Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Tell me the names of the five people to whom you have just left your papers. You will earn two louis.” The man looked at me stupefied.

  “I am asking you this because it is a bet I have made,” said I. “Besides, this information, which you can give me if you choose, can’t make any possible difference to you,” and I put the two louis in his hand.

  “My faith, monsieur, I’ll give it to you willingly; as the bands of my papers are all printed, it will not be any great harm in showing them to you.”

  I took a pencil, and wrote down the names as he read them off to me. He named three or four which were perfectly uninteresting to me, and, finally, giving the number of Hélène’s house, said, “M. Frank, artist.”

  I asked him, in order to put him on a false track, if, in the list of his subscribers who lived on the boulevard, there was not a M. de Verneuil.

  He examined his list, replied that there was no such person, thanked me, and I returned home almost happy.

  The name Frank was evidently that of a foreigner; Hélène must then have married during her voyage to Germany, and married an artist who, to all appearances, was as yet very little known, for I had never heard his name before.

  I went, however, that very day to the exhibition of paintings, hoping to find in the catalogue some notice of Hélène’s husband.

  What inexplicable interest made me do all this? Almost certain that Hélène was happy, my discoveries could only result in misery to myself; but, whether I saw in all this interest in Hélène only a means of distracting my thoughts from the remembrance of Marguerite, or whether I was only following the influence of a sentiment which was still smouldering in my heart, I awoke from the apathy which had been dulling my senses for so many days, and began my investigations with an energy that astonished me.

  The exposition was drawing to its close; I entered the gallery, where there were very few people. I opened the catalogue, and there I found the name of M. Frank, Boulevard Beaumarchais, No. — . — One painting and two water-colours were inscribed with his name.

  One was a fragment from a scene in Goethe’s “Egmont.”

  The painter had chosen the end of the charming interview between Claire and Egmont, who, at the request of his naive mistress, has come to the humble abode where she dwells with her mother, clothed in all the splendid vesture which he wore to the court. “What splendour,” cries Claire, as she admires, with childish joy, the dazzling costume of the man she loves with such profound and candid passion. “And this velvet,” continues she, “and these embroideries! I know not where to begin. And the collar of the Golden Fleece! You told me once that it was a distinction of great merit. I can compare it, then, to your love for me, for I wear it here, next my heart.”

  This is the notice of the picture as it was printed in the catalogue.

  No. — . M. Frank, Painter.

  Claire and Egmont.

  Claire. — Ah, let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me fix my eyes on thine, and there find all things, — consolation, hope, joy, and sorrow. (She clasps him in her arms and gazes on him.) Tell me, tell me, — it seems so strange, — art thou, then, Egmont? Count Egmont? The great Egmont, who makes such a stir in the world, who figures in the Gazette, who is the hope of the country?

  Egmont. — No, Claire, I am not he.

  Claire. — How?

  Egmont. — Listen, Claire! Let me sit down! (He seats himself, and she kneels before him on a footstool, rests her arms on his knees, and gazes in his eyes.) That Egmont is a morose, solemn, cold Egmont, obliged to be for ever on his guard, to appear now this and now that; harassed, misunderstood, and worried, when people think him gay and light-hearted; beloved by the people who know not their own minds, surrounded by friends in whom he does not confide, observed by men who desire to supplant him, toiling and tiring himself for no object nor any reward. Oh, let me hide him, let me not speak of his feelings. But this Egmont, Claire, is calm, sincere, happy; he is loved and known by the best of hearts, which he knows and loves in return, and which he presses to his own with boundless confidence and love. (He takes her in his arms.) This is thy Egmont.

  Claire. — Thus let me die; the world has no further joy.

  The choice of subject for a picture has always appeared to me to show the real limit of an artist’s intelligence; there is his thought, his poesy. Now I admit that the scene as described by the catalogue was admirably depicted.

  I looked for the painting, nevertheless, with a secret hope that I should find it mediocre and unworthy the high inspiration the artist had demanded from one of the chef-d’ œuvres of Goethe.

  Hélène had seemed to me too happy. If I had found her sad, this wicked and envious thought would never have entered my mind.

  I sought this picture for a long time. At last I discovered it placed in a most unfavourable light, and half hidden by the gigantic and massive frame of a large portrait.

  Frank’s canvas was what is called an easel picture; it was about three feet high by two feet and a half wide.

  I have said that, to my shame, I arrived before the picture with a determination to find fault with it; but what immediately caused my malevolent feelings to disappear in an instant was, first, my surprise, and then my involuntary admiration, as I recognised the sweet face of Hélène, who had, doubtless, posed for the personage of Claire.

  It was Hélène, whose charm and unspeakable grace were still more idealised by the divine power of art, for art alone can give to the features it reproduces, and reproduces with fidelity, that inexplicable character, grandiose and almost superhuman, which is to the living features that which historic perspective is to events.

  The more I examined the picture, the more I admired, in spite of the pangs of my hateful jealousy, a talent full of freshness, melancholy, and elevation, joined to an intimate knowledge of nature and the passions.

  As to Egmont, no one could find a physiognomy more masculine and more expressive. If the slight frown on the forehead showed the indelible trace of political cares, though his pallor betrayed the absorbing and concentrated reaction of that ambition which Egmont concealed under frivolity, one saw that at least, when he was at the side of Claire, free from all annoyances, forgetful of his hazardous schemes, he came to cool his burning brow by the soothing touch of this angel of devotion and candour, who, as Goethe tells us, had so often lulled this great child to sleep.

  The count’s smile was full of calmness and serenity, his eyes were bright with confidence and love; his pose, so joyfully casting aside court etiquette, was one of graceful negligence, while with his two beautiful hands he pressed those of Claire, who, kneeling before her Egmont, with her elbows on his knees, was gazing upon him with idolatry. In this profound and admiring look of Claire, you could imagine her saying, “I, poor, obscure girl, I am beloved of Egmont, — of the great Egmont.” Simple and enchanting modesty, which makes that young girl’s love so chaste, so humble, and so passionate!

  As to the accessories of the picture, their extreme simplicity had been carefully and skilfully thought out, so as to show to all the more advantage Egmont’s splendid costume. It was the interior of a poor Flemish house, there was Claire’s spinning-wheel, some pieces of furniture with well-polished twisted columns; on the left a little window with leaded panes, which was shaded by the hop-vine that, climbing on the outside of it, half hid the bird cage that hung there. It was from this window, no doubt, that Claire had seen Egmont for the first time, when, passing by mounted on his beautiful battle-steed at the head of his army, the count, with his unparalleled grace, had saluted her with his golden sword, and a bow of his waving plumes. And finally, above the high chimney piece, with its serge curtain, one could see a rude and naive popular print representing the great Egmont. Wretched picture as it was, Claire had often dreamily gazed on it, little thinking that one day the great captain would be at her knees! Or rather that she would be kneeling before Egmont; for it was with admirable sagacity that the painter had thus chosen C
laire’s attitude, as symbolising the love of that admirable child, who, so timidly kneeling, shows her gratitude for the love she bestows.

  A soft exquisite light illumined the picture, which was almost all painted in a beautiful clair-obscure, for the colouring, though bold, strong, and vigorous, was of a marvellous harmony and mellowness; in the accessories there was nothing bright or staring to attract the eye. Claire wore the simple black dress of a young Flemish girl, and Egmont’s costume was of brown velvet, embroidered with silver; thus all the interest of the picture was absolutely concentrated on those two admirable faces.

  I must admit that, in spite of the ill-feeling I had entertained for Frank, with the exception of M. Delacroix’s “Charles the Fifth,” the “Marguerite and Faust” of Ary Scheffer, and “The Children of Edward” by M. Delaroche, I had scarcely ever been more profoundly touched by the irresistible power of genius.

  Giving myself up to its charming influence, thinking only of enjoying its beauty, I lost myself in the thousand impressions this picture awakened in me; but when this first effervescence of involuntary admiration was somewhat calmed, my envious feelings returned with a sharper sting than ever, for I appreciated all there was great and elevated in the talent of Hélène’s husband.

  I looked in the catalogue; this beautiful picture had not yet been sold. A mean frame, whose cheapness was noticeable and displeasing to me, surrounded this chef-d’oeuvre, which was barely visible, consigned as it was to the very end of the gallery among all the miserable daubs which are thrust to one side. I judged from this fact that Prank was but little known. He had probably just arrived from Germany, without friends and without protection, and had simply abandoned his picture to all the hazards of the exposition.

  They say that some of the most talented men die unknown, or live misunderstood. I do not believe this. A first attempt may not be successful, but true merit inevitably rises at last to its own level. I made this reflection, which I believe a just one, as I thought bitterly that sooner or later the remarkable talent of Prank would become recognised, and that his obscurity, over which I was now rejoicing, would be but a thing of the past.

  I looked again in the catalogue for the numbers and “subjects of his water-colour sketches. Like the painting, they demonstrated the poetic intelligence of the artist.

  The subject of one was from Shakespeare’s “King Lear;” the other was from Goethe’s beautiful drama of “Goetz of Berlichingen.”

  Not far from Prank’s oil-painting I discovered these two sketches, which were of large dimensions.

  The subject of the first was that sad and touching scene, in which Cordelia, the noble daughter of the old king, notices in her father the return of reason, the cruelly of his other daughters having driven him crazy.

  He exclaims:

  “Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight! I am mightily abused. I should e’en die with pity, to see another thus. I know not what to say, I will not swear these are my hands. Let’s see, I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured of my condition!”

  “Oh, look upon me, sir,” sweet Cordelia replies, “and hold your hands in benediction o’er me; no, sir, you must not kneel,” she cries, holding in hers her father’s hands, who, pale and trembling, wishes to kneel before his daughter, saying: “Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, forescore and upward, not an hour more nor less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant what place this is; and all the skill I have remembers not these garments; nor I know not where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”

  “And so I am, I am,” cries Cordelia, weeping, and wetting his hands with her tears.

  “Be your tears wet? Yes, ‘faith. I pray, weep not: if you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong: you have some cause, they have not.” All the fearful sadness of the poor king, all the courageous tenderness of Cordelia, were exhaled from this beautiful drawing, which bore the imprint of the sombre and melancholy genius of Shakespeare.

  The other water-colour offered a remarkable contrast to the first; there, one beheld the wildness and rusticity of the German nature. The scene was laid in the vast and antique kitchen of old Goetz’s château, which had been transformed into a magazine and hospital during the siege of his feudal habitation by the troops of the Empire.

  Elizabeth, his wife, is busy in attending to the needs of a wounded man; the men are all on the ramparts, and so the women and children are hurrying here and there, moulding bullets or preparing food for the besieged. Old Goetz has just entered. His rude physiognomy, frank and warlike, shows the stubbornness and bravery of this man of iron; armed with his breastplate, he has placed, for an instant, his casque and his arquebuse on a massive oak table, on which is stretched out the half of a deer, that no one has had the time to cut up. Goetz passes one of his great hands over his forehead, from which he wipes the moisture, and in the other hand holds a large pewter mug, from which he means to quench his thirst and renew his strength.

  “Thou hast a hard time, poor wife?” says he to Elizabeth. “I hope to have it a long time,” she answers; “but we will hardly hold out.”

  “Some charcoal, madame!” asks a servant maid. “What for?”

  “To melt bullets, we have no more.”

  “How are you off for powder?”

  “We waste none of our shots, madame.”

  In order to give an idea of the powerful and varied beauty of the principal figures in this drawing, it will suffice to say that they perfectly expressed the savage energy which Goethe ascribes to them.

  As I returned home, thinking of this unknown man, who had held me so long under the irresistible spell of his talent, my jealousy, my hateful irritation, gave way to a sort of sadness, which was calmer, but harder to bear. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of my own idleness, as I compared the pure and elevated emotions, the noble resources, that the man I detested, this Frank, must find in his art, to the aimless life I was dragging along in such obscurity, without even having enough vulgar common sense to enjoy the sensual delights that were offered me.

  I could not, however, hide from myself the fact that regret and envy were the sole motives of such reflections. Had Hélène married a man who was rich, idle, and wellborn, in the same social position as myself, I should never have had such thoughts; therefore, I was enraged when I reflected that fame would put an enormous and insurmountable distance between this Frank and myself. Sooner or later, he would be able to bestow on Hélène, not only the fortune that I could have given her, but the distinction of a great name, a name to be illustrious for ever, perhaps one of those glorious names that thrills with pride the woman who bears it!

  Oh, how frightful all this seemed to me! For me there was no consolation, no possible hope. I found consolation, however, in this thought, which came to me through dragging to the surface every shameful and mean thought that was buried deep in my envious soul.

  I hoped that Frank, in spite of his talent and his poesy, would prove to be of a vulgar and repulsive appearance. Besides, he could never have received that refined education, which results in elegance in the smallest details of daily life, a charm which Hélène, who was a woman of such distinction, knew so well how to appreciate. Remembering, with a childish maliciousness, how few of the men of talent or genius I had met had an education and charm of manner on a level with the splendours of their mind, I had hopes that Frank would not be among the number of these privileged few.

  Shall I dare to tell it? It was with the greatest conceivable impatience that I waited for night to come, so that again I might take my station before the shutters of Hélène’s house, and find out if I had been mistaken on the subject of Frank.

  Nothing could be wilder or more ridiculous than this kind of espionage. And, besides, why s
hould I wish to continue in the fatal round? Why open a wound which was already so sore? I know not, but my curiosity was insurmountable.

  I could not go too soon before Hélène’s house, for fear of attracting the attention of people who might pass by. It was, therefore, ten o’clock at night when I reached that lonely boulevard.

  The light was shining clearly from the little holes in the shutters. I crept quietly up to the house.

  The little salon was lighted up; but at first I did not see Hélène.

  Near the mantelpiece a man was drawing, by the light of a lamp. This man could be no other than Frank.

  On beholding him, I felt myself torn to pieces by jealousy and hatred, for I could see that he was very young and remarkably handsome. The clear light from the lamp shone on his profile, whose noble contour showed a striking and extraordinary likeness to the portraits of Raphael at twenty-five.

  His mouth had a smile both sweet and serious, and his eyelashes were so long that they threw a shadow on his delicate pale cheeks. His hair was chestnut brown, and, as was the fashion among German students, he wore it falling in soft curls on his neck, whose grace and elegance were apparent; for Frank wore a sort of black velvet jacket, belted around the waist with a purple silk cord. His long, white hand, which from time to time dipped a paint brush into a glass cup, was admirably shaped.

  Nothing could be more despicable than my real despair at the revelation of Frank’s beauty. But are the secret and disgraceful sores of pride any the less agonising, because they are hidden out of sight, in the very recesses of our hearts?

  But with the insatiable avidity of despair, that wishes to drain its bitter cup to the dregs, I looked again into the parlour, leaning my burning forehead against the damp panel of the window blinds.

  I cast my eyes towards the door which led into that other room; where the day before I had seen the cradle, I now saw, through that door which was standing wide open, Hélène sleeping beside her child.