The first sign of a problem comes when Pauline’s mood starts to decline. She becomes morose and weepy; Beauvais witnesses her fainting and for a while she leaves Paris to recover her health and peace of mind. Guidel is also unsettled and moody, his suave veneer impaired by heightened emotions. Then one rainy evening, Pauline appears at Beauvais’s home, alone and unchaperoned, in dreadful emotional turmoil and with terrible news to impart that will change the course of her betrothed’s life for ever. It is at this moment in his life, when he is at his most vulnerable, that Beauvais is introduced to the “green fairy”: absinthe.
Despite the less than flattering descriptions of French life in the novel, it was still described by Coates and Bell in their 1903 biography of Corelli as having “many charmingly French touches”, but it is a puzzle as to why Corelli thought it necessary to have the French characters speaking with “thou”, “hast” and “thee” scattered through the dialogue. Nevertheless, this is a powerful story, told with a directness that looks beyond the times to a terser, modern prose. Beauvais is a believable character, his desperation palpable – a personality it is easy to sympathise with. A novel of great maturity — compared to Corelli’s earlier works — Wormwood demonstrates just how far the author has progressed as a writer.
An early frontispiece
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
L’ENVOI.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
THE unhappy hero of the following drame is presented to English readers, not as an example of what is exceptionally tragic and uncommon, but simply as a very ordinary type of a large and ever-increasing class. Men such as ‘Gaston Beauvais’ are to be met with every day in Paris, — and not only in Paris, but in every part of the Continent where the Curse, which forms the subject of this story, has any sort of sway. The morbidness of the modern French mind is well known and universally admitted, even by the French themselves; the open atheism, heartlessness, flippancy, and flagrant immorality of the whole modern French school of thought is unquestioned. If a crime of more than usual cold-blooded atrocity is committed, it generally dates from Paris, or near it; — if a book or a picture is produced that is confessedly obscene, the author or artist is, in nine cases out of ten, discovered to be a Frenchman. The shop-windows and bookstalls of Paris are of themselves sufficient witnesses of the national taste in art and literature, — a national taste for vice and indecent vulgarity which cannot be too sincerely and compassionately deplored. There are, no doubt, many causes for the wretchedly low standard of moral responsibility and fine feeling displayed by the Parisians of to-day — but I do not hesitate to say that one of those causes is undoubtedly the reckless Absinthe-mania, which pervades all classes, rich and poor alike. Every one knows that in Paris the men have certain hours set apart for the indulgence of this fatal craze as religiously as Mussulmen have their hours for prayer, — and in a very short time the love of the hideous poison clings so closely to their blood and system that it becomes an absolute necessity of existence. The effects of its rapid working on the human brain are beyond all imagination horrible and incurable, and no romancist can exaggerate the terrific reality of the evil. If any of my readers are disposed to doubt the possibility of the incidents in my story or to think the details exaggerated, let such make due inquiries of any leading member of the French medical faculty as to the actual meaning of ABSINTHISM, and the measured statement of the physician will seem wilder than the wildest tragedy. Moreover, it is not as if this dreadful frenzy affected a few individuals merely, — it has crept into the brain of France as a nation, and there breeds perpetual mischief, — and from France it has spread, and is still spreading, over the entire Continent of Europe. It must also be remembered that in the many French cafes and restaurants which have recently sprung up in London, Absinthe is always to be obtained at its customary low price, — French habits, French fashions, French books, French pictures, are particularly favoured by the English, and who can predict that French drug-drinking shall not also become à la mode in Britain? — particularly at a period when our medical men are bound to admit that the love of Morphia is fast becoming almost a mania with hundreds of English women!
In the present story I have, as I say, selected a merely ordinary Parisian type; there are of course infinitely worse examples who have not even the shadow of a love-disappointment to excuse them for their self-indulgence. All I ask of my readers and critics is that they will kindly refrain from setting down my hero’s opinions on men and things to me personally, as they were unwise enough to do in the case of a previous novel of mine entitled “Vendetta!” When an author depicts a character, he is not of necessity that character himself; it would have been somewhat unfair to Balzac, for example, to have endowed him when a living man, with the extraordinary ideas and outrageous principles of his matchless artistic creation ‘Père Goriot.’ I have nothing whatever to do with the wretched ‘Gaston Beauvais’ beyond the portraiture of him in his own necessarily lurid colours; — while for the description of the low-class “bal masqué” in Paris, I am in a great measure indebted to a very respectable looking English tourist, who by his dress was evidently of some religious persuasion, and whom I overheard talking to a younger man, on board a steamer going from Thun to Interlaken. It was evidently the worthy creature’s first trip abroad, — he had visited the French capital, and he detailed to his friend, a very hilarious individual, certain of his most lively experiences there. I, sitting close by in a corner unobserved, listened with a good deal of surprise as well as amusement to his enthusiastic eulogy of the “can-can” as he had seen it danced in some peculiar haunt of questionable entertainment, and I took calm note thereof, for literary use hereafter. The most delicate feelings can hardly be ruffled by an honest (and pious) Britisher’s raptures, — and as I have included these raptures in my story, I beg to tender my thanks to the unknown individual who so unconsciously furnished me with a glowing description of what I have never seen and never wish to see!
For the rest, my ‘drama’ is a true phase of the modern life of Paris; one scene out of the countless tragedies that take place every day and everywhere in these our present times. There is no necessity to invent fables nowadays, — the fictionist need never torture his brain for stories either of adventure or spectral horror. Life itself as it is lived among ourselves in all countries, is so amazing, swift, varied, wonderful, terrible, ghastly, beautiful, dreadful, and, withal, so wildly inconsistent and changeful, that whosoever desires to write romances has only to closely and patiently observe men and women as they are, not as they seem, — and then take pen in hand and write the — TRUTH.
MARIE CORELLI.
CLARENS, LAKE LEMAN, SWITZERLAND, September, 1890.
À MESSIEURS
LES ABSINTHEURS DE PARIS,
CES FANFARONS DU VICE QUI SONT
LA HONTE ET LE DESESPOIR DE LEUR PATRIE.
“AND the name of the star is called WORMWOOD: and the third part of the waters became WORMWOOD; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.” — REVELATION viii. 11.
“ET le nom de cette étoile était ABSINTHE: et la troisième partie des eaux fut changée en ABSINTHE; et elles firent mourir un grand nombre d’hommes parce qu�
�elles étaient devenues amères.” — REVELATION viii. 11 (Nouveau Testament Français).
I.
SILENCE, — silence! It is the hour of the deepest hush of night; the invisible intangible clouds of sleep brood over the brilliant city. Sleep! What is it? Forgetfulness? A sweet unconsciousness of dreamless rest? Aye! it must be so, if I remember rightly; but I cannot be quite sure, for it seems a century since I slept well. But what of that? Does any one sleep well nowadays, save children and hard-worked diggers of the soil? We who think — oh, the entanglements and perplexities of this perpetual Thought! — we have no space or time wherein to slumber; between the small hours of midnight and morning we rest on our pillows for mere form’s sake, and doze and dream, — but we do not sleep.
Stay! let me consider. What am I doing here so late? why am I not at home? Why do I stand alone on this bridge, gazing down into the cold sparkling water of the Seine — water that, to my mind, resembles a glittering glass screen, through which I see faces peering up at me, white and aghast with a frozen wonder! How they stare, how they smile, all those drowned women and men! Some are beautiful; all are mournful. I am not sorry for them, no! but I am sure they must have died with half their griefs un-spoken, to look so wildly even in death. Is it my fancy, or do they want something of me? I feel impelled towards them — they draw me downwards by a deadly fascination, I must go on, or else —
With a violent effort I tear myself away, and, leaving the bridge, I wander slowly homeward.
The city sleeps, did I say? Oh no! Paris is not so clean of conscience or so pure of heart that its inhabitants should compose themselves to rest simply because it is midnight. There are hosts of people about and stirring; rich aristocrats for instance, whose names are blazoned on the lists of honour and la haute noblesse, can be met at every turn, stalking abroad like beasts in search of prey; there are the painted and bedizened outcasts who draw their silken skirts scornfully aside from any chance of contact with the soiled and ragged garments worn by the wretched and starving members of the same deplorable sisterhood; and every now and again the flashing of lamps in a passing carriage containing some redoubtable princess of the demi-monde, assures the beholder of the fact that, however soundly virtue may slumber, vice is awake and rampant. But what am I that I should talk of vice or virtue? What business has a wreck cast on the shores of ruin to concern itself with the distant sailing of the gaudy ships bound for the same disastrous end!
How my brain reels! The hot pavements scorch my tired feet, and the round white moon looks at me from the sky like the foolish ghost of herself in a dream. Street after street I pass, scarcely conscious of sight or sense; I hardly know whither I am bound, and it is by mere mechanical instinct alone that I finally reach my destination.
Home at last! I recognize the dim and dirty alley, the tumbledown miserable lodging-house in which, of all the wretched rooms it holds, the wretchedest is the garret I call mine. That gaunt cat is always on the doorstep, — always tearing some horrible offal she has found, with claws and teeth — yet savage as hunger has made her she is afraid of me, and bounds stealthily aside and away as I cross the threshold. Two men, my drunken landlord and his no less drunken brother, are quarrelling furiously in the passage; I shrink past them unobserved and make my way up the dark foul-smelling staircase to my narrow den, where, on entering, I jealously lock myself in, eager to be alone. Alone, alone — always alone! I approach the window and fling it wide open; I rest my arms on the sill and look out drearily at the vast deep star-besprinkled heaven.
They were cruel to me to-night at the café, particularly that young curly-haired student. Who is he, and what is he? I hate him, I know not why! except that he reminds me of one who is dead. “Do not drink that,” he said gravely, touching the glass I held. “It will drive you mad some day!” Drive me mad! Good, very good! That is what a great many people have told me, — croakers all! Who is mad, and who is sane? It is not easy to decide. The world has various ways of defining insanity in different individuals. The genius who has grand ideas, and fancies he can realize them is “mad;” the priest who, like Saint Damien, sacrifices himself for others is “mad,” the hero who, like the English Gordon, perishes at his post instead of running away to save his own skin, is “mad,” and only the comfortable tradesman or financier who amasses millions by systematically cheating his fellows, is “sane.” Excellent! Let me be mad, then, by all means! mad with the madness of Absinthe, the wildest, most luxurious madness in the world! Vive la folie! Vive l’amour! Vive l’animalism!
Vive le Diable! Live everybody, and everything that can live without a conscience, for conscience is at a discount in this age, and honesty cannot keep pace with our modern progress. The times are as we make them, and we have made ours those of realism; the old idyllic days of faith and sentiment are past.
Those cold and quiet stars! What innumerable multitudes of them there are! Why were they created? Through countless centuries bewildered mankind has gazed at them and asked the same question, — a question never to be answered, — a problem never to be solved. The mind soon grows fatigued with pondering. It is better not to think. Yet one good thing has lately come out of the subtle and incessant workings of intellect, and that is that we need not trouble ourselves about God any more. Nothing in all the vast mechanism of the universe can actually prove a Deity to be existent; and no one is called upon to believe in what cannot be proved. I am glad of this, very glad; for if I thought there were a God in heaven — a Supreme Justice enthroned in some far-off sphere of life unseen yet eternal, I think — I do not know, but I think — I should be afraid! Afraid of the day, afraid of the night, afraid of the glassy river, with its thousands of drowned eyes below; afraid, perchance, of my own hovering shadow; and still more darkly dimly afraid of creatures that might await me in lands invisible beyond the grave — phantom creatures that I have wronged as much and haply more than they in their time wronged me!
Yet, after all, I am no coward; and why should I fear God, supposing a God should, notwithstanding our denial of Him, positively exist? If He is the Author of Creation, He is answerable for every atom within it, even for me. I have done evil. What then? Am I the only one? If I have sinned more, I have also suffered more; and plenty of scientists and physiologists could be found to prove that my faults are those of temperament and brain-construction, and that I cannot help them if I would. Ah, how consoling are these advanced doctrines! No criminal ought, in strict justice, to be punished at all, seeing that it is his inborn nature to commit crime, and that he cannot alter that nature even if he tried! Only a canting priest would dare to ask him to try; and, in France at least, we have done with priestcraft.
Well, we live in a great and wonderful era, and we have great and wonderful needs — needs which must be supplied! One of our chief requirements is that we should know everything — even things that used for honour and decency’s sake to be concealed. Wise and pure and beautiful things we have had enough of. They belong to the old classic days of Greece and Rome, the ages of idyll and allegory; and we find them on the whole rather ennuyant. We have developed different tastes. We want the ugly truths of life, not the pretty fables. We like ugly truths. We find them piquant and palatable, like the hot sauce poured on fish to give it a flavour. For example, the story of “Paul et Virginie” is very charming, but also very tame and foolish. It suited the literary spirit of the time in which it was written; but to us in the present day there is something far more entrainant in a novel which faithfully describes the love-making of Jeanne the washer-woman with Jacques the rag-picker. We prefer their coarse amours to Virginie s tearful sentiment — autres temps, autres mœurs. I thought of this yesterday, when, strolling aimlessly across the Pont Neuf, I glanced at the various titles of the books for sale on the open-air counters and saw Realism represented to the last dregs of reality. And then I began to consider what the story of my life would look like when written, and what people would think of it if they read it. This idea has haunte
d me all last night and to-day. I have turned it over and over again in my mind with a certain savage amusement. Dear old world! dear Society! will you believe me if I tell you what I am? No, I am sure you will not! You will shudder a little, perhaps; but it is far more likely that you will scoff and sneer. It is so easy to make light of a fellow-creature’s downfall. Moreover, your critics will assure you that the whole narrative is a tissue of absurd improbabilities, that such and such events never could and never would happen under any sort of circumstances whatever, and that a disordered imagination alone has to do with the weaving of a drama as wild as mine!
But, think what you will, say what you choose, I am resolved you shall know me. It is well you should learn what manner of man is in your midst: a man as pitiless as pestilence, as fierce as flame; one dangerous to himself, and still more dangerous to the community at large; and yet — remember this, I pray you! — a man who is, after all, only one example out of a thousand; a thousand? ay, more than a thousand like him, who in this very city are possessed by the same seductive delirium, and are pressing on swiftly to the same predestined end!
However, my concern is not with others, but solely with myself. I care little for the fact that perhaps nearly half the population of France is with me in my frenzy: what is France to me or I to France, now? Time was when I loved my country; when I would have shed every drop of blood in my body gladly for her defence; but now — now, — enfin! I see the folly of patriotism, and to speak frankly, I would rather drown like a dog in the Seine than undergo the troublesome fatigues of war. I was not always so indifferent, I confess; I came to it by degrees as others have done, and as others are doing who live as I live. I tell you there are hundreds of men in Paris to-day who are quite as apathetic on the subject of national honour or disgrace as I am, — who, thanks to the pale-green draught we drain in our cafés night after night with unabated zest and never-satiated craving, have nigh forgotten their country’s bitter defeat, — or if they have not forgotten, have certainly ceased to care. True, they talk, — we all talk, — of taking the Rhine and storming Berlin, just as children babble of their toy castles and tin soldiers, but we are not in earnest. No, no! not we! We are wise in our generation we absintheurs; life is so worthless that we grudge making any sort of exertion to prolong it, and it is probable that if the enemy were at our very doors we should scarcely stir a finger to repel attack. Do the Germans know this, I wonder? Very likely! and, knowing it, bide their time! But let them come. Why not? One authority is as good as another, to me, at any rate, — for I have no prejudices and no principles. The whole wide earth is the same to me, — a mere grave to bury nations in.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 203
