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_The Duc, the Duchesse, and the Doctor._ ]
THE NABOB
BY
ALPHONSE DAUDET
TRANSLATED BY
GEORGE BURNHAM IVES
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
BRANDER MATTHEWS
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1902
_Copyright, 1898,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
XIII. A DAY OF SPLEEN 1
XIV. THE EXHIBITION 20
XV. MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--IN THE RECEPTION-ROOM 42
XVI. A PUBLIC MAN 57
XVII. THE APPARITION 86
XVIII. THE JENKINS PEARLS 107
XIX. THE OBSEQUIES 135
XX. BARONESS HEMERLINGUE 163
XXI. THE SITTING 194
XXII. PARISIAN DRAMAS 230
XXIII. MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--LAST SHEETS 255
XXIV. AT BORDIGHERA 267
XXV. THE FIRST NIGHT OF "REVOLTE" 287
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Duc, the Duchesse, and the Doctor _Frontispiece_
"'Don't be afraid. I have no evil designs on you'" _Page_ 153
The First Night of "Revolte" " 287
From drawings by Lucius Rossi.
THE NABOB.
XIII.
A DAY OF SPLEEN.
Five o'clock in the afternoon. Rain ever since the morning, a gray sky,so low that one can touch it with one's umbrella, dirty weather,puddles, mud, nothing but mud, in thick pools, in gleaming streaks alongthe edge of the sidewalks, driven back in vain by automatic sweepers,sweepers with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and carted away onenormous tumbrils which carry it slowly and in triumph through thestreets toward Montreuil; removed and ever reappearing, oozing betweenthe pavements, splashing carriage panels, horses' breasts, the clothingof the passers-by, soiling windows, thresholds, shop-fronts, until onewould think that all Paris was about to plunge in and disappear beneaththat depressing expanse of miry earth in which all things are jumbledtogether and lose their identity. And it is a pitiable thing to see howthat filth invades the spotless precincts of new houses, the copings ofthe quays, the colonnades of stone balconies. There is some one,however, whom this spectacle rejoices, a poor, ill, disheartenedcreature, who, stretched out at full length on the embroidered silkcovering of a divan, her head resting on her clenched fists, gazesgleefully out through the streaming window-panes and gloats over allthese ugly details:
"You see, my Fairy, this is just the kind of weather I wanted to-day.See them splash along. Aren't they hideous, aren't they filthy? Whatmud! It's everywhere, in the streets, on the quays, even in the Seine,even in the sky. Ah! mud is a fine thing when you're downhearted. Iwould like to dabble in it, to mould a statue with it, a statue onehundred feet high, and call it, 'My Ennui.'"
"But why do you suffer from ennui, my darling?" mildly inquires theex-ballet-dancer, good-natured and rosy, from her armchair, in which shesits very erect for fear of damage to her hair, which is even morecarefully arranged than usual. "Haven't you all that any one can need tobe happy?"
And she proceeds, in her placid voice, to enumerate for the hundredthtime her reasons for happiness, her renown, her genius, her beauty, allmen at her feet, the handsomest, the most powerful; oh! yes, the mostpowerful, for that very day--But an ominous screech, a heart-rendingwail from the jackal, maddened by the monotony of her desert, suddenlymakes the studio windows rattle and sends the terrified old chrysalisback into her cocoon.
The completion of her group and its departure for the Salon has leftFelicia for a week past in this state of prostration, of disgust, ofheart-rending, distressing irritation. It requires all of the oldfairy's unwearying patience, the magic of the memories she evokes everymoment in the day, to make life endurable to her beside thatrestlessness, that wicked wrath which she can hear grumbling beneath thegirl's silences, and which suddenly bursts forth in a bitter word, in a_pah_! of disgust _apropos_ of everything. Her group is hideous. No onewill speak of it. All the critics are donkeys. The public? an immense_goitre_ with three stories of chin. And yet, a few Sundays ago, whenthe Duc de Mora came with the superintendent of Fine Arts to see herwork at the studio, she was so happy, so proud of the praise bestowed onher, so thoroughly delighted with her work, which she admired at adistance as if it were by another hand, now that the modelling-tool hadceased to form between her and her work the bond which tends to impairthe impartiality of the artist's judgment.
But it is so every year. When the studio is robbed of the latest work,when her famous name is once more at the mercy of the public'sunforeseen caprice, Felicia's preoccupations--for she has then novisible object in life--stray through the empty void of her heart, ofher existence as one who has turned aside from the peaceful furrow,until she is once more intent upon another task. She shuts herself up,she refuses to see anybody. One would say that she is distrustful ofherself. The good Jenkins is the only one who can endure her duringthose crises. He even seems to take pleasure in them, as if he expectedsomething from them. And yet God knows she is not amiable to him. Onlyyesterday he remained two hours with the beautiful ennui-riddencreature, who did not so much as speak a single word to him. If that isthe sort of welcome she has in store for the great personage who doesthem the honor to dine with them--At that point the gentle Crenmitz, whohas been placidly ruminating all these things and gazing at the slendertoe of her tufted shoes, suddenly remembers that she has promised tomake a dish of Viennese cakes for the dinner of the personage inquestion, and quietly leaves the studio on the tips of her little toes.
Still the rain, still the mud, still the beautiful sphinx, crouching inher seat, her eyes wandering aimlessly over the miry landscape. Of whatis she thinking? What is she watching on those muddy roads, growing dimin the fading light, with that frown on her brow and that lip curled indisgust? Is she awaiting her destiny? A melancholy destiny, to have goneabroad in such weather, without fear of the darkness, of the mud.
Some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than Constance'smouse-like trot. The little servant, doubtless. And Felicia saysroughly, without turning:
"Go to bed. I am not at home to any one."
"I should be very glad to speak with you if you were," a voice repliedgood-naturedly.
She starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sightof that unexpected visitor:
"Ah! it's you, young Minerva! How did you get in?"
"Very easily. All the doors are open."
"I am not surprised. Constance has been like a madwoman ever sincemorning, with her dinner."
"Yes, I saw. The reception room is full of flowers. You have--?"
"Oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. I don't know how I ever madeup my mind to it. Sit down here, beside me. I am glad to see you."
Paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. She had never seemed solovely to him. In the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion ofobjects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, hereyes s
hone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habitoutlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. Then hertone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. Why had hestayed away so long? It was almost a month since she had seen him. Hadthey ceased to be friends, pray? He excused himself as best he could.Business, a journey. Moreover, although he had not been there, he hadoften talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day.
"Really? With whom?"
"With--"
He was on the point of saying: "With Aline Joyeuse," but somethingchecked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering thatname in the studio which had heard so many other names. There are somethings which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. Paulpreferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to theobject of his call.
"With an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted greatpain. Tell me, why haven't you finished the poor Nabob's bust? It was asource of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust atthe Salon. He relied upon it."
At the name of the Nabob she was slightly embarrassed.
"It is true," she said, "I broke my word. What do you expect? I am theslave of my whims. But it is my purpose to take it up again one of thesedays. See, the cloth thrown over it is all damp, so that the clay won'tdry."
"And the accident? Ah! do you know, we hardly believed in that?"
"You were wrong. I never lie. A fall, a terrible crash. But the clay wasfresh, I easily repaired it. Look!"
She removed the cloth with a movement of her arm; the Nabob stood forth,with his honest face beaming with joy at being reproduced, and so true,so natural, that Paul uttered a cry of admiration.
"Isn't it good?" she asked ingenuously. "A few touches there andthere--" She had taken the tool and the little sponge and pushed thestand into what little light there was. "It would be a matter of a fewhours; but it couldn't go to the Exhibition. This is the 22d; everythinghad to be sent in long ago."
"Pshaw! With influence--"
She frowned, and the wicked, drooping expression played about her mouth.
"True. The Duc de Mora's _protegee_. Oh! you need not excuse yourself. Iknow what people say of him, and I care as little for it as that!" Shethrew a pellet of clay which flattened out against the wall. "Perhaps,indeed, by dint of imagining what is not--But let us drop those vilethings," she said, with a toss of her little aristocratic head. "I amanxious to give you pleasure, Minerva. Your friend shall go to the Salonthis year."
At that moment the odor of caramel, of hot pastry invaded the studio,where the twilight was falling in fine, decolorized dust; and the Fairyappeared, with a plate of fritters in her hand, a true fairy,rejuvenated in gay attire, arrayed in a white tunic which affordedglimpses, beneath the yellowed lace, of her lovely old woman's arms, thecharm that is the last to die.
"Look at my _kuchlen_, darling; see if they're not a success this time.Oh! I beg your pardon; I didn't see that you had company. Ah! It'sMonsieur Paul? Are you pretty well, Monsieur Paul? Pray taste one of mycakes."
And the amiable old lady, to whom her costume seemed to impartextraordinary animation, came prancing forward, balancing her plate onthe ends of her doll-like fingers.
"Let him alone," said Felicia calmly. "You can offer him some atdinner."
"At dinner!"
The dancer was so thunderstruck that she nearly overturned her prettycakes, which were as light and dainty and excellent as herself.
"Why, yes, I am keeping him to dinner with us. Oh! I beg you," she addedwith peculiar earnestness, seeing that the young man made a gesture ofrefusal, "I beg you, do not say no. You can do me a real service bystaying to-night. Come, I did not hesitate a moment ago, you know."
She had taken his hand; really there seemed to be a strangedisproportion between her request and the anxious, imploring tone inwhich it was made. Paul still held back. He was not properly dressed.How could she expect him to stay? A dinner-party at which she was tohave other guests.
"My dinner-party? Why, I will countermand the orders for it. That is theway I feel. We three will dine alone, you and I and Constance."
"But, Felicia, my child, you can't think of doing such a thing. Upon myword! What about the--the other who will soon be here?"
"_Parbleu!_ I will write to him to stay at home."
"Wretched girl, it is too late."
"Not at all, It's just striking six. The dinner was to be at half-pastseven. You must send him this at once."
She wrote a note, in haste, on a corner of the table.
"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_ what a strange girl!" murmured the dancer, lostin bewilderment, while Felicia, enchanted, transfigured, joyously sealedher letter.
"There, my excuses are all made. The sick-headache wasn't invented forKadour. Oh! how glad I am!" she added, when the letter had gone; "what adelightful evening we will have! Kiss me, Constance. This won't preventour doing honor to your _kuchlen_, and we shall enjoy seeing you in apretty gown that makes you look younger than I."
Less than that would have induced the dancer to forgive this latest whimof her dear demon and the crime of _lese-majeste_ in which she had madeher an accomplice. The idea of treating such a personage so cavalierly!No one else in the world would have done it, no one but her. As for Paulde Gery, he made no further attempt at resistance, being caught oncemore in the network from which he believed that he had set himself freeby absence, but which, as soon as he crossed the threshold of thestudio, suppressed his will and delivered him over, fast bound andconquered, to the sentiment that he was firmly resolved to combat.
* * * * *
It was evident that the dinner, a veritable gourmand's dinner,superintended by the Austrian even in its least important details, hadbeen prepared for a guest of first-rate consequence. From the highBerber chandeliers of carved wood, with seven branches, which shed aflood of light upon the richly embroidered cloth, to the long-neckedwine-jugs of curious and exquisite shape, the sumptuous tableappointments and the delicacy of the dishes, which were highly seasonedto an unusual degree, everything disclosed the importance of theexpected guest and the pains that had been taken to please him. Therewas no mistaking the fact that it was an artist's establishment. Littlesilverware, but superb china, perfect harmony without the slightestattempt at arrangement. Old Rouen, pink Sevres, Dutch glass mounted inold finely-wrought pewter met on that table as on a stand of rareobjects collected by a connoisseur simply to gratify his taste. Theresult was some slight confusion in the household, dependent as it wasupon the chance of a lucky find. The exquisite oil-cruet had no stopper.The broken salt-cellar overflowed on the cloth, and every moment it was:"What has become of the mustard-pot? What has happened to that fork?"All of which troubled de Gery a little on account of the young mistressof the house, who, for her part, was not in the least disturbed.
But something that made him even more ill at ease was his anxiety toknow who the privileged guest was whose place he had taken at thattable, whom they could entertain with such magnificence and at the sametime such utter lack of ceremony. In spite of everything he felt as ifthat countermanded guest were present, a constant affront to his owndignity. In vain did he try to forget him; everything reminded him ofhim, even to the holiday attire of the kindly Fairy, who sat oppositehim and who still retained some of the grand manners which she hadassumed in anticipation of the solemn occasion. The thought disturbedhim, poisoned his joy in being there.
On the other hand, as is always the case in parties of two, whereharmony of mood is very rare, he had never seen Felicia so affectionate,in such merry humor. She was in a state of effervescent, almostchildlike gayety, one of those fervent outbursts of emotion which oneexperiences when some danger has passed, the reaction of a clear,blazing fire after the excitement of a shipwreck. She laughed heartily,teased Paul about his accent and what she called his bourgeois ideas."For you are shockingly bourgeois, you know. But that is just what Ilike in you. It's on account of the
contrast, I have no doubt, because Iwas born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that I have always been fondof sedate, logical natures."
"Oh! my dear, what do you suppose Monsieur Paul will think, when you sayyou were born under a bridge?" exclaimed the excellent Crenmitz, whocould not accustom herself to the exaggeration of metaphors, and alwaystook everything literally.
"Let him think what he pleases, my Fairy. We haven't our eye on him fora husband. I am sure he would have none of that monster known as anartist wife. He would think he had married the devil. You are quiteright, Minerva. Art is a despot. One must give oneself to itunreservedly. You put into your work all the imagination, energy,honesty, conscience that you possess, so that you have no more of any ofthem as long as you live, and the completion of the work tosses youadrift, helpless and without a compass, like a dismasted hulk, at themercy of every wave. Such a wife would be a melancholy acquisition."
"And yet," the young man ventured timidly to observe, "it seems to methat art, however exacting it may be, cannot take entire possession ofthe woman. What would she do with her affections, with the craving forlove, for self-sacrifice, which is in her, far more than in man, themotive for every act?"
She mused a moment before replying.
"You may be right, O wise Minerva! It is the truth that there are dayswhen my life rings terribly hollow. I am conscious of holes in it,unfathomable depths. Everything disappears that I throw in to fill themup. My noblest artistic enthusiasms are swallowed up in them and dieevery time in a sigh. At such times I think of marriage. A husband,children, a lot of children, tumbling about the studio, all their neststo look after, the satisfaction of the physical activity which islacking in our artistic lives, regular occupations, constant movement,innocent fun, which would compel one to play instead of always thinkingin the dark and the great void, to laugh at a blow to one's self-esteem,to be simply a happy mother on the day when the public casts one asideas a used-up, played-out artist."
And in presence of that vision of domestic happiness the girl's lovelyfeatures assumed an expression which Paul had never before seen uponthem, and which took entire possession of him, gave him a mad longing tocarry away in his arms that beautiful wild bird dreaming of the dovecot,to protect her, to shelter her with the sure love of an honest man.
She continued, without looking at him:
"I am not so flighty as I seem to be, you know. Ask my dear godmother ifI didn't keep straight up to the mark when she put me atboarding-school. But what a hurly-burly my life was after that! If youknew what a youth I had, if you knew how premature experience witheredmy mind, and what confusion there was, in my small girl's brain, betweenwhat was and was not forbidden, between reason and folly. Only art,which was constantly discussed and eulogized, stood erect in all thatruin, and I took refuge in that. That, perhaps, is why I shall never beanything but an artist, a woman apart from other women, a poor Amazonwith her heart held captive under her iron breastplate, rushing intobattle like a man, and condemned to live and die like a man."
Why did he not say to her then:
"Beautiful warrior, lay aside your weapons, don the floating robe andthe charms of the sex to which you belong. I love you, I entreat you tomarry me that you may be happy and may make me happy too."
Ah! this is why. He was afraid that the other, he who was to come todinner that night, you know, and who remained between them despite hisabsence, would hear him speak in that strain and would have the right tolaugh at him or to pity him for such a fervent outburst.
"At all events, I promise you one thing," she continued, "and that isthat if I ever have a daughter, I will try to make a true woman of herand not such a poor abandoned creature as I am. Oh! you know, my goodFairy, I do not mean that for you. You have always been kind to yourdemon, full of affection and care. Why just look at her, see how prettyshe is, how young she looks to-night."
Enlivened by the repast, the lights, and one of those white dresseswhose reflection causes wrinkles to disappear, La Crenmitz was leaningback in her chair, holding on a level with her half-closed eyes a glassof Chateau-Yquem from the cellar of their neighbor the Moulin-Rouge; andher little pink face, her airy pastel-like costume reflected in thegolden wine, which loaned to it its sparkling warmth, recalled theformer heroine of the dainty suppers after the play, the Crenmitz of thegood old days, not an audacious hussy after the style of our modernoperatic stars, but entirely unaffected and nestling contentedly in hersplendor like a fine pearl in its mother-of-pearl shell. Felicia, whowas certainly determined to be agreeable to everybody that evening, ledher thoughts to the chapter of reminiscences, made her describe oncemore her triumphs in _Giselle_ and in the _Peri_, and the ovations fromthe audience, the visit of the princes to her dressing-room, and QueenAmelie's gift, accompanied by such charming words. The evocation ofthose glorious scenes intoxicated the poor Fairy, her eyes shone, theycould hear her little feet moving restlessly under the table as ifseized by a dancing frenzy. And, indeed, when the dinner was at an endand they had returned to the studio, Constance began to pace back andforth, to describe a dance-step or a pirouette, talking all the time,interrupting herself to hum an air from some ballet to which she kepttime with her head, then suddenly gathered herself together and with oneleap was at the other end of the studio.
"Now she's off," whispered Felicia to de Gery. "Watch. It will be worthyour while, for you are about to see La Crenmitz dance."
It was a fascinating, fairy-like spectacle. Against the background ofthe enormous room, drowned in shadow and hardly lighted save through theround window from without, where the moon was climbing upward in a deepblue sky, a typical operatic sky, the famous dancer's figure stood outall white, a light, airy unsubstantial ghost, flying, rather thanspringing, through the air; then, standing upon her slender toes, upheldin the air by naught but her outstretched arms, her face raised in afleeting attitude in which nothing was visible but the smile, she camequickly forward toward the light, or receded with little jerky steps, sorapid that one constantly expected to hear the crash of glass and seeher glide backward up the slope of the broad moonbeam that shone aslantinto the studio. There was one fact that imparted a strange, poeticcharm to that fantastic ballet, and that was the absence of music, ofevery other sound than that of the measured footfalls, whose effect washeightened by the semi-darkness, of that quick, light patter no louderthan the fall of the petals from a dahlia, one by one. This lasted forsome minutes, then they could tell from the quickening of her breaththat she was becoming exhausted.
"Enough, enough! Sit down," said Felicia.
Thereupon the little white ghost lighted on the edge of an armchair andsat there poised and ready to start anew, smiling and panting, untilsleep seized upon her, and began to sway and rock her softly to and frowithout disturbing her pretty attitude, like a dragon-fly on a willowbranch that drags in the water and moves with the current.
As they watched her nodding in the chair, Felicia said:
"Poor little Fairy! that is the best and most serious thing in the wayof friendship, protection and guardianship that I have had during mylife. That butterfly acted as my godmother. Do you wonder now at thezigzags, the erratic flights of my mind? Lucky for me that I have clungto her."
She added abruptly, with joyful warmth:
"Ah! Minerva, Minerva, I am very glad that you came to-night. Youmustn't leave me alone so long again, you see. I need to have an uprightmind like yours by my side, to see one true face amid all the masksthat surround me. But you're fearfully bourgeois all the same," sheadded laughingly, "and a provincial to boot. But never mind! you are theman that I most enjoy looking at all the same. And I believe that myliking for you is due mainly to one thing. You remind me of some one whowas the dearest friend of my youth, a serious, sensible little creaturelike yourself, bound fast to the commonplace side of existence, butmingling with it the element of idealism which we artists put aside forthe benefit of our work alone. Some things that you say seem to me tocome from her lips. You have a mouth
built on the same antique model. Isthat what makes your words alike? I don't know about that, but youcertainly do resemble each other. I'll show you."
As she sat opposite him at the table laden with sketches and albums, shebegan to draw as she talked, her face bending over the paper, herunmanageable curls shading her shapely little head. She was no longerthe beautiful crouching monster, with the frowning anxious face,lamenting her own destiny; but a woman, a true woman, who loves andseeks to charm. Paul forgot all his suspicions then, in presence of suchsincerity and grace. He was on the point of speaking, of pleading withher. It was the decisive moment. But the door opened and the littleservant appeared. Monsieur le Duc had sent to ask if Mademoiselle werestill suffering from her sick headache.
"Just as much as ever," she said testily.
When the servant had gone, there was a moment's silence between them, afreezing pause. Paul had risen. She went on with her sketch, her headstill bent.
He walked away a few steps, then returned to the table and asked gently,astonished to find that he was so calm:
"Was it the Duc de Mora who was to dine here?"
"Yes--I was bored--a day of spleen. Such days are very bad for me."
"Was the duchess to come?"
"The duchess? No. I don't know her."
"Well, if I were in your place, I would never receive in my house, at mytable, a married man whose wife I did not meet in society. You complainof being abandoned; why do you abandon yourself? When one is withoutreproach, one must keep oneself above suspicion. Do I offend you?"
"No, no, scold me, Minerva. I like your morality. It is frank andstraightforward; it doesn't squint like Jenkins'. As I told you, I needsome one to guide me."
She held before him the sketch she had just finished.
"See! there's the friend of whom I spoke to you. A deep, sure affectionwhich I was foolish enough to throw away, like the wasteful idiot I am.I always used to invoke her memory in moments of perplexity, when therewas some question to be decided or some sacrifice to be made. I wouldsay to myself: 'What will she think about it?' as we pause in our workto think of some great man, of one of our masters. You must fill thatplace for me. Will you?"
Paul did not answer. He was looking at Aline's portrait. It was she, itwas she to the life, her regular profile, her kindly, laughing mouth,and the long curl caressing the slender neck. Ah! all the Ducs de Moraon earth might come now. Felicia no longer existed for him.
Poor Felicia, a creature endowed with superior powers, was much likethose sorceresses who weave and ravel the destinies of others withoutthe power to accomplish anything for their own happiness.
"Will you give me this sketch?" he said almost inaudibly, in a voicethat trembled with emotion.
"Very gladly; she is pretty, isn't she? Ah! if you should happen to meether, love her, marry her. She is worth more than all the rest. But,failing her, failing her--"
And the beautiful tamed sphinx looked up at him with her great tearful,laughing eyes, whose enigma was no longer insoluble.