Clair-obscur, by virtue of the reservation I mentioned, was the master of taking away or conserving the immortality of fays that he had granted to them in the person of his mistress. They were unaware of that privilege; he had forgotten it himself; it had not been used because, until then, they had rarely strayed from the gratitude that they owed him. He remembered it, and, not doubting that the hope or dread that he promised himself to employ appropriately would dispose them to collaborating in changing Funestine, he resolved to summon them.
I can hear at his point three or four of those transcendent connoisseurs whom nothing escapes and who set the tone in the alcoves of those precious imbeciles of whom they are the oracles, making an objection that they believe to be without reply. “What is the point,” they will cry, on reading this passage, “of the idle author of this insipid tale making his simpleton of a genius have recourse to the fays? Whoever can give mortality can de-uglify a mortal.”
Gently, Messieurs. What tells you that one is as facile as the other? What have I told you myself? That Clair-Obscur had power. I stopped at that; I have not said that he was a god, at least not a god of the Iliad. You know full well that you have not leafed through the book of destinies. Go on, my negligence will furnish a vaster material for your criticisms; exercise it at your ease; I permit you to laugh, but I don’t promise you to be exact. Are you content? No you’re not. You’re seeking less to harm the work than the author. Your malignity will not find its reckoning with me; there is nothing suspect in my allegories, nothing that is susceptible to sinister applications, and nothing in my portraits that can wound religion or the delicacy of the great men I respect. Calumnies, I do not fear you.
At any rate, he ordered the fays, under penalty of incurring his indignation, to render the same day to the Palace of Eventualities. They were all together at the time, because nothing was happening in the world at that moment requiring their attention: no queen ready to give birth, and, in consequence, no prince or princess to endow with good or bad qualities.
They suspected the reason for which he was summoning them. Annoyed by such an imperious and precipitate citation, they would have liked not to obey; that was their first idea; but, unable to dispense with it, they came, after having sworn mutually not to grant anything to the pleas or threats of the genius.
“If we had been consulted,” they said, as they traversed the courtyards, which they criticized one after another, “this edifice wouldn’t be so ridiculous. To make something great, it isn’t sufficient to lavish gold and precious stones; it requires understanding. What a confused mass of conflicting beauties! What heavy architecture! What dull distribution!” All of that was untrue, but they were annoyed. “Let’s destroy this shocking building right away and precipitate its ruins to the bottom of the sea. It will only take a moment for us to build a new one, which will make our tyrant sense that our taste responds to our power.”
They were about to set to work when Clair-obscur, informed of their arrival, made them enter the council. The master of ceremonies, dressed in a chameleon-skin simarrre, opened a large register, called them all by their names and attributes, and placed each one according to rank. It was perceived that two of the most powerful and most moderate were missing. As they did not reside in the empire of the others, who had neglected to inform them, Clair-obscur did not say a word; he even counted so weakly on the compliance of the remainder that he was glad to have a resource in reserve in the amity of those two, a measure of prudence that subsequent events justified.
For half an hour there as a formidable hum similar to that made by bees emerging from their hives. The ushers cried in vain for silence; it could not be imposed on the talkers, who only ceased when they were weary of babbling.
The genius, more vehement than Demosthenes and more diffuse than Cicero, said to them: “I am not complaining that, doubtless irritated against Funestine’s mother, you avenged your grievances on her daughter; you did not know when she was born that I destined her for my son Formosa. I am only complaining that the knowledge of my designs for that princess had no effect on your hatred, and that, until now, you have not distributed to her any of the favorable gifts that you lavish elsewhere without choice and without measure. I have no doubt that the step to which I am lowering myself today will cause you to think again. It is in your interest and that of your glory not to discontent a sovereign to whom you have the most essential obligations, a sovereign who wants to maintain under the title of a favor what he could demand as a duty. Do not oblige me, by your ingratitude or your obstinacy, to repent of my benefits.
“Let those among you who have not contributed to the ugliness and defects of Funestine work to efface them. Out of condescension to the others I do not want to force them to destroy their work. I will add more; I pardon them in favor of good intentions. Judge all my generosity by such an affectionate discourse. I am requesting, I am not ordering; weigh that term, sense all its force and let us separate as good friends.”
At those words, a general stir rose up in the assembly, which the genius saw as a bad augury. A bitter and precious fay marked by a hand gesture that she wanted to speak, and they fell silent in order to listen.
“We have been assembled,” she said, “with great noise. What has been the end result of the trouble we have taken to abandon our hearths? Reproaches and threats. And, going further than that, it is demanded that we account for the usage we make of our power: an unprecedented enterprise, of which today furnishes the first example. We are free. That could be our unique response. But in order that we cannot be accused of acting by caprice in the dispensation of our authority, let us enter into detail and refute, article by article, the unmeasured discourse that has just been made to us.
“The princess is ugly, and she is hateful, of which we are the cause. Could she not be both, without us? Let us agree, however, that we are gripped by hatred for her. What appears to Clair-obscur to be an injustice is an effect of our sagacity. We know that beauty carries trouble and despair everywhere. We have preserved a thousand unfortunates from a premature death. Formosa ought to marry her, so we are obliged to work a miracle in order to render her worthy of him. Perhaps she is only too worthy. Does this father, so prejudiced in favor of his son, not know that he is to be the terror of the world, and our most mortal enemy? Does he know us poorly enough to imagine that dread of displeasing him will force us to seek his good graces? Let him learn that, unshakable in our aversions and our amities, they are as immortal as we are.
“However,” she added, addressing the genius, “to show you that we are capable of generosity, when no one tries to constrain us, we will offer to serve your tenderness for Formosa by procuring him a beautiful wife, since you want so much for him to have one. Funestine has a sister, we will exhaust our power to render her accomplished. Don’t expect anything more. The effort we are willing to make is great enough for no other to be demanded. See...”
“No,” Clair-obscur interrupted, inflamed with anger, “No, I will not change my arrangements; this will receive the law, when I can give it. Believe me, do not abuse my mildness, even once...”
He did not want to finish, out of the goodness of his heart, but insulting laughter stirred his bile. “I sense that I am becoming annoyed,” he continued. “Beware of that; I warn you that my anger might have terrible consequences. I will accord you another two minutes; take advantage of them to make a more reasonable resolution. After that, I shall no longer listen to anything.”
“There is no need for a longer deliberation,” retorted a young hothead, gesturing with her fan. “You don’t want to change your ideas, we don’t want to change ours; and to show you how unsusceptible we are to dread or inconstancy, I declare to you in the name of my companions that Funestine will remain ugly, because you wish her to cease to be, and because Rêveuse, her sister, in whom you are not interested, is already the most beautiful person in the world. The sentence that I have just pronounced is irrevocable.”
The fay
was not unaware that there was a means of embellishing the body and soul of Funestine, but she had the malice not to mention it. She even flattered herself that she had the time to raise an invincible obstacle to it.
That impertinent harangue was universally applauded. Clair-obscur made a response to it that the tumultuous assembly did not expect.
“Well,” he cried, beside himself. “Since persuasion cannot soften the inflexibility of your hatred, it is necessary to have recourse to vengeance. Tremble, ingrates, the lighting is about to depart. I have gratified you with the precious gift of immortality; I am depriving you of it. Get out of my sight, enjoy your foolish independence and the pleasure of doing harm; it will not be for long; I consecrate you to death and all the fear that it inspires.”
The assembly broke up and the fays returned home, more satisfied with having stood up to the genius than alarmed by threats that they regarded less as an effect of his power as an expression of vain resentment. The death of a few dissipated the error of the others, but their entire destruction was reserved for Formosa.
Clair-obscur, mortified by the lack of success of his enterprise, departed without seeing Funestine again. What could he have said to her? A movement of curiosity made him take the route to Australia.
He found the court in the first transports of admiration, and of the jealousy caused by the change that had just taken place in the person of Rêveuse. He saw her, and could not resist so many charms; he reminded himself that her marvelous beauty was a present from his enemies, but he found her no less beautiful and no less seductive for that.
The genius, as you have been able to observe, had scarcely more intelligence than common sense. Amour destroys one and does not augment the other. He immediately wanted to reveal his passion, but timidity closed his mouth; gazes and sighs were no use to him, Rêveuse did not perceive them. It took him two days to embolden himself. Finally, he spoke, without being interrupted, but without obtaining a response. The nonchalant princess was profoundly thoughtful, embroidering a muff. He exhausted all the fine sentiments that he had seen in modern brochures. The words of tenderness, confidence, rigor, scorn and despair were out of place and confused. Rêveuse, who did not understand that language at all, looked at him distractedly, replied evasively, and smiled, without knowing the price of a smile.
Let us leave him to forget himself with Rêveuse and return to the Palace of Eventualities.
Funestine, informed of what had happened between the fays and Clair-obscur, was irritated by it, but anger soon gave way to indignation; from day to day she seemed less agitated, less bitter and less furious. There were certain moments when one might have thought that she was no longer sensitive to her ugliness.
That calm was not an effort of reason but a consequence of exhaustion. The most excessive dolors have their term; they weaken of their own accord and become supportable. Consult fortunate people, examine what is happening in their hearts; when good fortune intoxicates them, they shudder at the very idea of its inconstancy; they could not support it without dying. Has it abandoned them? They lament, it is true, but they do not die. Time acts upon them in an imperceptible manner, futile regrets are less frequent, they cease, the sensibility dissipates, or turns to other objects. The least firm eventually adapt to their condition, however frightful it might be.
Such was the situation with Funestine, when a new genre of persecution reawakened her impatience and ill humor. The little fay who had been the last to speak in the council took it into her head, in order to clarify her doubts, to assume the form of a fly. Stubbornly attached to the sad princess she flew, without giving her any respite, over her hands, her breasts or her face, the day passed chasing it away and seeing it return. By night, hidden in her curtains, she frightened her with baleful dreams, the horror of which did not vanish when she awoke. Did she try to go back to sleep? An importunate buzzing forced her to abandon her bed, and pursued her into all the corners of her room: a torture that can only seem light to those who have never experienced it.
My readers will doubtless reproach me for letting her languish for too long; touched by the excess of her woes, they want to see an end to them; let us satisfy their impatience, since it has not been possible for me to prevent it. I beg them, however, to permit me a small digression, which is necessary to me, in order to commence my second part.
PART TWO
People complain every day about the large number of futile books that inundate the city and the provinces, and they have reason to complain of them. What do they contain, for the most part? Elongated trivia in several parts, vague ideas, hackneyed intrigues in which imagination is lacking as well as judgment, the reading of which has nothing to compensate the time that one wastes in perusing them. The instructive is neglected for the agreeable. What happens in consequence? People remain ignorant, and become bored. The authors are less to blame than general taste. Some are only bagatelles, which might be capable of being excellent things; but they want to be read, perhaps they also want to live.
A serious work is scarcely known except to its author; only frivolities are in fashion; the fair sex loves them and devours them, fops learn them and repeat them, magistrates study them, soldiers relax with them, philosophers…I am ashamed to say that philosophers amuse themselves with them. I have been dragged away by the torrent, I am writing a tale of fays. I am publishing it, only expecting to be criticized, and being the first to criticize myself. Let’s get back to it.
Toward the forty-ninth degree of south latitude there is a delightful country called Thyas.62 There, in a palace built on a hill, the two fays I mentioned above make their abode. One is Virtue, the other Imagination; united by the charming bonds of amity, they spend their days loving one another and telling one another so.
Virtue combines with a flattering and intelligent physiognomy mildness of character and solidity of sentiment; one is prejudiced in her favor at first sight. One adores her, and never ceases to adore her, when one knows her. Too modest to take advantage of the thousand brilliant qualities that strike everyone, she appears to be unaware of them.
The goodness of her heart, which is never belied, equals or surpasses the justice and extent of her intellect; sensible, but courageous, she was able early in life to fortify herself against all the foibles of her sex; unshakable in the most overwhelming trials, fortune can do nothing against her. Her friends admire her but dare not praise her; their interests are dear to her, their pleasures are her own. Such is Virtue; I am mistaken, I have only sketched her portrait.
Imagination has in her favor the brilliant exterior that dazzles; one does not approach her without emotion or gaze at her without danger; she causes one to experience all the power of something strange. The melodious sounds of her voice pass rapidly from the ears to the heart of those who hear them. Generous and compassionate, she does not wait to be solicited; to be unfortunate is to have a right to her benefits. If she relates the most trivial anecdote, trivia acquire consequence in her mouth; she attaches as much as she amuses, the fortunate terms that alone can render her thought present themselves and arrange themselves of their own accord.
Anyone who judges her without examining her would believe her to be in love with the impossible; it is true that her vivacity bears her to the marvelous, but reason always brings her back to the simple. Beautiful, without making use of her beauty, the amour that never quits her stops in her eyes, their eloquence is deceptive; her heart is not in half of the desires to which they give birth. But what she possesses eminently is the rare talent of imitation; she transforms herself in those she imitates; one sees them, and they are transformed themselves; she only ever makes use of them in bagatelles; far from wounding anyone, the originals recognize themselves, laughing, in their copies.
During one of those delightful summer nights that are preferable to the glare of the most beautiful day, the two of them were walking together on a terrace planted with orange trees, below which the most beautiful river in the world meanders. Virtue
stopped and looked at her without speaking.
“What are you thinking about?” her friend asked her.
“I’m admiring,” she replied, “the accidents of light that the moon’s rays produce; the effect appears admirable to me. You know that I love objects of that sort, and occupy myself with them pleasurably.”
“Is there not a danger,” said Imagination, “of pausing on it for too long? One passes from one idea to another, one goes further than one would wish, and often, when one returns to oneself, one is surprised to find oneself less sensible to the things one sees than to those one does not see.”
“I don’t know,” said Virtue, “what danger there is in the sight of a river; we’re a long way from it. If I were in a boat, I’d be timid; I confess that the calm that reigns wouldn’t reassure me, but...”
“It renders you pensive,” Imagination went on, “and that’s a great deal.”
“You’re making an unjust war on me,” said Virtue. “Why are you reproaching me for an imaginary reverie? Do you suspect me…?”
“No,” Imagination continued again, “I don’t suspect you of weakness; but I can’t hide from you that I’ve being doing violence to my curiosity for a long time; I’m dying to know the depths of your heart. Your merit has obtained a thousand admirers, does none of them appear to you to be worthy of the slightest return? Perhaps you are sensible without crime; whatever your choice might be, it shouldn’t make you blush. Speak; I’m only seeking to inform myself in order to approve. Name your conqueror, and you’ll make two people happy at once, your friend and your lover.”
Funestine and Other Adventures in Romancia Page 22