Complete Works of Gustave Flaubert

by Gustave Flaubert

  At times I have believed that I embodied the whole world, and all that I have seen took place, in verity, within my being.

  Sometimes I weary, lose my reason, and indulge in such mad follies that the most worthless of my minions ridicule me while they pity me.

  No creature cares for me; nowhere am I loved, — neither in heaven, of which I am a son, nor yet in hell, where I am lord, nor upon earth, where men deem me a god. Naught do I see but paroxysms of rage, rivers of blood, or maddened frenzy. Ne’er shall my eyelids close in slumber, never my spirit find repose, whilst thou, at least, canst rest thy head upon the cool, green freshness of the grave. Yea, I must ever dwell amid the glare of palaces, must listen to the curses of the starving, or inhale the stench of crimes that cry aloud to heaven.

  God, whom I hate, has punished me indeed! But my soul is greater even than His wrath; in one deep sigh I could the whole world draw into my breast, where it would burn eternally, even as I.

  When, Lord, shall thy great trumpet sound? Then a great harmony shall hover over sea and hill. Ah! would that I could suffer with humanity; their cries and sobs should drown the sound of mine!

  [Innumerable skeletons, riding in chariots, advance at a rapid pace, with cries of joy and triumph. They drag broken branches and crowns of laurel, from which the dried and yellow leaves fall continually in the wind and the dust.]

  Lo, a triumphal throng from Rome, the Eternal City! Her Coliseum and her Capitol are now two grains of sands that served once as a pedestal; but Death has swung his scythe: the monuments have fallen. Behold! At their head comes Nero, pride of my heart, the greatest poet earth has known!

  [Nero advances in a chariot drawn by twelve skeleton horses. With the sceptre in his hand, he strikes the bony backs of his steeds. He stands erect, his shroud flapping behind him in billowy folds. He turns, as if upon a racecourse; his eyes are flaming and he cries loudly:]

  NERO.

  Quick! Quick! And faster still, until your feet dash fire from the flinty stones and your nostrils fleck your breasts with foam. What! do not the wheels smoke yet? Hear ye the fanfares, whose sound reached even to Ostia; the clapping of the hands, the cries of joy? See how the populace shower saffron on my head! See how my pathway is already damp with sprayed perfume! My chariot whirls on; the pace is swifter than the wind as I shake the golden reins! Faster and faster! The dust clouds rise; my mantle floats upon the breeze, which in my ears sings “Triumph! triumph!” Faster and faster! Hearken to the shouts of joy, list to the stamping feet and the plaudits of the multitude. Jupiter himself looks down on us from heaven. Faster! yea, faster still!

  [Nero’s chariot now seems to be drawn by demons: a black cloud of dust and smoke envelops him; in his erratic course he crashes into tombs, and the re-awakened corpses are crushed under the wheels of the chariot, which now turns, comes forward, and stops.]

  NERO.

  Now, let six hundred of my women dance the Grecian Dances silently before me, the while I lave myself with roses in a bath of porphyry. Then let them circle me, with interlacing arms, that I may see on all sides alabaster forms in graceful evolution, swaying like tall reeds bending over an amorous pool.

  And I will give the empire and the sea, the Senate, the Olympus, the Capitol, to her who shall embrace me the most ardently; to her whose heart shall throb beneath my own; to her who shall enmesh me in her flowing hair, smile on me sweetest, and enfold me in the warmest clasp; to her who soothing me with songs of love shall waken me to joy and heights of rapture! Rome shall be still this night; no barque shall cleave the waters of the Tiber, since ‘tis my wish to see the mirrored moon on its untroubled face and hear the voice of woman floating over it. Let perfumed breezes pass through all my draperies! Ah, I would die, voluptuously intoxicated.

  Then, while I eat of some rare meat, that only I may taste, let some one sing, while damsels, lightly draped, serve me from plates of gold and watch my rest. One slave shall cut her sister’s throat, because it is my pleasure — a favourite with the gods — to mingle the perfume of blood with that of food, and cries of victims soothe my nerves.

  This night I shall burn Rome. The flames shall light up heaven, and Tiber shall roll in waves of fire!

  Then, I shall build of aloes wood a stage to float upon the Italian sea, and the Roman populace shall throng thereto chanting my praise. Its draperies shall be of purple, and on it I shall have a bed of eagles’ plumage. There I shall sit, and at my side shall be the loveliest woman in the empire, while all the universe applauds the achievements of a god! And though the tempest roar round me, its rage shall be extinguished ‘neath my feet, and sounds of music shall o’ercome the clamor of the waves!

  * * * * *

  What didst thou say? Vindex revolts, my legions fly, my women flee in terror? Silence and tears alone remain, and I hear naught but the rolling of thunder. Must I die, now?

  DEATH.

  Instantly!

  NERO.

  Must I give up my days of feasting and delight, my spectacles, my triumphs, my chariots and the applause of multitudes?

  DEATH.

  All! All!

  SATAN.

  Haste, Master of the World! One comes — One who will put thee to the sword. An emperor knows how to die!

  NERO.

  Die! I have scarce begun to live! Oh, what great deeds I should accomplish — deeds that should make Olympus tremble! I would fill up the bed of hoary ocean and speed across it in a triumphal car. I would still live — would see the sun once more, the Tiber, the Campagna, the Circus on the golden sands. Ah! let me live!

  DEATH.

  I will give thee a mantle for the tomb, and an eternal bed that shall be softer and more peaceful than the Imperial couch.

  NERO.

  Yet, I am loth to die.

  DEATH.

  Die, then!

  [He gathers up the shroud, lying beside him on the ground, and bears away Nero — wrapped in its folds.]

  NOVEMBRE

  This little sketch, not longer than an ordinary short story, originally appeared in pamphlet form, and is written in autobiographical style.

  NOVEMBRE

  A Fantastic Trifle

  I.

  ANON, in desperation, devoured by burning passions, the wine of life pulsating madly in my veins, and frenzied by the sweet, the secret mysteries of love, sighing after magnificent but vanished dreams, tempted by the voluptuous aspirations of an ardent mind, seeking to comprehend all poetry, all harmony and art, yet staggering ‘neath the crushing weight of a heavy heart and an unbounded pride, I fell bewildered into grief’s abyss, the rushing blood suffused my face, my veins throbbed, and my bosom swelled with sighs. I saw no more; I felt no more; I was intoxicated, mad. Illusion made me great and told me I contained supreme within myself an incarnation which, revealed, would dazzle men; and even assumed my very dreams to be the emanations of the god that dwelt within me.

  To this self-deification all the hours of youth were given. I dreamed my body was a fane in which to worship the divine. The shrine is empty; nettles spring between the stones; its columns now have crumbled, and in its desolation owls have made their nests.

  At last no longer did I fret away my life; existence now consumed me. My dreams fatigued me more than the severest labour; a whole creation, immobile, unknown, even to itself, formed a secret undercurrent of the life within me. My soul was chaos, wherein whirled a thousand impulses that knew not how to manifest themselves, yet always sought new ways to mould themselves into some powerful force.

  The varying phases of my character were akin to Indian jungles where nature palpitates in every growth, monstrous or adorable, wherever revealed by the sun. A jungle where the air is filled at once with perfumes and with poisons; where tigers bound and through the shadows elephants pace proudly on, like living black pagodas; where sinuous serpents glide through bamboo thickets and mysterious and misshapen gods hide in hollow caverns among heaps of gold. Through this strange region runs a broad stream,
where yawning crocodiles at gruesome play disport themselves and drag their scales among the lotus flowers growing near the banks, and over flowery islets often strewn with rotting corpses of the victims of the plague.

  Nevertheless, I loved my life, but asked that it expand and radiate. I loved it in the enjoyment of mad gallops on a fiery steed; I loved it in the scintillation of the stars, and in the lulling movement of the waves. I loved it in the throbbing of those fair, smooth bosoms, palpitating under amorous eyes; in the vibrations of the violins; in quivering oak-leaves; in the setting sun, gilding the window panes, and bringing dreams of terraced balconies in Babylon, whereon queens leaned fair arms and gazed out upon Asia.

  II.

  It rained. I listened to the sound of falling drops and to the breathing of my Marie sleeping.

  The candles, nigh exhausted, flickered in their crystal sconces. Dawn now appeared, a yellow line that crept along the horizon’s rim, then swiftly upward spread, growing each instant more like glints of golden wine. It threw faint light into the room, tinting the shadows with its purple hues, and mingling in the mirror with the rays of the dying lights.

  And Marie lay supine, — parts of her body in the light and others in the shade. Her attitude was careless; her head lay lower than her breast; the right arm, with a bracelet on drooped o’er the side of the bed and almost touched the floor. On the small table near her stood a vase containing violets. I reached out, took the flowers, and broke the cord that tied them; then inhaled their fragrance. They were a little withered; perhaps the room was warm, or possibly some time had fled since they were plucked. I found their odour exquisitely sweet and penetrating. I drank their fragrance, one by one, and as they still were damp, I laid them on my aching eyelids, for my blood was burning and my weary limbs recoiled from touch of draperies as if from fire.

  Then, not knowing what to do, not wishing to awaken Marie — for it gave me a strange joy to watch her slumbering — I laid the violets softly, one by one, upon her round, white throat, until they covered it. Somehow, the fading blossoms, under which she slept, brought Marie’s self to mind. Like them, in spite of vanished youth — perhaps because of it — she seemed to shed a keener, more provocative aroma. The sorrows she had tasted lent her mouth a certain bitterness, not without beauty, which remained upon her lips even while she slept. There were two wrinkles on her neck, which day no doubt would hide beneath her hair. Gazing upon this girl, so sad amid caresses, whose very claspings had in them a kind of melancholy joy, I knew that myriad passions must have seared her past, consuming her like levin-belts.

  Just then she shivered slightly; all the violets dropped from her fair throat. She smiled, with half- closed eyes; clasping her arms around my neck she pressed upon my lips a long, long kiss of morning greeting, like the kiss of an awakening dove.

  The Poetry

  THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTOINE

  Translated by M. Walter Dunne

  Finally published in 1874, this is a prose poem that Flaubert spent almost his whole life working on. It concerns the famous temptation faced by Saint Anthony the Great in the Egyptian desert, a theme often repeated in medieval and modern art. Written in the form of a play script, it details one night in the life of Anthony the Great, when the saint is faced with great temptations.

  Le tableau de Bruegel

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  A Holy Saint.

  CHAPTER II.

  The Temptation of Love and Power.

  CHAPTER III.

  The Disciple, Hilarion.

  CHAPTER IV.

  The Fiery Trial.

  CHAPTER V.

  All Gods, All Religions.

  CHAPTER VI.

  The Mystery of Space.

  CHAPTER VII.

  The Chimera and the Sphinx.

  La Tentation de Saint-Antoine by Jacques Callot (détail)

  An original illustartion for the prose poem

  CHAPTER I.

  A Holy Saint.

  IT is in the Thebaïd, on the heights of a mountain, where a platform, shaped like a crescent, is surrounded by huge stones.

  The Hermit’s cell occupies the background. It is built of mud and reeds, flat-roofed and doorless. Inside are seen a pitcher and a loaf of black bread; in the centre, on a wooden support, a large book; on the ground, here and there, bits of rush-work, a mat or two, a basket and a knife.

  Some ten paces or so from the cell a tall cross is planted in the ground; and, at the other end of the platform, a gnarled old palm-tree leans over the abyss, for the side of the mountain is scarped; and at the bottom of the cliff the Nile swells, as it were, into a lake.

  To right and left, the view is bounded by the enclosing rocks; but, on the side of the desert, immense undulations of a yellowish ash-colour rise, one above and one beyond the other, like the lines of a sea-coast; while, far off, beyond the sands, the mountains of the Libyan range form a wall of chalk-like whiteness faintly shaded with violet haze. In front, the sun is going down. Towards the north, the sky has a pearl-grey tint; while, at the zenith, purple clouds, like the tufts of a gigantic mane, stretch over the blue vault. These purple streaks grow browner; the patches of blue assume the paleness of mother-of-pearl. The bushes, the pebbles, the earth, now wear the hard colour of bronze, and through space floats a golden dust so fine that it is scarcely distinguishable from the vibrations of light.

  Saint Antony, who has a long beard, unshorn locks, and a tunic of goatskin, is seated, cross-legged, engaged in making mats. No sooner has the sun disappeared than he heaves a deep sigh, and gazing towards the horizon:

  “Another day! Another day gone! I was not so miserable in former times as I am now! Before the night was over, I used to begin my prayers; then I would go down to the river to fetch water, and would reascend the rough mountain pathway, singing a hymn, with the water-bottle on my shoulder. After that, I used to amuse myself by arranging everything in my cell. I used to take up my tools, and examine the mats, to see whether they were evenly cut, and the baskets, to see whether they were light; for it seemed to me then that even my most trifling acts were duties which I performed with ease. At regulated hours I left off my work and prayed, with my two arms extended. I felt as if a fountain of mercy were flowing from Heaven above into my heart. But now it is dried up. Why is this? ...”

  He proceeds slowly into the rocky enclosure.

  “When I left home, everyone found fault with me. My mother sank into a dying state; my sister, from a distance, made signs to me to come back; and the other one wept, Ammonaria, that child whom I used to meet every evening, beside the cistern, as she was leading away her cattle. She ran after me. The rings on her feet glittered in the dust, and her tunic, open at the hips, fluttered in the wind. The old ascetic who hurried me from the spot addressed her, as we fled, in loud and menacing tones. Then our two camels kept galloping continuously, till at length every familiar object had vanished from my sight.

  “At first, I selected for my abode the tomb of one of the Pharaohs. But some enchantment surrounds those subterranean palaces, amid whose gloom the air is stifled with the decayed odour of aromatics. From the depths of the sarcophagi I heard a mournful voice arise, that called me by name — or rather, as it seemed to me, all the fearful pictures on the walls started into hideous life. Then I fled to the borders of the Red Sea into a citadel in ruins. There I had for companions the scorpions that crawled amongst the stones, and, overhead, the eagles who were continually whirling across the azure sky. At night, I was torn by talons, bitten by beaks, or brushed with light wings; and horrible demons, yelling in my ears, hurled me to the earth. At last, the drivers of a caravan, which was journeying towards Alexandria, rescued me, and carried me along with them.

  “After this, I became a pupil of the venerable Didymus. Though he was blind, no one equalled him in knowledge of the Scriptures. When our lesson was ended, he used to take my arm, and, with my aid, ascend the Panium, from whose summit could be seen the Pharos an
d the open sea. Then we would return home, passing along the quays, where we brushed against men of every nation, including the Cimmerians, clad in bearskin, and the Gymnosophists of the Ganges, who smear their bodies with cow-dung. There were continual conflicts in the streets, some of which were caused by the Jews’ refusal to pay taxes, and others by the attempts of the seditious to drive out the Romans. Besides, the city is filled with heretics, the followers of Manes, of Valentinus, of Basilides, and of Arius, all of them eagerly striving to discuss with you points of doctrine and to convert you to their views.

  “Their discourses sometimes come back to my memory; and, though I try not to dwell upon them, they haunt my thoughts.

  “I next took refuge in Colzin, and, when I had undergone a severe penance, I no longer feared the wrath of God. Many persons gathered around me, offering to become anchorites. I imposed on them a rule of life in antagonism to the vagaries of Gnosticism and the sophistries of the philosophers. Communications now reached me from every quarter, and people came a great distance to see me.

  “Meanwhile, the populace continued to torture the confessors; and I was led back to Alexandria by an ardent thirst for martyrdom. I found on my arrival that the persecution had ceased three days before. Just as I was returning, my path was blocked by a great crowd in front of the Temple of Serapis. I was told that the Governor was about to make one final example. In the centre of the portico, in the broad light of day, a naked woman was fastened to a pillar, while two soldiers were scourging her. At each stroke her entire frame writhed. Suddenly, she cast a wild look around, her trembling lips parted; and, above the heads of the multitude, her figure wrapped, as it were, in her flowing hair, methought I recognised Ammonaria. ... Yet this one was taller — and beautiful, exceedingly!”