I dispatched Sinbad to tell the king to come one evening beneath the tower windows, that he would find a ladder there, and that he would find out the rest when he came. As a matter of fact I anchored it firmly, resolved to flee with him; but when he saw it he climbed it in haste, without waiting for me to come down, and burst into my chamber while I was preparing everything for my flight.
The sight of him so filled me with joy that I forgot the peril both of us were in. He renewed his gallant vows, and beseeched me to delay no longer in accepting him as my husband; we enlisted Sinbad and Fido as witnesses of our marriage; never was a wedding between persons of such high rank celebrated with less noise and festivity, and never were hearts happier than ours.
Day had not yet come when the king left me: I told him the fairies’ frightful plan of marrying me to little Migonnet; I described his face, which horrified him as much as me. Hardly had he left when the hours began to seem like days; I ran to the window and followed him with my gaze despite the darkness; but what was my amazement on seeing in the distance a chariot of fire drawn by winged salamanders, traveling with such speed that the eye could scarcely follow it! The chariot was escorted by a quantity of guards mounted on ostriches. I had barely time enough to glance at the ugly sprite who was traveling through the air in this fashion; but I concluded at once that it was a fairy or an enchanter.
Soon after, fairy Violenta entered my chamber: I bring you good news, she said; your lover arrived a few hours ago; prepare to receive him; here are some jewels and finery. What! I cried out. And who told you I wished to be wed? It’s not my intention at all; send King Migonnet back where he came from; I won’t add so much as a pin to my dress; let him find me beautiful or ugly, it’s all the same to me. Ah, ah, replied the fairy, such a little rebel, such a harebrain! I’m in no mood for jokes, and I’m going to … You’ll do what to me? I retorted, blushing at the names she had called me. Can one be more dismally treated than I, shut up in a tower with a parrot and a dog, having to look several times a day at the frightful face of a dragon? Ha! Ungrateful wretch, said the fairy, and what did you do to deserve so much care and trouble on the part of others? I’ve said it all too often to my sisters, that we shall have but a sad recompense. She went to find them and tell them of our quarrel, and all were equally shocked.
Sinbad and Fido pleaded desperately with me, saying that if I continued in my refractory ways, they foresaw that harsh treatment would be visited on me. I felt so proud at possessing the heart of a great king that I scorned the fairies and the advice of my little friends. I refused to don my finery, and purposely coiffed my hair awry, so that Migonnet might find me displeasing. Our interview took place on the terrace. He arrived in his chariot of fire. Never since there were dwarfs was such a tiny one to be seen. He walked on his eagle’s claws and his knees at the same time, for there were no bones in his legs, so that he was obliged to support himself on two diamond crutches. His royal robe was only half an ell long, and a third of it trailed on the ground. His head was as big as a bushel basket, and his nose so large that a dozen birds perched on it, whose chirping delighted him; he had such an enormous beard that canaries had made their nests in it, and his ears overtopped his head by a cubit, but this was scarcely noticeable thanks to the high pointed crown that he wore so as to appear taller. The flame of his chariot roasted the fruits, withered the flowers, and dried up the fountains of my garden. He approached me with open arms to embrace me; I stood up straight, and his first equerry was obliged to lift him; but as soon as he drew near I fled into my chamber and slammed shut the door and the windows, so that Migonnet returned to the fairies’ abode extremely vexed with me.
They asked him a thousand pardons for my brusqueness, and to calm him, for he was very powerful, they resolved to lead him into my chamber at night while I was asleep, to bind my hands and feet and put me with him in the burning chariot, so that he might carry me away. Once this plan was agreed upon, they hardly even scolded me for my insolent behavior. All they said was that I should think about making amends. Sinbad and Fido were surprised at such mildness. You know, mistress, said my dog, my heart tells me no good can come of this. My ladies the fairies are strange personages, especially Violenta. I made fun of his warnings, and awaited my beloved husband with wild impatience. He himself was too impatient to put off seeing me again; I threw down the rope ladder, fully resolved to run off with him; he climbed it nimbly and proffered me such tender words that I still dare not summon them to memory.
While we were speaking together with the same tranquility we would have had in his palace, the windows of my chamber were suddenly battered in. In came the fairies on their terrible dragon, followed by Migonnet in his fiery chariot and all his guards on their ostriches. The king, fearless, put his hand to his sword, thinking only of saving me from the most horrible misadventure that ever was, for, would you believe it, my lord? those barbarous creatures unleashed their dragon on him; he was eaten up before my very eyes.
In desperation at his fate and mine, I threw myself into the jaws of that hideous monster, hoping he would swallow me, as he had swallowed all that I loved in the world. He would have liked to, but the fairies, even more cruel than he, wouldn’t let him. She must be kept for more lingering torments, they screamed; a speedy death is too gentle for this shameless creature! They laid hands on me; at once I saw myself turn into the White Cat; they brought me to this magnificent palace of my father and metamorphosed all the lords and ladies of the kingdom into cats; they spared those whose hands alone would remain visible, and reduced me to the deplorable state in which you found me, informing me of my birth, of the death of my father and of my mother, and that I would never be released from my feline condition, save by a prince who would perfectly resemble the husband they had torn from me. ’Tis you, my lord, who possess that resemblance, she continued: the same features, same aspect, even the same voice; I was struck by it the moment I saw you; I was informed of everything that would happen, and I know as well what will happen: My torment will end. And my own, lovely queen, said the prince, throwing himself at her feet, will it be of long duration? Already I love you more than life itself, my lord, said the queen. We must go to see your father; we shall judge of his feelings for me, and learn if he will consent to what you desire.
She went out; the prince gave her his hand, she mounted into a chariot with him; it was far more magnificent than those he had had before. The rest of the cortège matched it to such a degree that all the horseshoes were made of emeralds, and their nails were diamonds. Perhaps it was a sight never seen before or since. I pass over the agreeable conversations that the queen and the prince were having; if she was matchless in beauty, she was not less so for her mind, and the young prince was as perfect as she, so that they thought only of charming things.
When they were near the castle where the brothers were to meet, the queen entered a rock crystal whose facets were adorned with gold and rubies. Its interior was curtained so that none could see her, and it was borne by beautifully formed and superbly clad youths. The prince remained in the chariot, from which he saw his brothers strolling with princesses of extraordinary beauty. As soon as they recognized him they asked him if he had brought a fiancée; he told them that he had been so unlucky that throughout his travels he had encountered only ugly women, and that the only thing of rarity he could find to bring was a little White Cat. They began to laugh at his innocence. A cat, they said, are you afraid the mice will eat our palace? The prince replied that in effect it wasn’t wise to offer such a present to his father; thereupon they set out on the road to the city.
The elder princes rode with their princesses in barouches made of gold and lapis lazuli; their horses’ heads were adorned with plumes and aigrettes; in short, nothing on Earth could surpass this brilliant cavalcade. Our young prince followed behind, then came the rock crystal, which everyone stared at admiringly.
The courtiers hastened to tell the king that the three princes were arriving. Have the
y brought beautiful ladies with them? he retorted. It would be impossible to find anything that could outshine them. This reply seemed to annoy him. The king greeted them cordially, and couldn’t decide on whom to bestow the prize; he looked at the youngest and said: So, this time you have come alone? Your majesty will find inside this rock crystal a little White Cat, who miaows so sweetly, and draws in her claws so nicely, that your majesty will surely approve of her. The king smiled, and was about to open the crystal himself, but no sooner had he approached it than the queen, using a spring, caused the whole thing to fall in shards, and appeared like the sun after it has been for some time veiled in clouds; her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and fell in thick ringlets down to her feet; her head was wreathed in flowers, her fragile white gown was lined with pink taffeta; she arose and made a deep curtsey before the king, who, overcome with admiration, couldn’t prevent himself from crying out: Here is the incomparable one, and it is she who deserves the crown.
Your highness, she replied, I haven’t come here to deprive you of a throne which you occupy with so much dignity; I was born with six kingdoms; allow me to offer you one of them, and one to both of your sons. All I ask for in recompense is your friendship, and this young prince for my husband. We shall still be well provided for with three kingdoms. The king and all the court uttered long shouts of joy and astonishment. The marriage was celebrated at once, and those of the two princes as well, in such wise that the whole court spent several months in pleasures and diversions. Each then left to govern his realm; the lovely White Cat was immortalized, as much for her kindness and generosity as for her rare merit and her beauty.
This young prince was lucky indeed
To find in a cat’s guise an august princess
Whom he would later marry, and accede
To three thrones and a world of tenderness.
When two enchanting eyes are inclined
To inspire love, they seldom find resistance,
Especially when a wise and ardent mind
Moves them to inspire lasting allegiance.
I’ll speak no more of the unworthy mother
Who caused the White Cat so many sorrows
By coveting the accursed fruits of another,
Thus ceding her daughter to the fairies’ powers.
Mothers, who have children full of charm,
Despise her conduct, and keep them from all harm.
Wonder Tales: Six French Stories of Enchantment, ed. Marina Warner (London: Chatto and Windus, 1994; New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1996; New York: Vintage, 1996).
ODILON REDON
(1840–1916)
FROM TO ONESELF
1869, Paris, April 12—Nature, through an admirable law, intends us to profit from everything, even from our mistakes and vices; it is an unending life, a continual labor whose sap is inexhaustible. A single glance at ourselves proves life and shows us the step taken. What then are an old man’s reflections on the past and all the faith he draws from them?
There are those who ask the meaning of the word “spiritualism.” They are the same ones who obey only their instincts and who take the highest revelations of poetry for madness. The ideal is a chimera; the luster of truth, the certitudes of the conscience have as their sole cause the nature of our earliest education and the environment in which we lived.
The word “spiritualism” will always be understood as expressing the opposite of the word “materialism.” To define it is impossible.
The beautiful and the good are in heaven. Science is on Earth; it crawls. The material hope of the immediate future gives great energy in action. To act against every hope is to act by virtue.
The law of man will replace Scripture only when it has become the sincere expression of the universal conscience.
When society desires good sufficiently to incorporate into its laws the spirit of morality and good which presides over individual effort, that day will be the definitive reign of liberty and of obedience to the divine word.
In the beginning the ideal touched a few men in particular: These were the prophets. Their empire was legitimate and the divine pressure they exerted on the others was fertile and necessary. But the days come when the unanimity of desires will turn law into a docile expression of the great human conscience and consequently the only incitement to liberty.
* * *
There is something in the heart which dries up when one reads pages written too close to human nature. The fault of certain writing is to have stripped it naked, made it cynical and abject; it would have been better to reveal it in what it possesses of grandeur and consolation.
To write and to publish is the noblest, most delicate work a man can do, for it involves others: To act on another’s mind, what a task, what a responsibility before the truth and before oneself! Writing is the greatest art. It traverses time and space, is manifestly superior to the others such as music, whose language also becomes transformed and leaves its work of the past in the night of time.
Your evil lies in the aristocracy. At the very hour of liberty, you flung yourselves on the goods of the earth, and the vices followed you. Selfishness, concupiscence, despotism, sensuality, complete forgetting of the general welfare. You haven’t a shadow of the republican virtue which in spite of everything animated the bold revolutionaries, your generous liberators. Are you guilty of all these evils? Who will reply? Liberty in your hands could never shine with supreme luster. The evil is the fault of the nobility who deviated first; in days of weakness and doubt, one calls on the absent faith; one forgets that liberty implies force and weakness, and that this very abandon proves it.
The fault, the failing, that perpetual obstacle to the realization of good, comprise the cost of our efforts.
When I am alone, I love the open highways; I talk with myself alone. I walk along freely and my body leaves my mind unchained; it argues, reasons, presses me with questions.
But with God, and as a friend of nature, I prefer paths encumbered by the obstacles of a wild way which no human labor has touched. My foot moves freely through the damp grass and I am inspired by the contact of the branch that my face grazes; the stones, the bushes, though filled with thorns, stop me only to converse with me and speak to me; and even in a dark, black wood, I love the storm, the abundant rain, the cold, the ice and the snow; all that winter that men complain of has for me an eloquent language and attracts me, charms me, has always given me deep delight.
Plastic art expires at the breath of the infinite.
Happy are the sages whose life is reasonable and whose strength balances their desire. They dominate us, whatever the mediocrity and inferiority of their intelligence; they judge and dominate us because they do not struggle. A calm life is a merited life. The nobility have it; let us not be jealous. By their high assurance in living off leisure, off their fortunes, they shocked only well-born souls; they are honest, dignified, even kind; their manners are exempt from petty bourgeois preoccupations. This is not their wrong. They are guilty only in their selfish error of supposing the people incapable of the same feelings they have; and also for having given throughout history that fatal example of luxury, superfluity, and personal encroachment, of which the taste for well-being, a characteristic of our time, is the consequence. The people could imitate only what they had seen; hence their torment, for they do not yet have their own tradition. Leisure, repose, reflection, the beneficial occupation of reading had not yet put a little of the ideal into their lives. The preoccupations of thought have not yet made the dignity and nobility of life felt in their souls. Could it be otherwise? They would have had to be angels in order to live through the first days of liberty.
There is a stupid laughter which reveals the heart and lays bare the hidden depths of the soul. There is another kind which reveals celestial joys.
A man of action is not ironic.
The end of a full day gives the mind infinite compensations. The supreme leisure of the souls of the elect is wholly in those ex
quisite hours which follow painful and fertile effort. There is an age in which the equilibrium of forces allows us to lay hold of these celestial and suave joys, the most beautiful ones in life, and the only ones as well which give us the right to say we have lived.
* * *
What distinguishes the artist from the dilettante is merely the suffering that the former experiences. The dilettante seeks only his pleasure in art.
There is suffering to be claimed from those we love. The spirit of justice takes precedence over kindness, and yet there are moments, hours of love and grace, in which one would gladly be unjust in order to give, to love. I have never been able to read in myself which is better, he who gives or he who justifies? There is much cause for reflection in this.
Shall we ever arrive at the certainty, at the consciousness of having done all, given all? One walks continually in doubt mingled with confidence, and these dispositions hold alternately the thread of our lives.
And the world, and most of those who are close to us, see in the exercise of art only a work of relaxation and repose!
The taste for art is nothing beside the preoccupations of the heart. And each artist is a man, a being who must also be watched over and cultivated. The man is perhaps merely a simple procedure for the work of the artist. Art is powerless to render the nuances of these situations and all the delicacy of their influences.
The artist must not think that a divine right has placed him above the others. The sense of creation is indeed something, but it is not everything. Some thoroughly mediocre man, or even one totally incapable of appreciating beauty, can show lofty and noble traits of conscience. Certainly we must bless heaven for letting us live in a world in which Beethoven and the God of art have diffused life; above all we must be proud to understand it; but I find deeply self-centered and mediocre the wholly personal suffering of those who would on this account place themselves above others.
Collected French Translations: Prose Page 6
