The juggler

by Rachilde, 1860-1953

  "We'll kill the dancer!" replied the distant voice of Madame Donalger.

  There was a second of real anguish.

  She came back, and they let out a cry. She was holding a

  jar of makeup, which she had smeared completely down the front of her costume. It formed a torrential sash of dark red from the belt right down to the chenille fringes, and with her two fingers dipped in the bottom of the jar she slit her throat, moved them over her naked breast and traced the path of the blood which spurted in a gush.

  "It's horrible!" shouted Missie. "You can see it nauseates us!"

  Leon, pale as death, forced a smile.

  "Madame, you'll never dance again, will you," he said imperiously.

  "No, never again! Excuse me, it's the last whim of my youth which ... is dying. . . . I'm leaving."

  When she returned, she was the grand lady in white, quite proper, and she held out her hands to them.

  "My husband used to like this entertainment very much, and it was my Ninaude, the poor negress who was so dirty who had taught me it. It's neither Spanish nor Caribbean, it has elements of both, but I'm a little rusty, and I get no pleasure out of dancing now. Things are missing ..."

  She was looking gently at Leon, and she sat down on the swan turTet.

  "My little children," she added fanning herself, "be gay! the dancer is dead."

  They all three sat down at her feet, huddled like birds frightened by the storm's wind.

  "That's a beautiful costume ruined!" murmured Missie sulking.

  "Ah! on the stage of the Opera, in the full light of a grand evening! ..." repeated Mademoiselle Frehel, shaking her head.

  "He had some strange tastes . . . your husband! . . . " muttered Leon, pushing his nails into his palms.

  There was no longer any question of trifles.

  Someone seemed to have come and placed himself in their midst, without ceremony, and he was taking his share, absorbing all the gaiety.

  "We'll have dinner soon, children, soon, and I'll let you go to sleep, after dinner, for we're all tired, aren't we. You, Missie, you're hungry, you're yawning . . . and you, Louise, you have to play again tonight?"

  "Yes, an interlude, two pieces on the harp at the Baroness d'Esmont's. One has to get back in the harness!" (She added, caressingly:) "Why were you not an artist, quite simply?"

  "Because juggling or dancing, it isn't art . . . it's ..."

  She was going to admit: it's love, but she fell silent.

  "Tell us a story, madame," breathed Leon, his spirits picking up again, "it will calm us down."

  "A Spanish story," said Missie.

  Madame Donalger stroked their three hands united in hers.

  "Ah! the good little children, who could waltz and who want stories! . . . Well, once upon a time there was a nun in the heart of a dark Spanish convent, a nun burned by all the fires of hell and yet who believed in God. This nun of the devil was most beautiful, a tall brunette with the lightest shadow of a moustache on her lip. She was so bored that one night she slipped over the convent walls; but before going over the walls of this convent, she had gone into the chapel to make herself a beautiful outfit. She had cut a doublet out of a chasuble of gold, put on violet slippers and took the lace from the altar of the Virgin, then also the strong sword decorated with precious stones of Saint Michael Archangel. She roamed the world in this disguise, turned Spain upside down, taking daughters from their mothers and wives from their husbands, under the name of . . . Don Juan"

  "What?" said Leon jumping. "And no one, neither the daughters, nor the wives ..."

  "Certain estates have their graces, sir! She was wearing the altar decorations, and God, to punish her for her sacrilege, had changed her into ... a man. But she died a woman and repentant, in front of My Lady the Virgin, whom she hadn't been able to seduce or wanted to offend."

  "So be it!" growled Leon.

  "You know," concluded Eliante, "that this legend exists in a book written by a former monk, an inquisitor, 3 1 suppose, wanting to excuse in advance the Don Juans to come, and it really is only this story which could permit the creation of the type of all fickle seducers, for Don Juan, the first of that name, the king of Spain, died of love for his legitimate wife, and Don Juan of Austria, the generous, the conqueror, was a pious person much more shot through with glory than with love. Me, I would willingly believe that, to be the passionate person par excellence, one must have a heart as close to the devil as to God, that's to say be a proud man or a woman . . . dreaming of the infinite! Now, my children, let's have dinner! Here is Uncle Donalger returning, I hear his carriage ..."

  They had dinner. The old diplomat poured, in glasses of pink crystal tinted with gold, wine dating, he claimed, from his birth, and everyone drank with their own particular devotion.

  Missie seemed mad, tried to lose herself in childish prattling, a little intoxicated already.

  Louise Frehel was talking music, apparently irritated to leave the house where she felt so at home.

  Eliante was quiet, dreaming perhaps about Spain.

  Leon was quiet . . . thinking about the night.

  That night . . .

  He feared some mundane complication. Mademoiselle

  Frehel asking him to accompany her, but Eliante had foreseen that. She offered her own carriage to the girl, whom she knew to be poor.

  Leon took his leave, very serious, absolutely sober, his heart beating, and he returned via the garden one hour later, the mysterious little garden, of which he found the gate open.

  Eliante Donalger was waiting for him all white, on the steps, all white and fantastically bathed in moon.

  "Come in," she said, "the house is asleep, and the lights are out. Come quickly arid close the doors tight."

  She spoke simply.

  In the green dining room, one seemed to be in the water of a warm spring, and it was fragrant with island fruit.

  Eliante held out her hand to him, and continued mouth to mouth:

  "I've done everything my master ordered. This very day I sent a copy of the deed which divides my fortune between Missie and her uncle. I'm poor, poorer than the little artist who went, this evening, to earn her bread by making others waltz. The house no longer belongs to me. I've given it to someone outright with everything agreeable it contains. But I smashed the wax statues and the collection of ivories so that the children should not be scandalized ... I remain naked . . . in my dress, my only dress and my black leotard . . . my juggler's outfit, my last costume. . . . Tomorrow morning, I'll leave ..."

  "Where for, my God?"

  "I'll go and return to my country, the kingdom of my dreams! The heat!"

  "And me?"

  "You'll stay here!"

  "Never! I'll follow you ..."

  "No! Accept tonight, the only night of love possible be-

  tween us, the one which must never end, for I'll leave you an unforgettable souvenir. I'm a big coquette? So be it! I want my wishes respected."

  He pressed her madly in his arms.

  "Enough! Enough! No macabre juggling. I want you, and if you want me, you can have no other wishes than mine. I'm the master, you won't leave, I fully take it upon myself to prevent you. Go ahead of me to show me where your bed is . . . and be quiet!"

  "Will you at least allow me time to take off my dress?"

  "I won't grant you a minute . . . I'll follow you."

  He followed her.

  In the large closed bedroom, everything was so dark that he had the dizzying feeling of throwing himself into a chasm.

  And he had to get his bearings for a moment, let go of her wrist.

  A horrible anguish gripped the young man.

  "Eliante! talk to me . . . Eliante, where are you? ... I forbid you to be quiet, at the moment, I want to hear your voice."

  "I'm here, my beloved," answered the already distant voice, "I'm taking off my dress ... in front of my bed. . . . Come ..."

  And he perceived a slight noise of rustling silk.
>
  Really, it was no longer making love! It was almost committing a crime, but having torn off his own clothes in mad gestures, he rushed toward the bed.

  Finally, she was there, alive, and she embraced him with the strange shiver of a child who is afraid.

  . . . The young male, tired, half opened his eyes, stretched nervously in the lace and silks of this strange bed, in the shape of an egg. He turned over, letting slide the torso of

  she who was still sleeping deeply at his side.

  What was this light which was penetrating thtough the topaz window panes?

  Dawn or fire?

  He lowered his eyelids again, sighed, raised them once again, sighed more heavily. No, he was dreaming!

  He was dreaming that Eliante's bedroom was lit up for one of those pretty gay parties she knew how to give to her little children, men!

  He was dreaming that he could see her, her, the unusual woman whose cold virgins flesh could not be moved by caresses, whose heart did not blossom in ardent words beneath the beating of an ardent breast . . . that he could see her juggling . . .

  Always her juggler's knives! Her damned knives which she dared to prefer to him!

  Did they bite better?

  In a bad mood, the young man, tired and naked, pulled up the sheets. He thought confusedly that she would not be able to jump out of this bed without having to pass over his body.

  And that thought woke him up more . . . because the bed was in the middle of the room. He looked at everything.

  But no, his dream continued. It is very difficult to shake off a nightmare of love.

  He saw Eliante again in her juggler outfit. She came forward, in a glory of gold, holding by the point the five swords of pain.

  She was approaching the bed perhaps to kill him?

  Decidedly, it had to be the perfume of the island fruit of which she took unfair advantage, which made him drunk, gave him a headache, saturated his skin and made him all clammy.

  And also that smell of wild animal, the dominant smell

  of the room, of the temple, that musty smell of negro fat!"

  Ah! He was breathing fire. He wanted to wake up, to check that she was indeed still there, asleep, and not in the process of juggling in front of their bed . . .

  . . . She was approaching, with tiny steps, so beautiful in her dark costume all sparkling with stars and her fierce warrior's helmet, her black hair was shining like steel. Her staring pupils were flaming, making her ivory face, her red mouth with the accentuated dimples, more tragic.

  And Leon Reille, yawning a little, propped himself up on his elbow, watching her juggle without much surprise, because, this nightmare, he had had it very often, and it seemed natural to him to find her at the same time quite naked laying near him, and standing up in front of him, juggling in a black silk leotard.

  He only understood completely when the other Eliante, woken in her turn by the clicking of the knives, let out a shrill cry, a cry of unspeakable childish terror. Then he jumped, tried to escape from Missies arms, which clung onto him, in panic.

  "Eliante! Eliante!" he groaned twisting in pain and shame. "A knife for me . . .1 don't want to live any longer! A knife for me ..."

  Eliante, still impassive, put one knee on the ground and raising her inspired eyes, joyful with a supernatural joy, threw very high her handsome juggler's knife . . . but instead of pulling back her head, presenting her chest, she changed the routine, stretched out her throat. The knife, heavier, coming from higher, planted itself straight in, and her powerful little fingers drove it in, pushed with all their might, clenched on the ebony handle.

  The woman slipped backwards. A purple wave drowned the pale mask . . . her last makeup . . .

  ... In a faint, mouth to mouth, the two children had

  fallen back on their nuptial bed, indissolubly united, now, by the same sacred horror.

  Less than a year later, Marie Chamerot could think that her husband would forget, for he had smiled as he kissed the little girl who had just been born.

  "You'll love her, our child?" said the new mother, all happy. "She'll be pretty ..."

  "Yes," answered Leon, "I hope she'll have her eyes, the eyes of dream."

  FiN

  Explanatory Notes

  Chapter One

  i. L'Animate, "The Animal," was the title of a novel Rachilde published in 1893 (Paris: H. Simonis Empis), in which the heroine, Laure Lordes, has pronounced animalistic qualities.

  2. According to Michelet, being carried off on a black horse is the fate of a witch (see Catherine Clement, "The Guilty One" in The Newly Born Woman, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986, 5). Rachilde's depiction of Eliante draws on this tradition of female disruption to create a figure who blends both witch and hysteric.

  3. Leon's sneering remark is no doubt a reference to the fact that Eliante is the name of a secondary character in Moliere's play The Misanthrope. Eliante is an emblem of good sense and modesty, having a "solid and sincere heart" (act 1, scene 1), in contrast to the dazzling heroine, the coquette Celimene. The importance of this contrast emerges in the accusations of coquetry levelled at Eliante in The Juggler. Perhaps also relevant to Rachilde's choice of this name for her heroine is Eliante's long speech in act 2, scene 4 of Moliere's play, where she opposes the

  hero Alceste's claim that true love means not pardoning the loved ones faults. Eliante maintains instead that love makes people blind to the shortcomings of the "object" of their passion:

  . . . Ton voit les amants vanter toujours leur choix; Jamais leur passion n'y voit rien de blamable, Et dans l'objet aime tout leur devient aimable.

  One sees lovers always praise their choice

  Their passion never sees any cause for blame

  And in the love object everything becomes lovable

  The heroine of The Juggler also denies that there can be any "blame" attached to her passion, and finds that objects become lovable when they are loved.

  Although Rachilde apparently was not an admirer of Moliere (see the letter from Jarry to Rachilde in Organographies du Cymbalum Pata-physicum, no. 18, September 8, 1982, 35), the allusion to Classical French drama underscores the dramatic aspects of The Juggler.

  4. It was a well-known fact that Rachilde did not like dancing. Although she met her future husband, Alfred Vallette, at a dance, he wrote to her (presumably in 1885): "You write like other people go to the ball, for fun (and you don't dance since you've decided that that is an inappropriate form of exercise)" (my translation). Rachilde published Vallette s early letters to her in Le Roman d'un homme serieux, "The Novel of a Serious Man" (Paris: Mercure de France, 1944) using the same epithet—"serious"—that Eliante continually applies to Leon.

  5. Such echoes of ennui caused Rachilde to be dubbed "Mademoiselle Baudelaire" (in an article of that title, by Maurice Barres, in Les Chroniques, February 1887, 77-79).

  6. Born in i860, Rachilde turned forty in 1900, the year of The Juggler's publication.

  7. Although Rachilde was a member of the club Les Hydropathies, she drank only water all her life. It was a fact often noted by Rachilde herself and one strongly associated with her by friends and acquaintances, who also refer to it. Rachilde's insistence on this aspect of Eliante's character suggests a strong autobiographical element in her depiction.

  Chapter Two

  1. The Bullier Ball, also known as the Closerie des Lilas, was a popular dance hall frequented by the young, especially law and medical students. It was at the Bal Bullier that Rachilde met Alfred Vallette in 1885. They were married four years later.

  2. Slang for a disagreeable person.

  3. Georges Dieulafoy (1839-1911) was the author, in 1880, of a pathology manual {Manuel de pathologie interne) which became the "bible" of medical students for thirty years.

  4. It was well known to all Rachilde's contemporaries that she kept open house on Tuesdays, and her salon was very popular. Among the regular guests were those associated with the symbolist movement and
the Mercure de France (Remy de Gourmont, Marcel Schwob, Pierre Louys, Alfred Jarry, Pierre Quillard, Paul Fort, Ferdinand Herold, Louis Dumur, Jean Lorrain).

  Chapter Three

  1. On his first visit to Eliante's house in chapter 1, Leon had entered via the garden, but on this occasion he arrives via the courtyard. The terms "cote jardin" and "cote cour" (garden side and courtyard side, respectively) are used to indicate the direction of each subsequent visit to Eliante's house, culminating with a visit via the garden in the final chapter. The terms are borrowed from seventeenth-century classical French drama, and thus add to the novel's theatrical aspect, but the opposition also corresponds to a public/private distinction. When arriving via the garden, Leon sees an intimate side of Eliante, while visits via the courtyard are public, social occasions.

  2. Yvette Guilbert (Emma Laure Esther, 1865-1944) was a popular singer, immortalized in Toulouse-Lautrec's portraits. In 1912, Rachilde dedicated her book Son Printemps ("Her Springtime") to Guilbert with the words: "To Yvette Guilbert, so that she may light a candle, with a tall and pure flame, in the inferno of artistic life."

  3. Rachilde was portrayed as a mouse in Leo Paillet's Dans la menagerie litteraire, "In the Literary Menagerie" (Paris: Baudiniere, 1925). Rodents were also among Rachilde's favorite pets, as many

  friends noted, including Colette. In De mafenetre, "From My Window," she recorded: "I had the pleasure of approaching the rats that Rachilde used to tame. The novelist held the character of the rat in such esteem that it supplanted other familiar animals for her. White and beige, brown, some taupe-gray, lustrous, her five or six rats would freely leave and re-enter a cage, the door of which often remained open, like domesticated parrots. 'Rats are to my liking,' Madame Rachilde used to say, 'they have strong attachments and a proud nature.' Indeed, they heard her words and calls with joy and obdience, and, like her, they had eyes that shone unflinchingly, and sharp, unbroken teeth." See Colette, Oeuvres completes 10 (Paris: Flammarion, 1973), 72. (I am indebted to Lynne HufFer for drawing my attention to this passage.)