by the smoke of the burning grass. If the memory of Louise refuses to leave me, I will stop my horse and await the flames! I will carry my love so far away that it must perforce leave me.
I feel it, my life is wrecked for ever!—I cannot live in a world where Louise is not mine! Perhaps the young universe may contain a panacea for my anguish! Solitude shall pour its balm in my wound; once away from this civilization which stifles me, nature will cradle me in her motherly arms; the elements will resume their empire over me; ocean, sky, flowers, foliage will draw off the feverish electricity that excites my nerves; I will become absorbed in the grand whole, I will no longer live; I will vegetate and succeed in attaining the content of the plant that opens its leaves to the sun. I feel that I must stop my brain, suspend the beating of my heart, or I shall go raving mad.
I shall sail from Havre. A year from now write to me at the English fort in the Rocky Mountains, and I will join you in whatever corner of the globe you have gone to bury your despair over the loss of Irene de Chateaudun!
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to
MADAME GUERIN,
Pont-de-l'Arche (Eure).
RICHEPORT, July 23d 18—.
Louise, I write to you, although the resolution that I have taken should, no doubt, he silently carried out; but the swimmer struggling with the waves in mid-ocean cannot help, although he knows it is useless, uttering a last wild cry ere he sinks forever beneath the flood. Perhaps a sail may appear on the desert horizon and his last despairing shout be heard! It is so hard to believe ourselves finally condemned and to renounce all hope of pardon! My letter will be of no avail, and yet I cannot help sending it.
I am going to leave France, change worlds and skies. My passage is taken for America. The murmur of ocean and forest must soothe my despair. A great sorrow requires immensity. I would suffocate here. I should expect, at every turn, to see your white dress gleaming among the trees. Richeport is too much associated with you for me to dwell here longer; your memory has exiled me from it for ever. I must put a huge impossibility between myself and you; six thousand miles hardly suffice to separate us.
If I remained, I should resort to all manner of mad schemes to recover my happiness; no one gives up his cherished dream with more reluctance than I, especially when a word could make it a reality.
Louise, Louise, why do you avoid me and close your heart against me! You have not understood, perhaps, how much I love you? Has not my devotion shone in my eyes? I have not been able, perhaps, to convey to you what I felt? You have no more comprehended my adoration than the insensate idol the prayers of the faithful prostrated before it.
Nevertheless, I was convinced that I could make you happy; I thought that I appreciated the longings of your soul, and would be able to satisfy them all.
What crime have I committed against heaven to be punished with this biting despair? Perhaps I have failed to appreciate some sincere affection, repulsed unwittingly some simple, tender heart that your coldness now avenges; perhaps you are, unconsciously, the Nemesis of some forgotten fault.
How fearful it is to suffer from rejected love! To say to oneself: "The loved one exists, far from me, without me; she is young, smiling, lovely—to others; my despair is only an annoyance to her, I am necessary to her in nothing; my absence leaves no void in her life; my death would only provoke from her an expression of careless pity; my good and noble qualities have made no impression upon her; my verses, the delight of other young hearts, she has never read; my talents are as destructive to me as if they were crimes; why seek a hell in another world; is it not here?"
And besides, what infinite tenderness, what perpetual care, what timid and loving persistence, what obedience to every unexpressed wish, what prompt realization of even the slightest fancy! for what! for a careless glance, a smile that the thought of another brings to her lips! How can it be helped! he who is not beloved is always in the wrong.
I go away, carrying the iron in my wound; I will not drag it out, I prefer to die with it. May you live happy, may the fearful suffering that you have caused me never be expiated. I would have it so; society punishes murder of the body, heaven punishes murders of the soul. May your hidden assassination escape Divine vengeance as long as possible.
Farewell, Louise, farewell.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN.
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN
to
MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).
PARIS, July 27th 18—.
Valentine, I am very uneasy. Why have I not heard from you for a month? Are you in any trouble? Is one of your dear children ill? Are you no longer at Grenoble? Have you taken your trip without me? The last would be the most acceptable reason for your silence. You have not received my letters, and ignorance of my sorrows accounts for your not writing to console me. Yet never have I been in greater need of the offices of friendship. The resolution I have just taken fills me with alarm. I acted against my judgment, but I could not do otherwise. I was influenced by an agonized mother, whose hallowed grief persuaded me against my will to espouse her interests. Why have I not a friend here to interpose in my behalf and save me from myself? But, after all, does it make any difference what becomes of me? Hope is dead within me. I no longer dream of happiness. At last the sad mystery is explained.... M. de Villiers is not free; he is engaged to his cousin.... Oh, he does not love her, I am sure, but he is a slave to his plighted troth, and of course she loves him and will not release him ... Can he, for a stranger, sacrifice family ties and a love dating from his childhood? Ah! if he really loved me, he would have had the courage to make this sacrifice; but he only felt a tender sympathy for me, lively enough to fill him with everlasting regret, not strong enough to inspire him with a painful resolution. Thus two beings created for each other meet for a moment, recognise one another, and then, unwillingly, separate, carrying in their different paths of life a burden of eternal regrets! And they languish apart in their separate spheres, unhappy and attached to nothing but the memory of the past—made wretched for life by the accidents of a day!
They are as the passengers of different ships, meeting for an hour in the same port, who hastily exchange a few words of sympathy, then pass away to other latitudes, under other skies—some to the North, others to the South, to the land of ice—to the cradle of the sun—far, far away from each other, to die. Is it then true that I shall never see him again? Oh, my God! how I loved him! I can never forgive him for not accepting this love that I was ready to lavish upon him.
I will now tell you what I have resolved to do. If I waver a moment I shall not have the courage to keep my promise. Madame de Meilhan is coming after me; I could not, after causing her such sorrow, resist the tears of this unhappy mother. She was in despair; her son had suddenly left her, and in spite of the secrecy of his movements, she discovered that he was at Havre and had taken passage there for America, on the steamer Ontario. She hoped to reach Havre in time to see her son, and she relied upon me to bring him home. I am distressed at causing her so much uneasiness, but what can I say to console her? I will at best be generous; Edgar's sorrow is like my own; as he suffers for me, I suffer for another; I cannot see his anguish, so like my own, without profound pity; this pity will doubtless inspire me with eloquence enough to persuade him to remain in France and not break his mother's heart by desertion. Besides, I have promised, and Madame de Meilhan relies upon me. How beautiful is maternal love! It crushes the loftiest pride, it overthrows with one cry the most ambitious plans; this haughty woman is subjugated by grief; she calls me her daughter; she gladly consents to this marriage which, a short time ago, she said would ruin her son's prospects, and which she looked upon with horror; she weeps, she supplicates. This morning she embraced me with every expression of devotion and cried out: "Give me back my son! Oh, restore to me my son!... You love him, ... he loves you, ... he is handsome, charming, talented.... I shall never see him again if you let him go away; tell him you love him; have you the cruelty to deprive me of my only son?" What could I say? how could I make an idolizing mother understand that I did not love her son?... If I had dared to say, "It is not he that I love, it is another," ... she would have said: "It is false; there is not a man on earth preferable to my son." She wept over the letter that Edgar wrote me before leaving. Valentine, this letter was noble and touching. I could not restrain my own tears when I read it. Finally, I was forced to yield. I am to accompany Madame de Meilhan to Havre; I hope we will reach there before the steamer leaves!... Edgar will not go to America, ... and I!... Oh, why is he the one to love me thus?... She has come for me! Adieu; write to me, my dear Valentine, ... I am so miserable. If you were only here! What will become of me? Adieu!
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN
to
MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel de la Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).
Paris, Aug. 2d 18—.
It is fortunate for me to-day, my dear Valentine, that I have the reputation of being a truthful person, professing a hatred of falsehood, otherwise you would not believe the strange facts that I am about to relate to you. I now expect to reap the fruits of my unvarying sincerity. Having always shown such respect for truth, I deserve to be believed when I assert what appears to be incredible.
What startling events have occurred in a few hours! My destiny has been changed by my peeping through a hole!! Without one word of comment I will state exactly what happened, and you must not accuse me of highly coloring my pictures; they are lively enough in themselves without any assistance from me. Far from adding to their brilliancy, I shall endeavor to tone them down and give them an air of probability. We left Pont de l'Arche the other day with sad and anxious hearts; during the journey Mad. de Meilhan, as if doubting the strength of my resolution and the ardor of my devotion, dilated enthusiastically upon the merits of her son. She boasted of his generosity, of his disinterestedness and sincerity; she mentioned the names of several wealthy young ladies whom he had refused to marry during the last two or three years. She spoke of his great success as a poet and a brilliant man. She impressed upon me that a noble love could exercise such a happy influence upon his genius, and said it was in my power to make him a good and happy man for life, by accepting this love, which she described to me in such touching language, that I felt moved and impressed, if not with love, at least with tender appreciation. She said Edgar had never loved any one as he had loved me—this passion had changed all his ideas—he lived for me alone. To indure him to listen to any one it was necessary to bring my name in the conversation so as to secure his ear; he spent his days and nights composing poems in my honor. He should have returned to Paris in response to the beautiful Marquise de R.'s sighs and smiles, but he never had the courage to leave me; for me he had pitilessly sacrificed this woman, who was lovely, witty and the reigning belle of Paris. She mournfully told me of the wild foolish things he would do upon his return to Richeport, after having made fruitless attempts to see me at Pont de l'Arche; his cruelty to his favorite horse, his violence against the flowers along the path, that he would cut to pieces with his whip; his sullen, mute despair; his extravagant talk to her; her own uneasiness; her useless prayers; and finally this fatal departure that she had vainly endeavored to prevent. She saw that I was affected by what she said, she seized my hand and called down blessing's upon me, thanking me a thousand times passionately and imperiously, as if to compel me to accede to her wishes.
I sorrowfully reflected upon all this trouble that I had caused, and was frightened at the conviction that I had by a few engaging smiles and a little harmless coquetry inspired so violent a passion. Thinking thus, I did justice to Edgar, and acknowledged that some reparation was due to him. He must have taken all these deceptive smiles to himself; when I first arrived at Pont de l'Arche, I had no scruples about being attractive, I expected to leave in a few days never to return again. Since then I had without pity refused his love, it is true; but could he believe this proud disdain to be genuine, when, after this decisive explanation, he found me tranquilly established at his mother's house? And there could he follow the different caprices of my mind, divine those temptations of generosity which first moved me in his favor, and then discover this wild love that was suddenly born in my soul for a phantom that I had only seen for a few hours?.... Had he not, on the contrary, a right to believe that I loved him, and to exclaim against the infamy, cruelty and perfidy of my refusing to see him, and my endeavors to convince him that I cared nothing for him? He was right to accuse me, for appearances were all against me—my own conduct condemned me. I must acknowledge myself culpable, and submit to the sentence that has been pronounced against me. I resigned myself sadly to repair the wrong I had committed. One hope still remained to me: Edgar brought back by me would be restored to his mother, but Edgar would cease to love me when he knew my real name. There is a difference between loving an adventuress, whose affections can be trifled with, and loving a woman of high birth and position, who must be honorably sought in marriage. Edgar has an invincible repugnance to matrimony; he considers this august institution as a monstrous inconvenience, very immoral, a profane revelation of the most sacred secrets of life; he calls it a public exhibition of affection; he says no one has a right to proclaim his preference for one woman. To call a woman: my wife! what revolting indiscretion! To call children: my children! what disgusting fatuity! In his eyes nothing is more horrible than a husband driving in the Champs Elysées with his family, which is tantamount to telling the passers-by: This woman seated by my side is the one I have chosen among all women, and to whom I am indebted for all pleasure in life; and this little girl who resembles her so much, and this little boy, the image of me, are the bonds of love between us. The Orientals, he added, whom we call barbarians, are more modest than we; they shut up their wives; they never appear in public with them, they never let any one see the objects of their tenderness, and they introduce young men of twenty, not as their sons, but as the heirs of their names and fortunes.
Recalling these remarkable sentiments of M. de Meilhan, I said to myself: he will never marry. But Mad. de Meilhan, who was aware of her son's peculiar thoeries, assured me that they were very much modified, and that one day in speaking of me, he had angrily exclaimed: "Oh! I wish I were her husband, so I could shut her up, and prevent any one seeing her!" Now I understand why a man marries! This was not very reassuring, but I devoted myself like a victim, and for a victim there is no half sacrifice. Generosity, like cruelty, is absolute.
After a night of anxious travel, we reached Havre at about ten in the morning. We drove rapidly to the office of the American steamers. Madame de Meilhan rushed frantically about until she found the sleepy clerk, who told her that M. de Meilhan had taken passage on theOntario.
"When does this vessel leave?"
"I cannot tell you," said the gaping clerk.
We ran to the pier and tremblingly asked: "Can you tell us if the American vesselOntariosails to-day?"
The old sailor replied to us in nautical language which we could not understand. Another man said: "TheOntariois pretty far out by this time!" We ran to the other end of the pier and found a crowd of people watching a cloud that was gradually disappearing in the distance. "I see nothing now," said one of the people. But I saw a little ... little smoke ... and I could distinctly see a flag with a large O on it.... Madame de Meilhan, pale and breathless, had not the strength to ask the name of the fatal vessel that was almost out of sight ... I could only gasp out the word "Ontario?"...
"Precisely so, madame, but don't be uneasy ... it is a fast vessel, and your friends will land in America before two weeks are passed. You look astonished, but it is the truth, theOntariois never behind time!" Madame de Meilhan fell fainting in my arms. She was lifted to our carriage and soon restored to consciousness, but was so overcome that she seemed incapable of comprehending the extent of her misfortune. We drove to the nearest hotel, and I remained in her room silently weeping and reproaching myself for having destroyed the happiness of this family.
During these first moments of stupor Madame de Meilhan showed no indignation at my presence; but no sooner had she recovered the use of her senses than she burst into a storm of abuse; calling me a detestable intriguer, a low adventuress who, by my stage tricks, had turned the head of her noble son; I would be the cause of his death—that fatal country would never give back her son; what a pity to see so superior a man, a pride and credit to his country, perish, succumb, to the snares of an obscure prude, who had not the sense to be his mistress, who was incapable of loving him for a single day; an ambitious schemer, who had determined to entrap him into marriage, but unhesitatingly sacrificed him to M. de Villiers as soon as she found M. de Villiers was the richer of the two, ... and many other flattering accusations she made, that were equally ill-deserved. I quietly listened to all this abuse, and went on preparing a glass ofeau sucréefor the poor weeping fury, whose conduct inspired me with generous pity. When she had finished her tirade, I silently handed her the orange water to calm her anger, and I looked at her ... my look expressed such firm gentle pride, such generous indulgence, such invulnerable dignity, that she felt herself completely disarmed. She took my hand and said, as she dried her tears: "You must forgive me, I amsounhappy!" Then I tried to console her; I told her I would write to her son, and she would soon have him back, as my letter would reach New York by the time he landed, and then it would only take him two weeks to return. This promise calmed her; then I persuaded her to lie down and recover from the fatigue of travelling all night. When I saw her poor swollen eyelids fairly closed, I left her to enjoy her slumbers and retired to my own room. I rested awhile and then rang to order preparations for our departure; but instead of the servant answering the bell, a pretty little girl, about eight years old, entered my room; upon seeing me she drew back frightened.
"What do you want, my child?" I said, drawing her within the door.
"Nothing, madame," she said.
"But you must have come here for something?"
"I did not know that madame was in her room."
"What did you come to do in here?"
"I came, as I did yesterday, to see."
"To see what?"
"In there ... the Turks ..."
"The Turks? What! am I surrounded by Turks?"
"Oh! they are not in the little room adjoining yours; but through this little room you can look into the large saloon where they all stay and have music ... will madame permit me to pass through?"
"Which way?"
"This way. There is a little door behind this toilet-table; I open it, go in, get up on the table and look at the Turks."
The child rolled aside the toilet-table, entered the little room, and in a few minutes came running back to me and exclaimed:
"Oh! they are so beautiful! does not madame wish to see them?"
"No."
In a short time she returned again.
"The musicians are all asleep," she said ... "but, madame, the Turks are crazy—they don't sleep—they don't speak—they make horrible faces—they roll their eyes—they have such funny ways—one of them looks like my uncle when he has the fever—Oh! that one must be crazy, madame— ... look, he is going to dance! now he is going to die!"
The absurd prattle of the child finally aroused my curiosity. I went into the little room, and, mounting the table beside her, looked through a crevice in the wooden partition and clearly saw everything in the large saloon. It was hung up to a certain height with rich Turkish stuffs. The floor was covered by a superb Smyrna carpet. In one recess of the room the musicians were sleeping with their bizarre musical instruments tightly clasped in their arms. A dozen Turks, magnificently dressed, were seated on the soft carpet in Oriental fashion, that is to say, after the manner of tailors. They were supported by piles of cushions of all sizes and shapes, and seemed to be plunged in ecstatic oblivion.
One of these dreamy sons of Aurora attracted my attention by his brilliant costume and flashing arms. By the pale light of the exhausted lamps and the faint rays of dawning day, almost obscured by the heavy drapery of the windows, I could scarcely distinguish the features of this splendid Mussulman, at the same time I thought I had seen him before. I had seen but few pachas during my life, but I certainly had met this one somewhere, I looked attentively and saw that his hands were whiter than those of his compatriots—this was a suspicious fact. After closely watching this doubtful infidel, this amateur barbarian, I began to suspect civilization and Europeanism.... One of the musicians asleep near the window, turned over and his long guitar—aguzla, I think it is called—caught in the curtain and drew it a little open; the sunlight streamed in the room and an accusing ray fell upon the face of the spurious young Turk.... It was Edgar de Meilhan! A little cup filled with a greenish conserve rested on a cushion near by. I remembered that he had often spoken to me of the wonderful effects of hashish, and of the violent desire he had of experiencing this fascinating stupefaction; he had also told me of one of his college friends who had been living in Smyrna for some years; an original, who had taken upon himself the mission of re-barbarizing the East. This friend had sent him a number of Indian poinards and Turkish pipes, and had promised him some tobacco and hashish. This modern and amateur Turk was named Arthur Granson.... I asked the innkeeper's little daughter if she knew the name of the man who had hired the saloon? She said yes, that he was named Monsieur Granson.... This name and this meeting explained everything.
O Valentine! I will be sincere to the end, ... and confess that Edgar was wonderfully handsome in this costume!... the magnificent oriental stuff, the Turkish vest, embroidered in gold and silver, the yatagans, pistols and poinards studded with jewels, the turban draped with inimitable art—all these things gave him a majestic, superb, imposing aspect!... which at first astonished me, ... for we are all children when we first see beautiful objects, ... but he had a stupid look.... No, never did a sultan of the opera, throwing his handkerchief to his bayadère ... a German prince of the gymnasium complimented by his court—a provincial Bajazet listening to the threatening declarations of Roxana—never did they display in the awkwardness of their rôles, in the stiffness of their movements, an attitude more absurdly ridiculous, an expression of countenance more ideally stupid. It is difficult to comprehend how a brilliant mind could so completely absent itself from its dwelling-place without leaving on the face it was wont to animate, a single trace, a faint ray of intelligence! Edgar had his eyes raised to the ceiling, ... and for an instant I think I caught his look, ... but Heavens! what a look! May I never meet such another! I shall add one more incident to my recital—important in itself but distasteful to me to relate—I will tell it in as few words as possible: Edgar was leaning on two piles of cushions; he seemed to be absorbed in the contemplation of invisible stars; he was awake, but a beautiful African slave, dressed like an Indian queen, was sleeping at his feet!
This strange spectacle filled my heart with joy. Instead of being indignant, I was delighted at this insult to myself. Edgar evidently forgot me, and truly he had a right to forget me; I was not engaged to him as I had been to Roger. A young poet has a right to dress like a Turk, and amuse himself with his friends, to suit his own fancy; but a noble prince has no right to scandalize the public when the dignity of his rank has to be striven after and recovered; when the glory of his name is to be kept untarnished. Oh! this disgusting sight gave rise to no angry feeling in my bosom, I at once comprehended the advantages of the situation. No more sacrifice, no more remorse, no more hypocrisy! I was free; my future was restored to me. Oh, the good Edgar! Oh, the dear poet! How I loved him ... for not loving me!!
I told the little girl to run quickly and bring me a servant. When the man came I handed him six louis to sharpen his wits, and then solemnly gave him my orders: "When they ring for you in that saloon, do you tell that young Turk with a red vest on ... you will remember him?" "Yes, madame." "You will tell him that the countess his mother is waiting here for him, in room No. 7, at the end of the corridor." "Ah! the lady who was weeping so bitterly?" "The same one." "Madame may rely upon me."
I then paid my bill, and, inquiring the quickest way of leaving Havre, I fled from the hotel. Walking along Grande Rue de Paris, I saw with pleasure that the city was filled with strangers, who had come to take part in the festivities that were taking place at Havre, and that I could easily mingle in this great crowd and leave the town without being observed. Uneasy and agitated, I hurried along, and just as I was passing the theatre I heard some one call me. Imagine my alarm when I distinctly heard some one call: "Mlle. Irene! Mlle. Irene!" I was so frightened that I could scarcely move. The call was repeated, and I saw my faithful Blanchard rushing towards me, breathless and then I recognised the supplicating voice ... I turned around and weeping, she exclaimed: "I know everything, Mlle., you are going to America! Take me with you. This is the first time I have ever been separated from you since your birth!" I had left the poor woman at Pont de l'Arche, and she, thinking I was going to America, had followed me. "Be quiet and follow me," said I, forgetting to tell her that I was not going to America. I reached the wharf and jumped into a boat; the unhappy Blanchard, who is a hydrophobe, followed me. "You are afraid?" said I. "Oh, no, Mlle., I am afraid on the Seine, but at sea it is quite a different thing." The touching delicacy of this ingenious conceit moved me to tears. Wishing to shorten the agony of this devoted friend, I told the oarsman to row us into the nearest port, instead of going further by water, as I had intended, in order to avoid the Rouen route and the Prince, the steamboat and M. de Meilhan. As soon as we landed I sent my faithful companion to the nearest village to hire a carriage, "I must be in Paris, to-morrow," said I. "Then we are not going to America?" "No." "So much the better," said she, as she trotted off in high glee to look for a carriage. I remained alone, gazing at the ocean. Oh! how I enjoyed the sight! How I would love to live on this charming, terrible azure desert! I was so absorbed in admiration that I soon forgot my worldly troubles and the rain tribulations of my obscure life. I was intoxicated by its wild perfume, its free, invigorating air! I breathed for the first time! With what delight I let the sea-breeze blow my hair about my burning brow! How I loved to gaze on its boundless horizon! How much—laugh at my vanity—how much I felt at home in this immensity! I am not one of those modest souls that are oppressed and humiliated by the grandeur of Nature; I only feel in harmony with the sublime, not through myself, but through the aspirations of my mind. I never feel as if there was around me, above me, before me, too much air, too much height, too much space. I like the boundless, luminous horizon to render solitude and liberty invisible to my eyes.
I know not if every one else is impressed as I was upon seeing the ocean for the first time. I felt released from all ties, purified of all hatred, and even of all earthly love; I was freed, calm, strong, armed, ready to brave all the evils of life, like a being who had received from God a right to disdain the world. The ocean and the sky have this good effect upon us—they wean us from worldly pleasures.
Upon reaching Paris, I went at once to your father's to inquire about you, and had my uneasiness about you set at rest. You must have left Geneva by this time; I hope soon to receive a letter from you. I am not staying with my cousin. I am living in my dear little garret. I wish a long time to elapse before I again become Mlle. de Chateaudun. I wish time to recover from the rude shocks I have had. What do you think of my last experience? What a perfect success was my theory of discouragement! Alas! too perfect. First trial: Western despair and champagne! Second trial: Eastern despair and hashisch!—Not to speak of the consolatory accessories, snowy-armed beauties and ebony-armed slaves! I would be very unsophisticated indeed if I did not consider myself sufficiently enlightened. I implore you not to speak to me of your hero whom you wish me to marry; I am determined never to marry. I shall love an image, cherish a star. The little light has returned. I see it shining as I write to you. Yes, these poetic loves are all-sufficient for my wounded soul. One thing disturbs me; they have cut down the large trees in front of my window. To-morrow, perhaps, I shall at last see the being that dwells in this fraternal garret.... Valentine—suppose it should be my long-sought ideal!... I tremble! perhaps a third disenchantment awaits me.... Good-night, my dear Valentine, I embrace you. I am very tired, but very happy ... it is so delightful to be relieved of all uneasiness, to feel that you are not compelled to console any one.
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.
EDGAR DE MEILHAN
to the
PRINCE DE MONBERT,
Poste Restante (Rouen).
PARIS, July 27th 18—.
My dear Roger, at the risk of bringing down upon my head the ridicule merited by men who fire a pistol above their heads after having left on their table the night before the most thrilling adieux to the world, I must confess that I have not gone; you have a perfect right to drive me out of Europe; I promised to go to America, and you can compel me to fulfil my promise; be clement, do not overpower me with ridicule; do not riddle me with the fire of your mocking artillery; my sorrow, even though I remain in the old world, is none the less crushing.
I must tell you how it all happened.
As all my life I have never been able to comprehend the division of time, and it's a toss-up whether I distinguish day from night, I turned my back on the best hotel in Havre, and stopped at one nearest the wharf, from whence I could see the smoke-stacks of the Ontario, about to sail for New York. I was leaning on the balcony, in the melancholy attitude of Raphael's portrait, gazing at the swell of the ocean, with that feeling of infinite sadness which the strongest heart must yield to in the presence of that immensity formed of drops of bitter water, like human tears. I followed, listlessly, with my eyes the movements of a strange group which had just landed from the Portsmouth packet. They were richly-dressed Orientals, followed by negro servants and women enveloped in long veils.
One of these Turks looked up as he passed under my window, saw me, and exclaimed in very correct French, with a decided Parisian accent: "Why, it's Edgar de Meilhan!" and, regardless of Oriental dignity, he dashed into the inn, bounded into my room, rubbed my face against his crisp black beard, punched me in the stomach with the carved hilts of a complete collection of yataghans and kandjars, and finally said, seeing my uncertainty: "Why! don't you know me, your old college chum, your playmate in childhood, Arthur Granson! Does my turban make such a change in me? So much the better! Or are you mean enough to stick to the letter of the proverb which pretends that friends are not Turks? By Allah and his prophet Mahomet, I shall prove to you that Turks are friends."
During this flood of words I had in truth recognised Arthur Granson, a good and odd young fellow, whom I am very fond of, and who would surely please you, for he is the most paradoxical youth to be found in the five divisions of the globe. And, what is very rare, he acts out his paradoxes, a whim which his great independence of character and above all a large fortune permit him to indulge, for gold is liberty; the only slaves are the poor.
"This much is settled, I will install myself here with my living palette of local colors;" and without giving me time to answer him, he left me to give the necessary orders for lodging his suite.
When he returned, I said to him: "What does this strange masquerade mean? The carnival has been over for some time, and will not return immediately, as we are hardly through the summer." "It is not a masquerade," replied Arthur, with a dogmatic coolness and transcendental gravity which at any other time would have made me laugh. "It is a complete system, which I shall unfold to you."
Whereupon my friend, taking off his Turkish slippers, crossed his legs on the divan in the approved classic attitude of the Osmanli, and running his fingers through his beard, spoke as follows:
"During my travels I have observed that no people appreciate the peculiar beauties of the country they inhabit. No one admires his own physiognomy; every one would like to resemble some one else. Spaniards and Turks make endless excuses for being handsome and picturesque. The Andalusian apologizes to you for not wearing a coat and round hat. The Arnaout, whose costume is the most gorgeous and elegant that has ever been worn by the human form divine, sighs as he gazes at your overcoat, and consults with himself upon the advisability of shooting you to get possession of it, in the first mountain gorge where he may meet you alone or poorly attended. Civilization is the natural enemy of beauty. All its creations are ugly. Barbarism—or rather relative barbarism—has found the secret of form and color. Man living so near to Nature imitates her harmony, and finds the types of his garments and his utensils in his surroundings. Mathematics have not yet developed their straight lines, dry angles and painful aridity. Now-a-days, picturesque traditions are lost, the long pantaloon has invaded the universe; frightful fashion-plates circulate everywhere; now, I refuse to believe that man's taste has become perverted to such a degree that if he were shown costumes combining elegance with richness, he would not prefer them to hideous modern rags. Having made these judicious and profound reflections, I felt as if I had been enlightened from above, and the secret of my earthly mission revealed to me; I had come into the world to preach costume, and, as you see, I preach it by example. Reflecting that Turkey is the country most menaced by the overcoat and stove-pipe hat, I went to Constantinople to bring about a reaction in favor of the embroidered vest and the turban. My grave studies upon the subject, my fortune and my taste have enabled me to attain thene plus ultraof style.
"I doubt whether a Sultan ever possessed so splendid or so characteristic a wardrobe. I discovered among the bazaars of the cities least infected by the modern spirit, some tailors with a profound contempt for Frank fashions, who, with their tremulous hands, performed marvels of cutting and embroidery. I will show you caftans braided in a miserable little out-of-the-way village of Asia Minor, by some poor devils whom you would not trust with your dog, which surpass, in intricacy of design, the purest arabesques of the Alhambra, and in color, the most gorgeous peacock tails of Eugene Delacroix or Narciso Ruy Diaz de la Pena, a great painter, who out of commiseration for the commonalty only makes use of a quarter of his name.
"I am happy to say that my apostleship has not been without fruit. I have brought back to the dolman more than one young Osmanli about to rig himself out at Buisson's; I have saved more than one horse of the Nedji race from the insult of an English saddle; more than one tipsy Turk addicted to champagne has returned to opium at my suggestion. Some Georgians who were about to be admitted to the balls of the European embassies are indebted to me for being shut up closer than ever. I impressed upon these degenerate Orientals the disastrous results of such a breach of propriety. I persuaded the Sultan Abdul Medjid to give up the idea of introducing the guillotine into his empire. Without flattering myself, I think I have done a great deal of good, and if there were only a few more gay fellows like myself we should prevent people from making guys of themselves—And what are you doing, my dear Edgar?" "I am going to America, and I am waiting for the Ontario to get up steam," "That's a good idea! You can become a savage and resuscitate the last Mohican of Fenimore Cooper. I already see you, with a blue turtle on your breast, eagle's feathers in your scalp, and moccasins worked with porcupine quills. You will be very handsome; with your sad air you will look as if you were weeping over your dead race. If I had not been away for four years, I would accompany you, but I was in such a hurry to put my affairs in order, that I have returned to France by way of England, in order to avoid the quarantine. I will admit you to my religion; you shall become my disciple; I preserve barbaric costumes, you shall preserve savage costumes. It is not so handsome, but it is more characteristic. There were some Indians on our steamer; I studied them; they are the people to suit you. But, before your departure, we will indulge in an Eastern orgie in the purest style." "My dear Granson, I am not in a humor to take part in an orgie, even though it be an Eastern orgie; I am desperately sad." "Very well; I see that you are; some heart sorrow; you Occidentals are always in a state of torment about some woman; which would never occur if they were all shut up; it is dangerous to let such animals wander about. I am delighted that you are so sad and melancholy. I can now prove to you the superior efficacy of my exhilarating means. I found at Cairo, in the Teriaki Square, opposite the hospital for the insane—wasn't it a profoundly philosophical idea to establish in such a place dealers in happiness?—an old scamp, dry as a papyrus of the time of Amenoteph, shrivelled as the beards of the Pschent of the goddess Isis; this cabalistic druggist possessed the true receipt for the preparation of hashisch; besides, he seemed old enough to have gotten it direct from the Old Man of the Mountain, if he were not himself the Prince of Assassins who lived in the time of Saint Louis; this skeleton in a parchment case furnished me with a quantity of paradise, under the guise of green paste, in little Japanese cups done up in silver wire. I intend to initiate you into these hypercelestial delights. I shall give you a box of happiness, which will make you forget all the false coquettes in the world."
Without listening to my repeated refusals, Granson begged me to call him henceforth Sidi-Mahmoud; had his room spread with Persian rugs, ottomans piled up in every direction, the walls cushioned to lean against, and perfumes scattered about; three or four dusky musicians placed themselves in a convenient recess with taraboucks, rebeks and guzlas—an Ethiopean, naked to the waist, served us the precious drug on a red lacquered waiter.
To accommodate Granson I swallowed several spoonfuls of this greenish confection, which, at first, seemed to be flavored with honey and pistachio. I had dressed myself—for Granson is one of those obstinate idiots that one is compelled to yield to in order to get rid of—in an Anatolian costume of fabulous richness, my friend insisting that when one ascends to Paradise he should not be annoyed by the slope of his sleeves.
In a few moments I felt a slight warmth in my stomach—my body threw off sparks and flared up like a bank-bill in the flame of a candle; I was subject to no law of nature; weight, bulk, opacity had entirely disappeared. I retained my form, but it became transparent; flexible, fluid objects passed through me without inconveniencing me in the least; I could enlarge or decrease myself to suit any place I wished to occupy. I could transport myself at will from one place to another. I was in an impossible world, lighted by a gleam of azure grotto, in the centre of a bouquet of fire-works formed of everchanging sheafs, luminous flowers with gold and silver foliage, and calices of rubies, sapphires and diamonds; fountains of melted moonbeams, throwing their spray over crystal vases, which sang with voices like a harmonica the arias of the greatest singers. A symphony of perfumes followed this first enchantment, which vanished in a shower of spangles at the end of a few seconds; the theme was a faint odor of iris and acacia bloom which pursued, avoided, crossed and embraced each other with delicious ease and grace. If anything in this world can give you an approximative idea of this exquisitely perfumed movement, it is the dance for the piccolos in the Almée of Felicien David.
As the movement increased in sweetness and charm, the two perfumes took the shape of the flowers from which they emanated; two irises and two bunches of acacia bloomed in a marvellously transparent onyx vase; soon the irises scintillated like two blue stars, the acacia flowers dissolved into a golden stream, the onyx vase assumed a female shape, and I recognised the lovely face and graceful form of Louise Guérin, but idealized, passed to the state of Beatrice; I am not certain that there did not rise from her white shoulders a pair of angel's wings—she gazed so sadly and kindly at me that I felt my eyes fill with tears—she seemed to regret being in heaven; from the expression of her face one might have thought that she accused me, and at the same time entreated my forgiveness.
I will not take you through the various windings of this marvellous open-eyed dream; the monotonous harmony of the tarabouck and the rebek faintly reached my ear, and served as rhythm to this wonderful poem, which will, henceforth, make Homer, Virgil, Ariosto and Tasso as wearisome to read as a table of logarithms. All my senses had changed places; I saw music and heard colors; I had new perceptions, as the denizens of a planet superior to ours must have; at will, my body was composed of a ray, a perfume or a sweet savor; I experienced the ecstasy of the angels fused in divine light, for the effect of hashisch bears no resemblance whatever to that of wine and alcohol, by the use of which the people of the North debase and stupefy themselves; its intoxication is purely intellectual.
Little by little order was established in my brain. I began to observe objects around me.
The candles had burned down to the socket; the musicians slept, tenderly embracing their instruments. The handsome negress lay at my feet. I had taken her for a cushion. A pale ray of light appeared on the horizon; it was three o'clock in the morning. All at once a smoke-stack, puffing forth black smoke, crossed the bar; it was theOntarioleaving its moorings.
A confusion of voices was heard in the next room; my mother, having in some way learnt of my projected exile, had broken through Granson's orders to admit no one, and was calling for me.
I was rather mortified at being caught in such an absurd dress; but my mother observed nothing; she had but one thought, that I was about to leave her for ever. I do not remember what she said, such things cannot be written, the endearments she bestowed upon me when I was only five or six years old; finally she wept. I promised to stay and return to Paris. How can you refuse your mother anything when she weeps? Is she not the only woman whom we can never reproach?
After all, as you have said, Paris is the wildest desert; there you are completely alone. Indifferent and unknown people may value sands and swamps.
If my sorrow prove too tenacious, I shall ask my friend Arthur Granson for the address of the old Teriaki, and I shall send to Cairo for some boxes of forgetfulness. We will share them together if you wish. Farewell, dear Roger, I am yours mind and heart,
EDGAR DE MEILHAN.