The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

by Anatole France

  Monte-Allegro, November 30, 1859.

  We were all resting--myself, my guides, and their mules--on a roadfrom Sciacca to Girgenti, at a tavern in the miserable village ofMonte-Allegro, whose inhabitants, consumed by the mal aria, continuallyshiver in the sun. But nevertheless they are Greeks, and their gaietytriumphs over all circumstances. A few gather about the tavern, full ofsmiling curiosity. One good story would have sufficed, had I known howto tell it to them, to make them forget all the woes of life. They hadall a look of intelligence! and their women, although tanned and faded,wore their long black cloaks with much grace.

  Before me I could see old ruins whitened by the sea-wind--ruins aboutwhich no grass ever grows. The dismal melancholy of deserts prevailsover this arid land, whose cracked surface can barely nourish a fewshriveled mimosas, cacti, and dwarf palms. Twenty yards away, along thecourse of a ravine, stones were gleaming whitely like a long line ofscattered bones. They told me that was the bed of a stream.

  I had been fifteen days in Sicily. On coming into the Bay ofPalermo--which opens between the two mighty naked masses of thePelligrino and the Catalfano, and extends inward along the "GoldenConch"--the view inspired me with such admiration that I resolved totravel a little in this island, so ennobled by historic memories, andrendered so beautiful by the outlines of its hills, which reveal theprinciples of Greek art. Old pilgrim though I was, grown hoary inthe Gothic Occident--I dared to venture upon that classic soil; and,securing a guide, I went from Palermo to Trapani, from Trapani toSelinonte, from Selinonte to Sciacca--which I left this morning to go toGirgenti, where I am to find the MS. of Clerk Alexander. The beautifulthings I have seen are still so vivid in my mind that I feel the task ofwriting them would be a useless fatigue. Why spoil my pleasure-tripby collecting notes? Lovers who love truly do not write down theirhappiness.

  Wholly absorbed by the melancholy of the present and the poetry ofthe past, my thoughts people with beautiful shapes, and my eyes evergratified by the pure and harmonious lines of the landscape, I wasresting in the tavern at Monte-Allegro, sipping a glass of heavy, fierywine, when I saw two persons enter the waiting-room, whom, after amoment's hesitation, I recognised as the Prince and Princess Trepof.

  This time I saw the princess in the light--and what a light! He who hasknown that of Sicily can better comprehend the words of Sophocles:"Oh holy light!... Eye of the Golden Day!" Madame Trepof, dressed in abrown-holland and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, appeared to me avery pretty woman of about twenty-eight. Her eyes were luminous as achild's; but her slightly plump chin indicated the age of plenitude.She is, I must confess it, quite an attractive person. She is suppleand changeful; her mood is like water itself--and, thank Heaven! I amno navigator. I thought I discerned in her manner a sort of ill-humour,which I attributed presently, by reason of some observations she utteredat random, to the fact that she had met no brigands upon her route.

  "Such things only happen to us!" she exclaimed, with a gesture ofdiscouragement.

  She called for a glass of iced water, which the landlord presented toher with a gesture that recalled to me those scenes of funeral offeringspainted upon Greek vases.

  I was in no hurry to introduce myself to a lady who had so abruptlydropped my acquaintance in the public square at Naples; but sheperceived me in my corner, and her frown notified me very plainly thatour accidental meeting was disagreeable to her.

  After she had sipper her ice-water for a few moments--whether becauseher whim had suddenly changed, or because my loneliness aroused herpity, I did not know--she walked directly to me.

  "Good-day, Monsieur Bonnard," she said. "How do you do? What strangechance enables us to meet again in this frightful country?"

  "This country is not frightful, Madame," I replied. "Beauty is so greatand so august a quality that centuries of barbarism cannot efface itso completely that adorable vestiges of it will not always remain. Themajesty of the antique Ceres still overshadows these arid valleys; andthat Greek Muse who made Arethusa and Maenalus ring with her divineaccents, still sings for my ears upon the barren mountain and in theplace of the dried-up spring. Yes, Madame, when our globe, no longerinhabited, shall, like the moon, roll a wan corpse through space, thesoil which bears the ruins of Selinonte will still keep the seal ofbeauty in the midst of universal death; and then, then, at leastthere will be no frivolous mouth to blaspheme the grandeur of thesesolitudes."

  I knew well enough that my words were beyond the comprehension of thepretty little empty-head which heard them. But an old fellow like myselfwho has worn out his life over books does not know how to adapt his toneto circumstances. Besides I wished to give Madame Trepof a lesson inpoliteness. She received it with so much submission, and with suchan air of comprehension, that I hastened to add, as good-naturedly aspossible,

  "As to whether the chance which has enabled me to meet you again belucky or unlucky, I cannot decide the question until I am sure that mypresence be not disagreeable to you. You appeared to become weary of mycompany very suddenly at Naples the other day. I can only attribute thatmisfortune to my naturally unpleasant manner--since, on that occasion, Ihad had the honour of meeting you for the first time in my life."

  These words seem to cause her inexplicable joy. She smiled upon me inthe most gracious, mischievous way, and said very earnestly, holding outher hand, which I touched with my lips,

  "Monsieur Bonnard, do not refuse to accept a seat in my carriage. Youcan chat with me on the way about antiquity, and that will amuse me everso much."

  "My dear," exclaimed the prince, "you can do just as you please; butyou ought to remember that one is horribly cramped in that carriage ofyours; and I fear that you are only offering Monsieur Bonnard the chanceof getting a frightful attack of lumbago."

  Madame Trepof simply shook her head by way of explaining that suchconsiderations had no weight with her whatever; then she untied her hat.The darkness of her black curls descended over her eyes, and bathed themin velvety shadow. She remained a little while quite motionless, and herface assumed a surprising expression of reverie. But all of a sudden shedarted at some oranges which the tavern-keeper had brought in a basket,and began to throw them, one by one, into a fold of her dress.

  "These will be nice on the road," she said. "We are going just where youare going--to Girgenti. I must tell you all about it; you know thatmy husband is making a collection of match-boxes. We bought thirteenhundred match-boxes at Marseilles. But we heard there was a factory ofthem at Girgenti. According to what we were told, it is a very smallfactory, and its products--which are very ugly--never go outsidethe city and its suburbs. So we are going to Girgenti just to buymatch-boxes. Dimitri has been a collector of all sorts of things; butthe only kind of collection which can now interest him is a collectionof match-boxes. He has already got five thousand two hundred andfourteen different kinds. Some of them gave us frightful trouble tofind. For instance, we knew that at Naples boxes were once made withthe portraits of Mazzini and Garibaldi on them; and that the police hadseized the plates from which the portraits were printed, and put themanufacturer in gaol. Well, by dint of searching and inquiring for everso long a while, we found one of those boxes at last for sale at onehundred francs, instead of two sous. It was not really too dear atthat price; but we were denounced for buying it. We were taken forconspirators. All our baggage was searched; they could not find the box,because I had hidden it so well; but they found my jewels, and carriedthem off. They have them still. The incident made quite a sensation, andwe were going to get arrested. But the king was displeased about it, andhe ordered them to leave us alone. Up to that time, I used to think itwas very stupid to collect match-boxes; but when I found that there wererisks of losing liberty, and perhaps even life, by doing it, I began tofeel a taste for it. Now I am an absolute fanatic on the subject. Weare going to Sweden next summer to complete our series.... Are we not,Dimitri?"

  I felt--must I confess it?--a thorough sympathy with these intrepidcollectors. No doubt I would rather have fou
nd Monsieur and MadameTrepof engaged in collecting antique marbles or painted vases inSicily. I should have like to have found them interested in the ruinsof Syracuse, or the poetical traditions of the Eryx. But at all events,they were making some sort of a collection--they belonged to the greatconfraternity--and I could not possibly make fun of them without makingfun of myself. Besides, Madame Trepof had spoken of her collectionwith such an odd mingling of irony and enthusiasm that I could not helpfinding the idea a very good one.

  We were getting ready to leave the tavern, when we noticed some peoplecoming downstairs from the upper room, carrying carbines under theirdark cloaks, to me they had the look of thorough bandits; and after theywere gone I told Monsieur Trepof my opinion of them. He answered me,very quietly, that he also thought they were regular bandits; and theguides begged us to apply for an escort of gendarmes, but Madame Trepofbesought us not to do anything of the kind. She declared that we mustnot "spoil her journey."

  Then, turning her persuasive eyes upon me, she asked,

  "Do you not believe, Monsieur Bonnard, that there is nothing in lifeworth having except sensations?"

  "Why, certainly, Madame," I answered; "but then we must take intoconsideration the nature of the sensations themselves. Those which anoble memory or a grand spectacle creates within us certainly representwhat is best in human life; but those merely resulting from the menaceof danger seem to me sensations which one should be very careful toavoid as much as possible. For example, would you think it a verypleasant thing, Madame, while travelling over the mountains at midnight,to find the muzzle of a carbine suddenly pressed against your forehead?"

  "Oh, no!" she replied; "the comic-operas have made carbines absolutelyridiculous, and it would be a great misfortune to any young woman tofind herself in danger from an absurd weapon. But it would be quitedifferent with a knife--a very cold and very bright knife blade, whichmakes a cold shudder go right through one's heart."

  She shuddered even as she spoke; closed her eyes, and threw her headback. Then she resumed:

  "People like you are so happy! You can interest yourselves in all sortsof things!"

  She gave a sidelong look at her husband, who was talking with theinnkeeper. Then she leaned towards me, and murmured very low:

  "You see, Dimitri and I, we are both suffering from ennui! We havestill the match-boxes. But at last one gets tired even of match-boxes.Besides, our collection will soon be complete. And then what are wegoing to do?"

  "Oh, Madame!" I exclaimed, touched by the moral unhappiness of thispretty person, "if you only had a son, then you would know what to do.You would then learn the purpose of your life, and your thoughts wouldbecome at once more serious and yet more cheerful."

  "But I have a son," she replied. "He is a big boy; he is eleven yearsold, and he suffers from ennui like the rest of us. Yes, my George hasennui, too; he is tired of everything. It is very wretched."

  She glanced again towards her husband, who was superintending theharnessing of the mules on the road outside--testing the condition ofgirths and straps. Then she asked me whether there had been many changeson the Quai Malaquais during the past ten years. She declared she nevervisited that neighbourhood because it was too far way.

  "Too far from Monte Allegro?" I queried.

  "Why, no!" she replied. "Too far from the Avenue des Champs Elysees,where we live."

  And she murmured over again, as if talking to herself, "Too far!--toofar!" in a tone of reverie which I could not possibly account for. Allat once she smiled again, and said to me,

  "I like you, Monsieur Bonnard!--I like you very, very much!"

  The mules had been harnessed. The young woman hastily picked up a feworanges which had rolled off her lap; rose up; looked at me, and burstout laughing.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed, "how I should like to see you grappling with thebrigands! You would say such extraordinary things to them!... Pleasetake my hat, and hold my umbrella for me, Monsieur Bonnard."

  "What a strange little mind!" I thought to myself, as I followed her."It could only have been in a moment of inexcusable thoughtlessness thatNature gave a child to such a giddy little woman!"