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Ebook has 694 lines and 80675 words, and 14 pages

Translator: Ernest Tristan

THE BLUE DUCHESS

THE LOTUS LIBRARY

FULL LIST OF VOLUMES IN THE LIBRARY

THE BLACKMAILERS

THE

Blue Duchess

PAUL BOURGET

Translated by

ERNEST TRISTAN

LONDON: GREENING & CO.

NEW YORK: BRENTANO'S

PREFACE

Paul Bourget was born in the cathedral city of Amiens about fifty years ago, but there are a number of other interesting things to say about him. Like so many famous authors, he began, in 1873, with verse. Probably the verse did not bring him the instant fame that we all desire with our first book, for he soon turned to prose, which of course as Saltus has hinted, is more difficult. Again, it is probable that verse and prose are not really so very far apart, but are related, as an angel is related to a saint, or a lovely sister to her handsome but very masculine brother. Essays followed Bourget's lyrics, then a triumphal procession of novels and travels, till, in 1904, he became a poet again by wearing the blue and gold costume of the French Academy.

G. F. MONKSHOOD.

LONDON, 1908.

Not long ago I assisted at the unexpected end of an adventure, which, after it had just missed being a tragedy, concluded in an almost comic fashion. Although I was only cast for a very small part, as a simple spectator, my heart was too much mixed up in it for me to-day not to feel in similar circumstances the bitter sensation of the irony of things, which may be either cruel or beneficial. It is the chill of the steel which cuts you, though it cures you too. It has occurred to me to make the adventure into a story. Obviously it would be more reasonable to go on with one of my unfinished pictures, "The Pardon of Psyche," for instance, which has been standing on the easel for years, or one of those inanimate objects: old furniture, silver, and books, which will comprise the series called "Humble Friends."

"A painter," my master, Miraut, used to say, "should only think brush in hand." It is my opinion, from numerous illustrious examples including Miraut himself, that he should not think at all. But I know only too well, I am but half a painter, an artist in intention rather than in temperament, the outline of a Fromentin of the twelfth rank. That is a singular feeling of sadness too: the feeling that one is but an inferior double of another, a small and poor proof of a block already printed, a sample of humanity in the likeness of a model who has already lived, and in whose destiny it is possible to read beforehand one's own destiny! But not all one's own destiny! For I am only too well aware that I suffer from the same failings as Fromentin without possessing his brilliance. But the brush was not sufficient for this complex and elaborate master. He wanted, with the nervous hand which transmitted colours to canvas, to put ink upon paper, and what was the result? We other painters said his painting was too literary, and literary men said his literature was too technical, too pictorial, and not intellectual enough.

In my own case at each exhibition of my work for years past my fellow-painters' reserve, and their praise particularly, have signified to me that I lack a real artist's original and visionary nature. But I do not require my fellow artists' judgment; what does my own conscience say? If I really expressed myself with my brush alone, should I have brought back from Spain, Morocco, Italy and Egypt as many pages of notes as sketches? I have for fifteen years, wandered between numberless contradictory forms of art and mind. I have wandered from country to country seeking the sun and health; from museum to museum seeking aesthetic revelations, and later from art school to art school seeking an artist's creed, and from dream to dream in search of a love. My affairs of the heart have all been incipient and abortive for the same reason as my affairs of the mind: my irremediable incapacity to make up my mind and stand firm, in which to-day I recognize the strange originality of my character.

When we see with what infrangible conditions nature surrounds us, is it not best to accept them? At least, I have made up my mind upon an essential point, my work. That is something. I have promised myself to fret no more over vain ambitions. I will be a mediocre painter; that is all. In that case why should I deny myself the pleasure of writing, a thing which formerly discipline forbade? As it is certain that the name of M. Vincent la Croix will never shine in the sky of glory with the names of Gustave Moreau, of Puvis de Chavannes, and of Burne-Jones, why should M. Vincent la Croix deprive himself of this compensation: wasting his time after his own fashion, like the rich amateur, the dilettante and the critic he is? That is the reason why, when about to live over again in thought the episodes of a real little romance, into which chance introduced me, I have prepared paper, a pen, and ink. Here is a fresh proof that I shall always lack spontaneous and gushing geniality; I have gone out of my way to explain my motives at the beginning of this story, instead of starting it simply and boldly. I can see its most minute details before me, so what need have I of excusing in my own eyes a work which tempts me? I shall be at liberty to destroy it if I am too ashamed of it when it is finished. Many a time have I painted out a canvas which I considered bad! This time two logs in the fireplace and a match will suffice. That is one of the unspeakable superiorities of literature over painting.

On my thirty-seventh birthday I had, as my custom was, been looking through my papers and reflecting that I was still as little known to fame as I had been in my youth, still as lacking in glorious works, great actions, and grand passions, and my hope was gradually departing. That morning, too, an agency to which I was foolish enough to subscribe, had sent me two newspaper cuttings mentioning my name and making unfriendly comments upon my work. A fresh wave of discouragement swept over me, paralyzing the creative energy of the soul, and clearly demonstrating to me my own shortcomings. My communion with my thoughts on that darkening autumn afternoon frightened me, and I took refuge in a means of distraction which was usually successful, a visit to the School of Arms in the Rue Boissy d'Anglais. There I overcame my nerves by a series of exercises performed with all the vigour of which I was capable. A cold bath and a rub down followed by dinner in congenial company and a rubber used to pass the evening. Towards eleven o'clock I could return home without much risk of insomnia. I had carried out the first part of this programme on the first evening of my thirty-seventh year and should have completed it if I had not, on entering the dining-room of my club, met perhaps the oldest of my Parisian comrades, an old school-fellow too, the celebrated novelist and dramatic author, Jacques Molan.

"Will you come and dine?" he asked me. "I have a table, do dine with me."

Under any other circumstances, in spite of our long friendship, I should have excused myself. Few personalities weary me so quickly as Jacques. He has combined with faults I detest the quality most lacking in me: the power to impose himself, the audacity of mind, the productive virility, and the self-confidence without which a man is not a great artist. Do the great virtues of genius of necessity bring with them an abuse of the "I," of which this writer was an extraordinary example?

The two other men of letters I knew best, Julien Dorsenne and Claude Larcher, were most certainly not tainted with egotism. They were modest violets, holy and timid violets, small and humble in the grass by the side of Jacques. "His" books, "his" plays, "his" enemies, "his" plans, "his" profits, "his" mistresses, "his" health, existed for himself alone, and he talked of no one but himself. That was the reason Claude said: "How can you ever expect Molan to be sad? Every morning he gazes at himself in the looking-glass and thinks: 'How happy I am to dress as the first author of the day!'" But Claude was slightly envious of Jacques, and that was one of the latter's superiorities; through his self-conceit he was ignorant of any feeling like envy. He did not prefer himself to others, he ignored them. The explanation of this mystery was: with his almost unhealthy vanity only equalled by his insensibility, this fellow had only to sit down with paper in front of him, and beneath his pen came and went, spoke and acted, enjoyed and suffered passionate and eloquent beings, creatures of flesh and blood full of love and hate--in a word, real men and women. A whole world was produced, so real, so intense, so amusing, or so moving in turn, that even I am filled with admiration every time I read his books. But I know it is only illusion, only magic, only a sleight-of-hand trick; I know that the spiritual father of these heroes and heroines is a perfect literary monster, with a flask of ink in the place of a heart. I am wrong. He still has there the passionate love of success. What marvellous tact, what fingering in the playing upon that surprising organ, public taste!

Now the fact that we were at school together proves that this enormous output: ten volumes of fiction, two of short stories, a collection of verses, and three plays was produced in sixteen years. Jacques, too, lived while he worked like this. He had mistresses, made necessary journeys which allowed him to truthfully write in his prefaces sentences like this: "When I picked anemones in the gardens of the Villa Pamphili!" or like this: "I, too, offered up my prayer on the Acropolis"; or again: "Like the bull I saw kneel down to die in the bull ring at Seville." I have quoted these phrases from memory. Besides all this, the animal looked after his relatives and his investments, and preserved his gaiety and youthful appetite. I had proof of that the evening I mechanically dined with him; in spite of my secret antipathy dominated by the suggestion of vitality emanating from every one of his gestures. We were no sooner seated than he asked me--

"What wine do you prefer, champagne or Burgundy? They are both very good here."

"I think that Eau de Vals will do for me," I replied.

"Have you not a good digestion?" he asked with a laugh; "I don't know that I have a stomach. Then I will have extra dry champagne." His egoism was of a convenient kind, as he never discussed other people's caprices, nor allowed them to discuss his. He ordered the dinner and asked me if I had seen his play at the Vaudeville, what I thought of it, and whether it was not the best thing he had done.

"You know," I replied in some embarrassment, "I hardly ever go to the theatre."

"But where do you find your titles?" I asked.

"What!" he cried; "you, a painter, ask me that question? Don't you know Gainsborough's 'Blue Boy' in the gallery of Grosvenor House in London? My play has for its heroine a woman whom one of your colleagues, better informed than yourself in English manners, has painted in a harmony of blue tints as the Gainsborough boy. This woman, being a Duchess, has been nicknamed in her set the Little Blue Duchess, because of the portrait. With my dialogue and little Favier!"

"Who is little Favier?" I asked.

"What!" he cried, "don't you know little Favier? You pretend to live in Paris! Not that I blame you for not frequenting the theatres. Seeing the kind of plays usually put on, I think it was high time they gave us young ones a chance."

"That does not tell me about little Favier," I insisted.

"Well! Camille Favier is the Blue Duchess. She acts with talent, fantasy and grace! I discovered her. A year ago she was at the Conservatoire. I saw her there and recognized her talent, and when I sent my play to the Vaudeville, I told them I wanted her to take the part. They engaged her, and now she is famous. My luck is contagious. But you must do her portrait for me as she is in the play, a symphony in blue major! It will be a fine subject for you for the next Salon. I repeat I am very lucky. Then what a head she has for you: twenty-two years old, a complexion like a tea-rose, a mouth sad in repose and tender when smiling, blue eyes to complete the symphony, pale, pale, pale blue with a black point in the middle, which sometimes increases in size; her hair is the colour of oriental tobacco, and she is slender, supple and young. She lives with her mother in a third floor in the Rue de la Barcuell?re, in your neighbourhood. That detail is good as a human document. People talk of the theatre's corruption: nine hundred francs rent, one servant, and an outlook on a convent garden! She believes in her art, and in authors! She believes too much in them."

He said these words with a smile, the meaning of which was unmistakable. His remarks had been accompanied by an insolent and sensual look, gleaming and self-satisfied. I had no doubt as to the feeling the pretty actress inspired in him. He told me about these private matters in a very loud voice, with that apparent indiscretion which implies thoughtlessness and so well conceals design. But this sort of gossip always has a prudent limit. Besides, the diners at the next table were three retired generals, to interrupt whose conversation then gun-shot would have been required. The noises made by the thirty or forty persons dining were sufficient to drown even Jacques' most distinct phrases. So there was really no reason for my companion to speak in low tones, as I did in questioning him. But what a symbol of our two destinies! I instinctively experienced, before even knowing Mademoiselle Favier, the shameful timidity of the sentiment of which Jacques experienced the joy.

"You are paying court to her, that is what you mean?" I asked him.

"No, she is courting me," he said with a laugh, "or rather has been doing so. But why should I not tell you, for if I introduce you to her, she will tell you everything in five minutes? In fact, she is my mistress. With my reputation, my investments, my books, I can marry whom I please; and there is plenty of time. The pear is ripe. But if we were always reasonable, we should be only common people, should not we? She began it. If you had seen, at rehearsal, how she stealthily devoured me with her eyes! I took good care not to notice her. She is a coquette and a half. An author who has a mistress at the theatre when he does not act himself, is responsible for a serious orthographical error. You know the proverb: the architect does not hobnob with the mason. But after the first performance, after the battle was won, I let myself go. Here is another human document: little Favier had gone through the Conservatoire, had been on the stage, and my dear fellow she was still virtuous, perfectly virtuous. Do you understand me?"

"Poor girl!" I cried involuntarily.

"No, no!" Jacques replied shrugging his shoulders. "Some lover must be first, and it is better to have a Jacques Molan than a pupil of the Conservatoire, or, as is usually the case, one of the professors there, is it not? But I am her poesy, her real romance to tell her friends. I have been kind to her. She desired our love concealed from her mother and we did so. She desired meetings in cemeteries at the graves of great men and I have gone there. Can you imagine me, at my age, with a bunch of violets in my hand, waiting for a friend with my elbows sentimentally resting upon the tomb of Alfred de Musset, a poet whom I detest? Quite a student's idyll, is it not? I repeat it is very foolish, but I found her so amiable and so fresh the first time. She 'rested me' from this Paris in which everything is vanity."

"And now?" I asked.

"Now?" he repeated, and the insolent and sensual expression came into his eyes once more. "You want me to confess? That is two months ago, and a two months' idyll is a little less fresh, amiable and restful." Then in a lower and more confidential tone he asked: "Do you know pretty Madam Pierre de Bonnivet?"

"You still seem to forget that I am not a fashionable painter," I replied, "that I have not a little house on the Monceau Plain, that I do not ride in the Bois, and frequent the noble Faubourg though I live there."

"There is one less imbecile among her ancestors then," I interrupted. "That is one of the advantages the false nobility sometimes has over the true nobility."

"Good," Jacques said, shrugging his shoulders at the sally with which I had satisfied my ill-humour against her pretensions. "You remind me of Giboyer. You are a pedant, sir. But I shall not defend what you call the noble Faubourg against your attacks. I have seen enough of it to never wish to set foot in it again. There is too much fashion about it for me. Grand drawing-rooms are not in my line. I have nothing to do with aristocratic ladies. One-twentieth of the women in Paris, some young, some not, some titled, some not, have pretensions to be literary, political, or aesthetic, but they are all brainy and intellectual, and they are not courtesans. My pleasure is to turn them into courtesans when it is worth the trouble. If I ever show you Bonnivet, you will agree that she is worth the trouble. Besides there is at her house lively conversation and good food. Don't look so disgusted. After ten years in Paris even with my stomach, dinner in town becomes a terrible bore. At her house dinner is a feast, the table exquisite and the cellar marvellous. Father Bonnivet has made ten or twelve million francs out of flour. It is not sufficient for his wife for the celebrated men about whom she is curious to honour her drawing-room with their presence. They have to fall in love with her as well, and I believe they have all done so, till now."

I urged him to continue his story, though his cynicism made me shudder, his loquacity exasperated me, and I was horrified at his sentiments, which were so brutally plebeian in their dilettante disguise, for I was greatly interested in his confidences. He gladly opened his heart to me as I listened to him, though he actually liked me no more than I did him. He instinctively felt the fascination he exercised over me and it pleased him. We were at college together, and that strange bond would unite us till death in spite of everything. He went on--

"She was just like little Favier," I interposed, "a coquette and a half. Ever since I have known you your stories have always been the same: they consist of playing with the women who have the least heart, and you always win."

"It is not quite as simple as all that," he replied without getting angry; "I amused myself with Queen Anne, but not in the way you think. The beater placed us side by side at the table. I should like you to have been there in hiding listening to us. The conversation was sweet, simple, friendly and melting, the meeting of two beautiful souls. She spoke well of all the women we knew, and I spoke well of all my colleagues. We declared in agreement that the great awkward Madam de Sauve has never had a lover, and that Dorsenne's novels are his masterpieces, that the demon Madam Moraines is an angel of disinterestedness, and that the noodle, Ren? Vincy is a great poet. Judge of our sincerity. It was as if neither she nor I had ever suspected that one writer could slander another, that a woman of the world could commit adultery. We have taken our revenge since, and we are at this moment in that state of bitter warfare which is disguised by the pretty name of flirtation. I spare you the details. It is sufficient to know that she is aware that little Favier is my mistress; she thinks I am madly in love with her, and her sole aim is to steal me from her. Accustomed as she is to masculine ruses, she has laid the snare which has always been successful since the earth has revolved around the sun: there is no virtue like the sensation of stealing a love from another woman. The most curious thing is that Queen Anne might easily have been virtuous. Oh, she is very fast. But I should not be surprised to hear that she has never had a real lover. Besides, if she had had twenty-five lovers her scheme would still have succeeded. I would wager that in the earthly paradise the serpent only told our mother Eve that he was about to pluck the apple for the female of his own species."

"But what of Camille Favier?" I asked.

"Naturally she guessed or else I told her--I don't know how to lie--so she is no less jealous of Bonnivet than Bonnivet is of her. I have not been bored for the last week or two I can assure you. Things have moved quickly, and the rapid are just as successful in gallantry as in everything else."

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