by Eugène Sue
She was dressed in black on account of some court mourning or other, and had jet ornaments in her soft brown hair. I thought her dazzlingly beautiful and, though I may be mistaken, that she blushed beneath her rouge when she received me in her most formal and ceremonious manner. Perhaps it was the blush that made me think her so beautiful. After I had spoken a few polite words, the conversation which my arrival had interrupted was continued.
They were discussing the latest scandal, in which a woman’s honour and two men’s lives were at stake; the story was told in the most guarded language, but with so feeble an attempt at disguise, and such transparent withholding of details, that to have mentioned proper names outright would have been less significant.
As it almost always happens, by one of those coincidences that luck brings about, just as every one was having his little word or sharp little witticism on the subject, the husband and wife who were being discussed were announced. This conjugal entrance astonished no one. It was explained by an unexpected return to Paris, which necessitated a first visit.
Though every one who was in the salon was quite used to such impromptus, there was for a second an embarrassing silence, but Madame de Pënâfiel, with the most natural and perfect ease, addressed me as though we were continuing an interrupted conversation:
“You think then, monsieur, that this new maëstro’s opera shows great promise?”
“It shows that he possesses a talent of unquestionable charm and melancholy, madame,” I replied, quite naturally. “Perhaps the music is wanting in vigour, but it is full of sweetness and inexpressible grace.”
“And pray who is the new musical luminary?” said, in an impertinent way, the young woman who had just entered the room, and who had been the subject of the previous discussion.
“M. Bellini, madame,” said I, with a bow, wishing to save Madame de Pënâfiel the trouble of answering.
“And the title of the new opera, madame la marquise?” asked the husband, with an air of great interest, and unwilling to drop such a subject for conversation.
“I forgot to tell you, madame, that the name of the new opera is ‘La Norma,’” I hastened to say, addressing Madame de Pënâfiel. “The subject is the love of a priestess of the Gauls.” Madame de Pënâfiel immediately took up this theme, and enlarged on it in a very entertaining way, showing what a good subject it was for a drama.
She then seized the opportunity of showing her erudition on the religion of the Druids; she talked about the Celtic stones, and I felt sure that, by an easy transition, she would soon arrive quite naturally at the syllabic value of hieroglyphics, and the discussion of which Arthur Young had spoken. It so happened that I chanced to be very much interested in this study, for my father, who was an intimate friend of M. de Guignes, had in his last years been a student of those alphabetical problems. I could have continued the conversation by drawing Madame de Pënâfiel into a discussion, in which she probably would have shone at my expense; but her pretension to being learned shocked me, and I warded off a hieroglyphic attack, which I thought imminent, by declaring my perfect ignorance of the subject, whose aridity I said frightened me.
My avowal of ignorance seemed to lift a weight off the minds of the other men present, because they would have been mortified at being left out of such a conversation, which would show an unusual fondness for studies that were quite beyond an ordinary education. I do not know whether Madame de Pënâfiel was provoked at my speech, which had lost her the opportunity of showing her learning, or if she believed my ignorance was affected. She did not pretend to hide a slight movement of annoyance, but, with great tact and infinite skill, she resumed her conversation about the Druids, passing from the Celtic inscriptions to the picturesque costume of the priestesses of the Gauls, their long, clinging robes, and the charming effect of the holly leaves in either blonde or brown hair. She brought down the conversation naturally from the scientific heights on which she at first had started to the vulgar plains of every-day costume, and then it became general. I admit that these transitions were skilfully managed by Madame de Pënâfiel, and that any one but a person who was well-read, clever, quick, and used to society, would have failed entirely.
I was far from being astonished, for I had not expected to find candour and inexperience, so as I was tired of so much senseless babble, and saw that this was not the opportunity I desired of studying and observing at my ease this person, who was said to be so singular, I rose to go out unperceived, as a new arrival was being announced; but Madame de Pënâfiel, near whom I was seated, said to me as she saw that they were bringing the urn and the waiters into the other little salon:
“Monsieur, will you not have a cup of tea?”
I bowed and remained.
That night there was a grand ball at the house of one of those easy-going foreigners, who, on the express condition that they may be permitted to remain in their own salons, and look on at the fête which is given at their expense, are willing to lend their houses, their servants, and their supper to the fashionable circle, who take it all as a matter of course.
Almost all of Madame de Pënâfiel’s visitors were going there. I was hesitating about going also, when, as good luck would have it, Lord Falmouth was announced.
I had not seen him since his sudden departure for the House of Lords, where he went to speak on the India’ question which interested him. There was such a difference between his original mind and most of the people I met habitually, that I decided to remain longer than I had at first intended at the Hôtel de Pënâfiel.
After tea, Lord Falmouth and I were left alone with madame la marquise. I have forgotten to mention that, in a far off corner of the salon, behind the marquise’s armchair, unobserved and forgotten, there was a distinguished young stranger, Baron Stroll, who seemed very timid, and who, to hide his embarrassment, had been for the last half-hour turning over the pages of the same album. The young baron was quite red, and his eyes were staring fixedly, while he held his hat tightly between his knees. Lord Falmouth called my attention to him, and said, in a low voice, with his mocking air, the well-known words of the Vizier Maréco to the Sultan Chaabaam, who was looking at the goldfish: “Let him alone, he has got occupation enough for another hour yet.”
Madame de Pënâfiel had not noticed this stranger, for, as I say, he was seated behind the very high back of her armchair, beside a table that was covered with albums; for she did the honours of her salon too well to have neglected a guest. She began the conversation by graciously reproaching Lord Falmouth for not coming to see her oftener. To which he replied that he was unfortunately so stupid, and so terribly communicative, that out of a hundred persons that he wanted to converse with, only one or two were strong-minded enough to resist the contagion of his stupidity, and not to become as dull as himself after a quarter of an hour’s conversation. It was a dreadful effect he had on most persons, and he deplored it with the most comical humility, and reproached himself for having made an infinite number of victims, whose names he cited as living witnesses of his fatal influence.
“Ah, madame la marquise,” he said, shaking his head in a disconsolate way, “I have done a great deal of mischief by my stupidity, as you can plainly see.”
“There is no doubt of it, but you are very much to be blamed for having only half killed your victims, for they come to life again, and annoy people in every sort of way,” said Madame de Pënâfiel, “and unfortunately the species is as varied as it is abundant and tiresome. Really there is nothing I know of that is more positively distressing than the presence of a bore; there is something in his dreadful influence that is painful to you, that saddens you in a twofold manner, as you might feel remorse for a wicked deed you had not committed.”
“For my part,” said Lord Falmouth, “I ask your forgiveness for the stupidity of such a trivial comparison; but we are not able to control our impressions. Well, when it happens that I have to submit to a bore, I feel exactly the same sensation as when I hear any one sawing
a cork; yes, it is a sort of dull, grinding, squeaking, monotonous sound, which makes me quite understand the ferocity of Tiberius and Nero. Those tyrants must have been uncommonly bored by their courtiers.”
“As far as I am concerned,” said I, “one of my weak points is that I am very fond of stupid people. When you talk with a clever person, you are always filled with regret when you come to the end of the conversation. Whereas, if you are trying to talk to a fool, oh, there comes a moment, a precious, single moment which compensates you for more than you have suffered! It is the moment when a kind Providence takes him off your hands.”
“The fact is,” said Lord Falmouth, “that we should look upon such a trial in the light of discipline or mortification, and then it would be of benefit to us. But never mind, if, by saying a word, a single word, they could all be annihilated, would you be sufficiently philanthropic to speak that word, madame la marquise?”
“Annihilate them?” said Madame de Pënâfiel. “Annihilate them bodily?”
“Certainly, for they are already annihilated spiritually. I mean to annihilate them altogether, flesh, and bones, and cravat,” said Lord Falmouth.
“In fact, that is all there is to them. But it would be a very violent remedy. Still, if by pronouncing a single word — It is very tempting,” replied the marquise.
“A single word,” I said to her, “by pronouncing, let us say, your name, as they utter some sacred word to chase away an evil spirit.”
“But it would be a dreadful massacre,” she said.
“Very well, madame, but have we not just decided that stupidity is deadly?” said Lord Falmouth. “Then you need have no scruples, and afterwards you will be able to breathe more freely. You will find how much purer the atmosphere will be, cleansed of all its malarial germs, that bring on attacks of dismal gaping. You will be able to go freely and fearlessly everywhere.”
“Come, I think I will be tempted to say ‘Let there be no more bores,’” replied the marquise; “for, truly, it is a perpetual source of anxiety. One has to be always on guard as to what one is saying, and it is an intolerable annoyance. But, with all this folly, you have reminded me of a very strange story that I lately read in an old German book, which might be taken for a touchstone, or thermometer, to measure human selfishness by, if every one would but truly answer the question asked in the story.
“The story tells of a poor student in Leipsic, who, in a fit of despair, invoked the wicked spirit, who appeared, and proposed to make this strange compact with him.
“‘Every wish of yours shall be granted, but on this condition, that you pronounce aloud this word, Sathaniel; and that every time you utter the word one of your fellow creatures shall die; a man in some distant country shall die. You will not see him suffer, and no one in the world but yourself will know that the realisation of your desires has cost the life of one of your fellow men.’ ‘ And may I choose the country, the nation of my victim ?’ said the student. ‘Certainly,’ ‘Shake hands, master, it is a bargain,’ said he to the demon. Now the Turks were besieging Belgrade at that period, and it was at their expense that the student satisfied all his wishes, which amounted to fifty or sixty thousand Turks. It is a very vulgar story,” said the marquise, “but I should like to know if there are many human beings who, if they were assured of secrecy, could resist the temptation of pronouncing the fatal word, if they were sure of realising an ardently desired wish.”
“It is simply what might be called a venial homicide,” said Lord Falmouth; “and, as for me, if the wish was worth the trouble, if it were some impossible thing, as if, for example, it were a question of being honoured by your friendship, madame la marquise, I certainly would not hesitate at such a trifle as the life of some obscure inhabitant of Greenland, for example, or a Laplander, because, as he is the smallest sort of a man, the sin would no doubt be less.”
The marquise smiled and shrugged her shoulders, saying to me, “And you, monsieur, do you think that most men would hesitate very long between their wish and the fatal word?”
“I believe there would be so little hesitation, madame, even among the most honourable of men, that if in our golden age the wicked spirit should make such a proposition, the world would become a wilderness in eight days; and, perhaps, you, madame, you and Lord Falmouth and I, would be immolated by the caprice of one of our intimate friends, who, instead of taking the trouble of going all the way to Greenland for a victim, would treat us in a neighbourly way.”
“But I have an idea,” said Lord Falmouth; “suppose that the caprices and desires of humanity, by dint of satisfying themselves on the human race, had reduced the inhabitants of the world to two people in some far corner of this earth, a man who passionately loved a woman who detested him in return, and that Satan, according to his system, said to him: ‘My terms are still the same; pronounce the redoubtable name, she will love you, but she will die, and you will have caused her death.’ Should the man say the word?”
“To pronounce the word would be to prove that he loved desperately,” said I to Lord Falmouth.
“Yes, if he were a good Catholic,” said Madame de Pënâfiel; “because then he would have purchased love at the price of eternal punishment, without which it is only ferocious selfishness.”
“But, madame, permit me to observe that, since there is a question of Satan, it is evident that they would both be good Catholics.”
“You are quite right,” replied Lord Falmouth, “and your observation reminds me of the joyful and hopeful exclamation of a poor man who was saved from shipwreck. On getting to land, the first thing he saw was a gallows. ‘God be praised,’ said he, ‘I have landed in a civilised country.’
“But,” said Lord Falmouth, “is it not enough to bring one to the verge of despair, to think that even now there are some people so happily, so wonderfully endowed, that they spend three or four hours every morning trying to see the devil, — evoking and invoking the evil one? I lately came across one of those credulous individuals in the Rue de la Barillerie. I assure you he is perfectly convinced that one of these days he will succeed, and I must admit that I greatly envy him his credulity, for he has an occupation that he will never become tired of; for a constant desire sustained by unfailing hope seems to me to come very near to perfect happiness.”
“But,” said I to Lord Falmouth, “did not your great poet Byron amuse himself with such follies at one time?”
“Byron! Ah, do not speak to me of that man!” exclaimed the marquise, with a look of dislike that almost amounted to hatred.
“Ah, take care, monsieur,” said Lord Falmouth, smiling. “With no ill intention, you have called up a diabolical spirit, that madame la marquise will have to exorcise, for she detests him.”
I was quite astonished, for I was far from expecting to find Madame de Pënâfiel an anti-Byronian. On the contrary, everything that I had heard of her fantastic and bold character was quite in harmony with that disdainful and paradoxical genius. I therefore listened very attentively to the rest of her conversation. She continued, with a scornful smile:
“Byron! Byron! so cruel and so desperate! What a hard and wicked heart! When we think how, by some inexplicable fatality, every youthful mind, with its wealth of imagination, wastes itself in admiration of this scornful and insatiable demon, it is enough to convince us of the law of contraries.”
“There is nothing truer than the attraction of contraries,” said Lord Falmouth. “Does the charming little butterfly, for example, intelligent little aerial creature that he is, does he ever fail, so soon as he perceives a beautiful, bright, hot flame, to hasten with all the speed of a son of Zephyr and Aurora, and roast himself in an ecstasy of delight?”
“I cannot bear to think,” said Madame de Pënâfiel, in a state of exaltation, that made her more beautiful than ever, “I cannot bear to think of so many noble and trusting souls being made for ever desperate by the malevolent genius of Byron! Oh, how well he has depicted himself in Manfred! Manfred’s Castle, so da
rk and desolate, well represents Byron’s poetry. It is his terrible spirit. You enter this castle full of confidence, its wildness and grandeur captivate your imagination, but when you are once within its walls, under the spell of its pitiless host, all regret is in vain; he despoils you mercilessly of your purest and fondest beliefs. And then, when the last spark of faith is extinct, and your last hope is torn from you, the great lord chases you away with an insulting smile; and should you ask him what he is to give you in return for all these riches of your soul, that he has thus profaned and destroyed—”
“Madame,” said I, allowing myself to interrupt her, “Lord Manfred answers, ‘I have given you doubt, — doubt, — the wisdom of the wisest.’ But,” I added, being curious to see if Madame de Pënâfiel shared in my admirations as well as my antipathies, “if you have such a strong dislike to Byron, does not his noble country offer you an antidote to his dangerous poison, in Walter Scott?”
“Oh,” said she, as she clasped her hands with almost infantile grace, “how charming it is, monsieur, to hear you speak thus! Is it not true that the great, the good, the adorable Scott is the counterpoise of Byron? Ah, when wounded to the heart you fly in despair from the terrible Castle of Manfred, with what grateful relief do you find yourself in the smiling and peaceful abode of Scott, that kind old man, so grave and so serene! How tenderly he receives you, how touching is his pity for you, how he comforts and consoles you! In what a pure and radiant light he shows you the world, exalting all that is noble, good, and generous in the human heart! He raises your self-respect as much as Byron has degraded it. If he can never restore your lost illusions, which, alas! is an impossibility, he can, at least, tranquillise and soothe your incurable grief by his beneficent stories. Is it not, monsieur, true glory to be as great as Walter Scott? Which man is more truly grand and powerful, he who afflicts or he who consoles? For, alas! monsieur, it is so easy to get people to believe in evil,” added the marquise, with a grieved expression.
