One of Cleopatra's Nights

by Théophile Gautier

  Thus ended the dynasty of the Heracleidæ, after having endured for five hundred and five years, and commenced that of the Mermnades in the person of Gyges, son of Dascylus. The Sardians, indignant at the death of Candaules, threatened revolt; but the oracle of Delphi having declared in favor of Gyges, who had sent thither a vast number of silver vases and six golden cratera of the value of thirty talents, the new king maintained his seat on the throne of Lydia, which he occupied for many long years, lived happily, and never showed his wife to any one, knowing too well what it cost.

  Addenda

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  "ONE OF CLEOPATRA'S NIGHTS"

  A. There is no correct English plural of "necropolis"; the French word nécropole is more normal. As the Greek plural could not be used very euphoniously, and as I have tried throughout to render an exact English equivalent for each French word whenever comprehensible, I beg indulgence for the illegitimate plural "necropoli," used to signify more than one necropolis, as an equivalent for the French nécropoles.

  B. In the opening scene of "One of Cleopatra's Nights," the reader may be surprised at the expression "the chuckling of the crocodiles." Our own southern alligators often make a little noise which could not be better described—a low, guttural sound, bearing a sinister resemblance to a human chuckle or subdued, sneering laugh. A Creole friend who has lived much in those regions of Southern Louisiana intersected by bayous and haunted by alligators, comprehended at once the whole force of the term rire étouffe as applied to the sounds made by the crocodile. "Je l'ai entendu souvent" he said, with a smile.

  "CLARIMONDE"

  The idea of love after death has been introduced by Gautier into several beautiful creations, sometimes Hoffmanesquely, sometimes with an exquisite sweetness peculiarly his own. Among his most touching poems there is a fantastic—Les Tâches Jaunes—so remarkable that I cannot refrain from offering a rude translation of it. Though transplanted even by a master-hand into the richest soil of another language, such poetical flora necessarily lose something of their strange color and magical perfume. In this instance the translator, who is no poet, only strives to convey the beautiful weirdness of the original idea:

  With elbow buried in the downy pillow

  I've lain and read,

  All through the night, a volume strangely written

  In tongues long dead.

  For at my bedside lie no dainty slippers;

  And, save my own,

  Under the paling lamp I hear no breathing:—

  I am alone!

  But there are yellow bruises on my body

  And violet stains;

  Though no white vampire came with lips blood-crimsoned

  To suck my veins!

  Now I bethink me of a sweet weird story,

  That in the dark

  Our dead loves thus with seal of chilly kisses

  Our bodies mark.

  Gliding beneath the coverings of our couches

  They share our rest,

  And with their dead lips sign their loving visit

  On arm and breast.

  Darksome and cold the bed where now she slumbers,

  I loved in vain,

  With sweet soft eyelids closed, to be reopened

  Never again.

  Dead sweetheart, can it be that thou hast lifted

  With thy frail hand

  Thy coffin-lid, to come to me again

  From Shadowland?

  Thou who, one joyous night, didst, pale and speechless,

  Pass from us all,

  Dropping thy silken mask and gift of flowers

  Amidst the ball?

  Oh, fondest of my loves, from that far heaven

  Where thou must be,

  Hast thou returned to pay the debt of kisses

  Thou owest me?

  "ARRIA MARCELLA"

  Gautier doubtless obtained inspiration for this exquisite romance from an old Greek ghost story, first related by Phlegon, the freedman of Hadrian. Versions of it were current in the twelfth and sixteenth centuries; and Goethe reproduced it in his "Bride of Corinth." We offer a translation from the brief version of Michelet, who accuses Goethe of bad taste for having introduced the Slavic idea of vampirism into a purely Greek story.

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  A young Athenian goes to Corinth to visit the house of the man who has promised him his daughter in marriage. He has always remained a pagan, and does not know that the family into which he hopes to enter has been converted to Christianity. He arrives at a very late hour. All are in bed except the mother, who prepares a hospitable repast for him, and then leaves him to repose. He throws himself upon a couch, overwhelmed with fatigue. Scarcely has he closed his eyes, when a figure enters the room; it is a girl, all clad in white, with a white veil; there is a black-and-gold fillet about her brows. She beholds him. Astonishment! Lifting her white hand, she exclaims:

  "Am I then such a stranger in the house? Alas! poor recluse that I am! But I am ashamed to be here. I shall now depart. Repose in peace!"

  "Nay, remain, beautiful young girl! Behold! here are Ceres, Bacchus, and, with thee, Love! Fear not! be not so pale!"

  "Ah! touch me not, young man! I belong no more to joy. Through a vow made by my sick mother, my youth and life are fettered forever. The gods have fled away. And now the only sacrifices are sacrifices of human victims."

  "What! is it thou! thou, my beloved affianced, betrothed to me from childhood! The oath of our fathers bound us together forever under the benediction of heaven! Oh, virgin, be mine!"

  "Nay, friend, nay!—not I. Thou shalt have my young sister. If I sigh in my chill prison, thou mayst, at least, while in her arms, think of me, of me who pines and thinks only of thee, and whom the earth must soon cover again."

  "Never! I swear it by this flame, it is the torch of Hymen. Thou shalt come with me to my father's house. Remain, my well-beloved!"

  For marriage-gift he offers her a cup of gold. She gives him her chain; but prefers a lock of his hair to the cup.

  It is the ghostly hour. She sips with her pale lips the dark wine that is the color of blood. Eagerly he drinks after her. He invokes Love. She, though her poor heart was dying for it, nevertheless resists him. But he, in despair, casts himself upon the bed and weeps. Then she, flinging herself down beside him, murmurs:

  "Ah! how much hurt thy pain causes me! Yet shouldst thou touch me—what horror! White as snow, cold as ice, alas! is thy betrothed!"

  "I shall warm thee, love! come to me! even though thou hadst but this moment left the tomb." Sighs and kisses are exchanged.... Love binds and fetters them. Tears mingle with happiness. Thirstily she drinks the fire of his lips; her long-congealed blood takes flame with amorous madness, yet no heart beats in her breast.

  But the mother was there; listening. Sweet vows; cries of plaint and pleasure. "Hush," says the bride; "I hear the cock crow! Farewell, till to-morrow, after nightfall." Then adieu, and the sound of kisses smothering kisses.

  Indignant, the mother enters. What does she behold! Her daughter! He seeks to hide her—to veil her! But she disengages herself; and waxing taller, towers from the couch to the roof.

  "O, mother, mother! dost thou then envy me my sweet night? dost thou seek to drive me from this warm place? Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the shroud, and borne me so early to the tomb! But there was a power that lifted the stone! Vainly did thy priests hum above my grave. What avail salt and water where youth burns? The earth may not chill love.... Thou didst promise me to this youth.... I come to claim my right.

  "Alack! friend, thou must die. Here thou must pine and wither away. I possess thy hair; to-morrow it shall be white.... Mother, a last prayer! Open my black dungeon; erect a funeral pyre; and let the sweetheart obtain the repose that only flames can give. Let the sparks gush out, let the ashes redden! We return to our ancient gods."—La Sorcière, pages 32-34; edition of 1863.

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  Endnotes

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  [1] Panegyris; pl., panegyreis
,—from the Greek [], —signifies the meeting of a whole people to worship at a common sanctuary or participate in a national religious festival. The assemblies at the Olympic, Pythian, Nemean, or Isthmian games were in this sense panegyreis. See Smith's Dict. Antiq.—(Trans.)

  [2] Conculcatrice des peuples. From the Latin conculcare, to trample under foot: therefore, the epithet literally signifies the "Trampler of nations." (Trans.)

  [3] The Greeks and Romans usually termed such figures Hermæ or Termini. Caryatides were, strictly, entire figures of women.—(Trans.)

  [4] Does not this suggest the lines which DeQuincey so much admired?—

  "A wilderness of building, sinking far,

  And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth

  Far sinking into splendor, without end.

  Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold,

  With alabaster domes and silver spires,

  And blazing terrace upon terrace, high

  Uplifted. Here serene pavilions bright,

  In avenues disposed; their towers begirt

  With battlements that on their restless fronts

  Bore stars."

  [5] John Martin, the English painter, whose creations were unparalleled in breadth and depth of composition. His pictures seem to have made a powerful impression upon the highly imaginative author of these Romances. There is something in these descriptions of antique architecture that suggests the influence of such pictured fantasies as Martin's "Seventh Plague;" "The Heavenly City;" and perhaps, especially, the famous "Pandemonium," with its infernal splendor, in Martin's illustrations to "Paradise Lost."—(Trans.)

  [6] Antique castanets.—(Trans.)

  [7] "La Morte Amoureuse."

  [8] Ici gît Clarimonde

  Qui fut de son vivant

  La plus belle du monde.

  The broken beauty of the lines is unavoidably lost in the translation.

  [9] Beauty-spot.