Big Book of Best Short Stories - Specials - France E-Book

Guy de Maupassant

• Herausgeber: Tacet Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Big Book of Best Short Stories Specials
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 2473

Beschreibung

This book contains 25 short stories from 5 classic, prize-winning and noteworthy authors. The stories were carefully selected by the critic August Nemo, in a collection that will please the literature lovers.The theme of this edition is: France. For more exciting titles, be sure to check out our 7 Best Short Stories and Essential Novelists collections. This book contains: - Guy de Maupassant: - The Necklace - Mademoiselle Fifi - Miss Harriet - My Uncle Jules - Boule de Suif - The Wreck - The Hand - Émile Zola: - Captain Burle - The Miller's Daughter - Jean Gourdon's Four Days - The Fete At Coqueville - The Flood - Death of Olivier Becaille - Nana - Pierre Louÿs: - Woman and Puppy. - The New Pleasure. - Byblis. - Leda. - Immortal Love. - The Artist Triumphant. - The Hill Of Horsel. - Theóphile Gautier: - Clarimonde - The Mummy's Foot - One Of Cleopatra's Night - Omphale: A Rococo Story - King Candaules - Arria Marcella - The Romance of a Mummy - Honoré de Balzac: - The Red Inn - El Verdugo - The Atheist's Mass - La Grande Bretèche - The Elixir of Life - Study of a Woman - Domestic Peace

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Pierre Louÿs

Théophile Gautier

Émile Zola

Honoré de Balzac

Guy de Maupassant

About the Publisher

Introduction

French literature is, generally speaking, literature written in the French language, particularly by citizens of France; it may also refer to literature written by people living in France who speak traditional languages of France other than French. Literature written in French language, by citizens of other nations such as Belgium, Switzerland, Canada, Senegal, Algeria, Morocco, etc. is referred to as Francophone literature. France itself ranks first in the list of Nobel Prizes in literature by country.

French literature has been for French people an object of national pride for centuries, and it has been one of the most influential components of the literature of Europe.

The French language is a Romance language derived from Latin and heavily influenced principally by Celtic and Frankish. Beginning in the 11th century, literature written in medieval French was one of the oldest vernacular (non-Latin) literatures in western Europe and it became a key source of literary themes in the Middle Ages across the continent.

Although the European prominence of French literature was eclipsed in part by vernacular literature in Italy in the 14th century, literature in France in the 16th century underwent a major creative evolution, and through the political and artistic programs of the Ancien Régime, French literature came to dominate European letters in the 17th century.

In the 18th century, French became the literary lingua franca and diplomatic language of western Europe (and, to a certain degree, in America), and French letters have had a profound impact on all European and American literary traditions while at the same time being heavily influenced by these other national traditions Africa, and the far East have brought the French language to non-European cultures that are transforming and adding to the French literary experience today.

Under the aristocratic ideals of the Ancien Régime (the "honnête homme"), the nationalist spirit of post-revolutionary France, and the mass educational ideals of the Third Republic and modern France, the French have come to have a profound cultural attachment to their literary heritage. Today, French schools emphasize the study of novels, theater and poetry (often learnt by heart). The literary arts are heavily sponsored by the state and literary prizes are major news. The Académie française and the Institut de France are important linguistic and artistic institutions in France, and French television features shows on writers and poets (one of the most watched shows on French television was Apostrophes, a weekly talk show on literature and the arts). Literature matters deeply to the people of France and plays an important role in their sense of identity.

As of 2006, French literary people have been awarded more Nobel Prizes in Literature than novelists, poets and essayists of any other country. (However, writers in English—USA, UK, India, Ireland, South Africa, Australia, Canada, Nigeria and Saint Lucia—have won twice as many Nobels as the French.) In 1964 Jean-Paul Sartre was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, but he declined it, stating that "It is not the same thing if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre or if I sign Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prize winner. A writer must refuse to allow himself to be transformed into an institution, even if it takes place in the most honorable form."

Pierre Louÿs

Pierre Louÿs was a French poet and writer, most renowned for lesbian and classical themes in some of his writings. He is known as a writer who sought to "express pagan sensuality with stylistic perfection". He was made first a Chevalier and then an Officer of the Légion d'honneur for his contributions to French literature.

Pierre Louÿs was born Pierre Félix Louis on 10 December 1870 in Ghent, Belgium, but relocated to France where he would spend the rest of his life. He studied at the École Alsacienne in Paris, and there he developed a good friendship with a future Nobel Prize winner and champion of homosexual rights, André Gide. From 1890 onwards, he began spelling his name as "Louÿs", and pronouncing the final S, as a way of expressing his fondness for classical Greek culture (the letter Y is known in French as i grec or "Greek I"). During the 1890s, he became a friend of the noted Irish homosexual dramatist Oscar Wilde, and was the dedicatee of Wilde's Salomé in its original edition. Louÿs thereby was able to socialize with homosexuals. Louÿs started writing his first erotic texts at the age of 18, at which time he developed an interest in the Parnassian and Symbolist schools of writing.

Woman and Puppy

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I

In Spain the Carnival does not finish, as in France, at eight o’clock on the morning of Ash Wednesday. Over the wonderful gaiety of Seville the memory that “dust we are,” etc., spreads its odour of sepulture for four days only, and the first Sunday of Lent all the Carnival reawakens.

It is the Domingo de Pinatas, or the Sunday of Marmites, the Grand Fête. All the populous town has changed its costume, and one sees in the streets rags and tatters of red, blue, green, yellow or rose, that have been mosquito-nets, curtains or women’s garments, all waving in the sunlight and carried by a small body of ragamuffins. The youngsters, noisy, many-coloured and masked, push their way through the crowd of great personages.

At the windows one sees pressed forward innumerable brunette heads. Nearly all the young girls of the countryside are in Seville on such a day as this. Paper confetti fall as a coloured rain, fans shade and protect pretty powdered faces, there are cries, appeals and laughter in the narrow streets. A few thousands of people make more noise on this day of Carnival than would the whole of Paris.

But, on the twenty-third of February in eighteen hundred and ninety-six, André Stévenol saw the end of the Carnival approaching with a slight feeling of vexation, for the week, although essentially one of love-affairs, had not brought him any new adventure. Some previous sojourning in Spain had taught him with what quickness and freedom of the heart the knots of friendship were tied and untied in this still primitive land. He was depressed at the thought that chance and circumstance had not favoured him. He had had a long paper battle with one young girl. They had fought and teased each other with the serpentine strips of Carnival time, he in the street, she at a window. She ran down and gave him a little red bouquet with “Many thanks, sir.” But, alas! she had fled quickly, and at closer view illusions fled also. André put the flower in his coat, but did not put the giver in his memory.

Four o’clock sounded from many clocks. He went by way of the Calle Rodrigo and gained the Delicias, Champs-Elysées of shading trees along the immense Guadalquivir thronged with vessels. It was there that unrolled the Carnival of the elegant.

At Seville the leisured class cannot always afford three good meals per day, but would rather go without them than without the outside show of a landau and two fine horses. Seville has hundreds of carriages, often old-fashioned but made beautiful by their horses, and occupied by people of noble race and face.

André Stévenol made a way with difficulty through the crowd edging the two sides of the vast dusty avenue. The battle of eggs was on. Eggshells filled with paper confetti were being thrown into the carriages, and thrown back, of course. André filled his pockets with eggs and fought with spirit. The stream of carriages filed past—carriages full of women, lovers, families, children, or friends. The game had lasted an hour when André felt in his pocket his last egg.

Suddenly there again appeared a young woman whose fan he had broken with an egg earlier in the combat.

She was marvellous. Deprived of the shade and shelter of the fan that had protected her delicate, laughing features; open on all sides to the attacks of the crowd and the nearest carriages, she took bravely her part in the struggle, and, standing panting, hatless, flushed with heat and frank gaiety, she gave and received attacks. She appeared to be about twenty-two years old, and must have been at least eighteen. That she was from Andalucia could not possibly be doubted. She was of that admirable type that was born of the intermixing of Arabs and Vandals, of Semites with the Germans. Such mixing has brought together in a little valley of Europe all the perfection of two races.

Her body, long and supple, was expressive in every line and curve. One felt that even were she veiled one would be able to divine her thought, and that she laughed with her limbs, even as she spoke with her shoulders and her bosom, with grace and with liberty. Her hair was of dark chestnut, but at a distance shone almost black. Her cheeks were of great softness as to contour. The edges of the eyelids were very dark.

André, pressed by the crowd close to her carriage, gazed at her intently. His heart-beats told him that this woman would be one of those who were destined to play a part in his life. At once he wrote with pencil on his Carnival egg the word “QUIERO,” and threw it as one might a rose into her hands.

Quiero is an astonishing verb. It is “to will,” “to desire,” “to love.” It is “to go in quest of,” it is “to cherish.” In turn, and according to how used, it expresses an imperative passion, or a light caprice. It is a prayer or an order, a declaration or a condescension. Often it is but an irony. André looked as he gave it the look that can mean “I would love to love you.” She put the curious missive in a sort of hand-bag, and the stream of traffic took her on. André lost sight of her after a vain attempt to follow.

Saddened he slowly returned. For him all the Carnival was shrouded and ended. Should he have been more determined and found a way in the crowd? How could he find her again? It was not certain that she lived in Seville. If not, it might be impossible to find her. And little by little, by an unhappy illusion, the image that his mind held of her became more charming. Certain details of her sweet features that had only won a moment’s curious notice now became transmuted in the crucible of memory into the principal things that made up her tender attitude. There was a certain detail in the dressing of the hair, an extreme mobility in the corners of the lips. The latter changed each instant in form and expression. Often almost hidden, often almost curved upwards, rounded, slender, pale or darkened, animated, so to speak, with a varying flame of life and soul. Ah! perhaps one could blame all the rest of that face—say that the nose was not Grecian, the chin not Roman; but not to colour with pleasure at the sight of those little lip-corners was to be past all forgiveness in this world.

So his thoughts flew on and on till a voice cried behind him rough but warning: a carriage was passing quickly in the narrow street. In the carriage was a young woman who, when she saw André threw gently towards him, as one would throw a rose, an egg inscribed “Quiero.”

But, now, after the word there was a decided flourish. It was as if the fair one had wished to reply by stressing his own one-word message.

II

Her carriage had turned the corner of the street. André went in pursuit, anxious not to lose a second chance that might be the last. He arrived as the horses went through the gates of a house in the Plaza del Triunfo. The great black gates closed upon the rapidly caught silhouette of a woman.

Without doubt it would have been wiser if he had prepared to learn the name and family, or mode of life of the stranger, before bursting into all the divine unknown of any such intrigue, in which, knowing nothing, he could not be master of anything. André nevertheless resolved not to quit the place without a first effort to find out something. He deliberately rang the gate bell.

A young custodian came, but did not open the gates.

“What does Your Grace demand?”

“Take my card to the Señora.”

“To what Señora?”

“To the one who lives here, I presume.”

“But her name?”

“I say that your mistress awaits me.”

The man bowed and made a deprecatory sign with his hands, then retired without opening the gates or taking the card.

Then André rang a second and third time. Anger had made him discourteous.

“A woman so prompt to reply to a declaration of this type,” he thought, “cannot be surprised that one insists upon trying to see her.” It did not occur to him that the Carnival and the bacchanal forgives passing follies, that are not usually permitted in normal social life.

What was to be done? He paced to and fro, but there was no sight of her and no sign. Near the house was a stall-keeper whom André bribed and questioned. But the man replied—

“The Señora purchases of me, but if she knew I talked of her to any one she would buy of my rivals. I can only tell you her name: she is the Señora Dona Concepcion Perez, wife of Don Manuel Garcia. Her husband is in Bolivia.”

André heard no more, but returned to his hotel and remained there undecided. Even upon learning of the absence of the Señora’s husband, he had not also learnt that all the chances were upon his side. The reserve of the dealer, who seemed to know more than he would care to say, rather left one with the idea that there was another and luckier lover already chosen and enthroned. The attitude of the servant at the gates increased this awkward afterthought.

André had to return to Paris in two weeks’ time. Would those weeks suffice for planning and effecting an entry into the life of a beautiful young dame, whose life was without much doubt planned, rounded, complete?

While thus troubled with his incertitudes a letter was handed to him. It had no address on the envelope. He said, “Are you sure that this letter is for me?”

“It has just been given to me for Don Andrés Stévenol.”

The letter was written upon a blue card, and was as follows—

“Don Andrés Stévenol is begged to not make so much noise, to not give his name or demand to know mine. If he is out walking to-morrow about three on the Empalme route a carriage will be passing. It may stop.”

André thought how easy life was, and already had visions of approaching intimacy. He even sought for and murmured the most tender little forms of her charming Christian name Concepcion, Concha, Conchita, Chita.

III

On the morning of the morrow André Stévenol had a radiant awakening. The light flooded his room, which had four windows. There also came to him the murmurs of the town. There were the feet of horses passing, street cries, mules’ bells, and the bells of convents.

He could not recall having known a morning as happy as this present one was; no, not for a long time. He flung out his arms and stretched them; then held them tightly folded around his breast as though to give himself the illusion or the anticipation of that eagerly awaited embrace.

“How easy, how simple the affairs of life are, after all!” So he mused, smiling. “Yesterday, at this hour I was alone, without an object to fill my mind, almost without a thought. It was merely necessary to take a walk and, behold! a change of scene, a love-affair in view. What is the use of taking any notice of refusals, of disdain, or any such things. We desire and demand, and the women give themselves. Why should it ever be otherwise?”

He rose, and in dressing-gown and slippers rang for his bath to be prepared. Whilst waiting with his forehead pressed to the window-panes he stared into the thoroughfare before him, now full of the stir of day. The houses in sight were painted in light colours that Seville favours as a rule: colours like the gay tints of women’s dresses—cream, rose, green, orange, violet, but not the fearful brown of Cadiz or Madrid, or the crude white of Jérez. There were orange-trees in sight, bearing fruit; running fountains and laughing girls, holding their shawls close. From all sides come the sound of the mules’ bells. André could not then imagine any other place in which to live but—Seville.

He finished dressing, and slowly sipped a little cup of the thick Spanish chocolate, then, easy in mind, almost aimlessly he went out into the busy street.

By chance he went the shortest way, to the Plaza del Triunfo. Then he remembered that he was not to haunt the residence of his “mistress,” as he called her to himself, so he went to Las Delicias. The place was strewn with paper and the usual signs of the Carnival. It was also deserted, for Lent had recommenced. Nevertheless, by a way that led from the city’s outskirts, André saw coming towards him one whom he recognized.

“Good-day, Don Mateo,” he said, holding out his hand. “I had not thought of seeing you so soon.”

“Well, here I am, alone, idle and at a loose end. I stroll about in the morning and evening, and fill up most of the day reading or playing in some way. It’s a dull sort of existence.”

“But you have nights that console the monotony of the days, if one may credit the chatter of the city busybody?”

“Whoever says so says wrongly. From now to the day of his death Don Mateo Diaz has no woman about him. But do not let us talk about me. For how long are you still going to remain here?”

Don Mateo was a Spaniard, forty years old, to whom André had been introduced during his first stay in Spain. He was a man of florid phrase and declamatory gesture, very rich, and famed for his love affairs. So André was surprised to hear that he had renounced the pomps and vanities of the flesh, but did not attempt to weary him with questions.

They walked by the river for a time, and all their talk was of Spain, its people, its policy, and history.

Then, “You will come and break your fast or lunch,” said Don Mateo. “My place is there, near the route D’Empalme. We shall be there in a half-hour, and, if you will permit me, I will keep you till the evening. I have some fine horses I should like to show off before you.”

“I agree to take lunch with you,” said André, “but I cannot stay. This evening I have a rendezvous that I must not fail to keep; that is a fact.”

“A lady ... I ask no questions. But stay as long as you can. When I was your age I did not want to be bothered with the outer world during my ’days of mystery.’ The only person I loved to speak to on such days was the woman of the moment.”

Don Mateo was silent for a while, then said in a tone of advice—

“Ah, guard yourself against the women! I should be the last man to say fly from them, for I have spent my life upon them until now. And if I had my life to live again, the hours passed with women are those I would most desire to revive. But guard yourself; guard yourself!”

Then, as though he had found a phrase that fitted exactly to his thoughts, Don Mateo added more slowly—

“There are two kinds of women that one should avoid, at all cost: those who do not love you, and those who do. Between these two extremes there are thousands of women of great charm, but we do not know how to appreciate them.”

The lunch would have been very slow indeed if the animation of Don Mateo had not replaced by a monologue the interchange of thought for thought that should have taken place. André was mentally preoccupied, and only appeared to hear the half of what his host said to him. As the hour of his assignation drew nearer, the throbbing of his heart, as on the Carnival day, came back to him, but intensified. It was a kind of persistent appeal within him, and all thoughts save the thought of the longed-for woman were driven out of him. He would have given much for the hands of the dial near him to have pointed to the next hour, but the face of the clock was cold to his emotion, and time would no more flow than the water of a stagnant pond.

At last, almost incapable of holding his tongue any longer, he surprised his host by saying—

“Don Mateo, you have always given me the best advice. May I confide a secret to you and appeal to your advice again?”

“I am entirely yours,” replied the Spaniard, rising and making for the smoking-room.

“I would not ask any one but you,” said André hesitatingly. “Do you know a lady of Seville named Donna Concepcion Garcia?”

Mateo leaped up, then rapidly uttered—

“Concepcion Garcia! Concepcion Garcia! But which one? Explain. There are twenty thousand Concepcion Garcias, in Spain to-day. It is a name as common as Jeanne Duval or Marie Lambert in France. For Heaven’s sake tell me what is her other name. Is it Perez, Concha Perez?”

“Yes,” said André, completely astonished.

Then Don Mateo continued in precise tones—

“Concepcion Perez de Garcia: twenty-two, Plaza del Triunfo, eighteen years old, hair almost black, and a mouth, Heavens what a divine mouth!”

“Yes,” again answered André.

“Ah! You have done well to mention her name. If I can stop you at the gate in this affair, it will be a good action on my part, and a piece of good luck for you!”

“Is she a girl who would go to the arms of any one?”

“No. She has had but few lovers. For these times, she is chaste and very intelligent, with wit and a knowledge of life. She dances with eloquence, speaks as well as she dances, and sings equally well. Have I said enough?”

André could hardly get a word out before Don Mateo resumed—

“And she is the worst of women. I hope that God will never pardon her!”

André rose as if to go.

“Nevertheless, Don Mateo, I—who am not yet able to speak of this woman as you are—I, at present, am still less able to fail to keep an assignation she has made with me. I have made you a confession, and I regret to break yours by a premature departure.” He held out his hand.

Mateo placed himself before the door.

“Hear me, I beg of you. I speak to you, man to man, and I say Stop! return as you came. Forget who you have seen, who has spoken to you and written to you. If you would know peace, calm nights and a life lacking in black care, do not approach Concha Perez! Do not approach this woman. Let me save you. Have mercy upon yourself, in fact.”

“Don Mateo. Do you then love her?...”

The Spaniard stroked his forehead, and answered—

“Oh no! I do not now love or hate. It is all over and done with, all trace effaced.”

Mateo gazed at André, then, quite changing to a tone of banter, said—

“Besides, one should never go to the first rendezvous a woman gives one.”

“Why not?”

“Because she never comes there.”

A memory of an affair made André smile, and admit it was often true.

“Very often. And if by chance she comes, be sure your absence will deepen her liking for you.”

A short silence came. They had reseated themselves, and Mateo said—

“Now listen, please.”

IV

Three years ago I had not the grey hairs that you now see, and was thirty-seven years of age, though I felt but twenty-two. I do not know precisely when my youth passed from me, and it is hard for me to realize that it has reached its end. People have told you that I was one of the gadabouts of passion. That is false. I respected Love and I never degraded her. Scarcely ever have I caressed a woman whom I did not passionately love. If I were to name or number these loves to you you would be surprised for they were but a few. I easily remember that I have never loved a blonde. I have always ignored those pale objects of worship. What is furthermore true, is that, for me, love has not been a mere pleasure or pastime. It has been my very life. If I were to take out of my life all the thoughts and actions that had the woman for their sole end, there would remain nothing but emptiness—space. This much said, I may now recount to you what I know of Concha Perez.

I go first to three years and a half ago, and winter-time. I returned from France, a bitter cold journey too, one twenty-sixth of December, in the express that passes the bridge of the Bidassoa.

The snow, already very thick at Biarritz and Saint Sebastian, rendered almost impracticable the traversing of the Guipuzcoa. The train stopped two hours at Zumarraga, for snow to be cleared away. Later an avalanche stopped us for three hours. All night this snow trouble went on. Sounds were deadened by the fall, and so we were travelling in a silence to which danger gave a touch of grandeur.

The morning of the morrow found us at Avila. We were eight hours late, and had fasted for a day. We learnt at last that we should be “hung up” at that place four days! Do you know Avila by any chance? It is the place that they should send those people to who rave about Old Spain being dead and done with. The inn I stopped at, Don Quixote could easily have used also.

In resuming my journey I went third-class, for a change, in a compartment nearly full of Spanish women. There were really four compartments with partitions about shoulder high.

Well, we were passing the Sierra of Guadarrama, and suddenly the train stopped again. We were blocked by another avalanche. When we realized this there was a general request made to a gitana present to dance.

She did dance: a woman about thirty, of the ugly gipsy type, but she seemed to have fire in the fingers that flashed the castanets and fire in her limbs. Everyone knelt and listened, or beat time with their hands. I now noticed in the corner facing me a young girl, who was singing.

She wore a rose-coloured skirt, that made me guess she was from Andalucia—that colour-loving province.

Her shoulders and bosom were swathed in a creamy shawl, and she had a throat scarf of white foulard to protect her from the cold. The whole carriage already knew that she was trained at the Convent of San José d’Avila, was going to Madrid to find her mother, and bore the name of Concha Perez.

Her voice was singularly penetrating. She sang without moving her body about, hands in shawl, eyes closed.

The songs she was singing were not taught her by the Sisters, I can be quite sure. They were the little songs of four lines, only loved by the people. Into these quatrains they put much passion. I can hear again in memory the caress in her voice as she sang—

“Thy bed is of jasmins,

Thy sheets of white roses;

Of lilies thy pillows,

And a dark rose there poses.”

There followed an angry scene between her and the gipsy. They fought, but I stepped between, for I loathe to see women fighting. They do it badly and dangerously. When it was all over, a gendarme came, and after slapping Concha upon the cheeks put her in another compartment. The train now went forward again, and my companions began to sleep. The image of the little singer tormented me. Where had he put her? I leant over the barrier of my carriage, and saw that she was there, close enough to touch. She was sleeping like a tired child. I saw the closed lids, the long lashes, the little nose and two small lips, that seemed to be at one and the same time infantile and sensual. Gazing for a long time at those amazing lips, I wondered whether their dream movements were recalling the breast that nursed her or the lips of a lover.

Daylight came, and with it the end of the journey. I aided the little Concha to get together six parcels, and offered to carry them but was refused. She managed with them somehow, and ran off. I soon lost sight of her.

You see, do you not, this first meeting was insignificant, almost vague. She had interested and amused me for a little while. That was really all. Soon I ceased to think of her at all.

V

The following summer I found her again. In August, I was alone in my house, a house that a feminine presence had filled for years. One afternoon, bored to death, I visited the Government Tobacco Manufactory of Seville. It was a sweltering day. I entered alone, which was a favour, in this immense harem of about five thousand women-workers, of a rather free-and-easy type.

I have said the day was terribly hot? Most of the workers were half-dressed only. It was a mixed spectacle, certainly: a sort of panorama of women at all ages. I passed along, sometimes being asked for a gift, sometimes being given a cynical pleasantry. Suddenly I recognized Concha, and asked her what brought her into that place.

“Heaven knows, I have forgotten.”

“But your convent training?”

“When girls go there through the door, they leave through the window.”

“Did you?”

“I will be honest with you. I didn’t enter at all for fear of sinning. Give me a coin, and I will sing you something while the superintendent is away from here.”

Then she told me she lived with her mother, and came to the factory when in the mood. I gave her a napoléon, and then left.

In the youth of happy men there is a moment, an instant, that chance decides. My moment came when I dropped that golden coin before that girl. It was as if I had thrown a fatal die. I date from then and there my actual life, “the life I have lived the most.” My moral ruin was then begun.

You shall know all; the actual story is simple enough, truly.

I left the State Factory, and walked slowly into the shadowless street. There she rejoined me, and said—

“I thank you; sir.”

I noted that her voice had changed. The golden gift had evoked in her the emotion that comes with the desire for wealth. She asked me to conduct her home to the Calle Manteros, quite near.

She told me she had no sweetheart, and I then replied—

“Surely, not through piety?”

“I am pious, but I haven’t taken any vows.”

Finally she said that she was virginal, and had kept herself pure.

VI

She admitted this with such a directness, such an air, that I quite flushed and felt ill at ease. Whatever was passing in that childish-looking head, behind that face so provoking, so rebellious? What signified her decided moral attitude, her frank and, possibly, honest eye, her sensuous mouth that seemed to tempt and yet defy. All that I really knew was that she pleased me vastly, that I was enchanted to have found her again, and looked forward to finding other chances of being with her. We reached her home. Down-stairs at the doorway I bought her some mandarines. At the top floor she gave three little knocks at a door and I stood before her mother, a dark woman, who had once been beautiful.

Then began confidences; they seemed endless. The mother said she was the widow of an engineer, and told me a story I had heard elsewhere twenty times.

“Ah, Caballero, we should have been rich, we two, had we but followed evil ways. But sin has never passed the evening here!”

Conchita during this discourse was putting powder on her cheeks. She turned to me with a smile transfiguring her mouth.

Finally I laid down four banknotes and arranged that Conchita was not to return to the factory. I called again the next day. She was alone. That day she came and sat upon my knees and kissed me with her burning mouth. I left but to return, alas! not once, but twenty times more. I was in love like the youngest, the most foolish of men. You must have known such madness yourself and will understand me. Each time I left her rooms I counted the hours until the next meeting, and those hours never seemed to go. Little by little I got to pass the whole day with them, paying all the expenses and the debts too. This cost me a good deal of money. How Conchita and I talked!

But she was impenetrable, mysterious. She seemed to love me; possibly I really loved her. To-day I do not know what to think. To all my pleadings she answered merely, “Later.” That resolution I could not break. I swore to leave her and she told me to go. I threatened her, even with my violence: it left her unconcerned. When loaded with presents she accepted them upon her own terms. Nevertheless, when I entered her place, I saw a light in her eyes that was not, I believe, a feigned one.

She slept nine hours at night and had a siesta of three hours. She did nothing else. The work of the place was her mother’s affair. During one whole week she refused to get up at all. Her conception of the duties of the day was very Spanish. But I do not know from what country came her conception of love. After twelve weeks of wooing I saw in her maddening smile the same promises and certainly the same resistance.

At last, one day, I took her mother into my confidence, and confessing my love invoked her aid. After a night and a morning that were insupportable through suspense, I received a four-line letter—

“If you had loved me you would have waited. I wished to give myself to you. You have asked that I shall be sold to you. Never again shall you see me.

“Conchita.”

When I reached their rooms in Seville they had left with all their belongings.

VII

Autumn and winter passed. Memory was pitiless to me, and I felt shattered. The months were empty. Oh, how I loved her, God of Heaven! I thought sometimes that she was trying me, testing me, to be sure of me. So be it. We met again. I was returning from the theatre, and in the Calle Trajano I heard her voice call my name. She was at a window about shoulder high from the ground, in night attire and shawled.

I gazed at her as one entranced. She held her hand to me, and I covered hand and arm with kisses. I was half insane with love. I craved for her lips only to get for answer, “Later.”

I pressed her with questions. They had been to Madrid then to Carabanchel. By economy with my money they had now rented her present place. There was enough money left to live honestly for a month.

“And after that do you seriously think I shall feel embarrassed?”

Then she paused.

“You do not understand me. I can still work at the factory, sell bananas, make bouquets, dance the Sevillana, can I not, Don Mateo?”

Then with a sigh she leant forward, and said—

“Mateo, I will be your mistress the day after to-morrow.”

“Are you sincere?”

“I have said it. Leave me, Mateo. Be not impatient or jealous.” Then she left me.

VIII

Two interminable days and nights followed. I was happy and yet suffering. A kind of troubled joy seemed to dominate every other feeling. The hour of the assignation came, and I heard her softly call, “Mateo.” We kissed passionately and a long love scene followed. Questions, protestations, appeals. To hasten over what was to me a time of great stress and strain, mental and physical, let me at once say that Concha would in reality consent to nothing but this. I might live with her, worship her, love her as fervently, truly, tenderly as I liked, but she was to be left wholly pure, utterly virginal. I endured this state of things for two weeks. Concha then borrowed from me a large sum to pay more debts, and the next day I found that mother and daughter had fled again!

IX

It was too much to bear. I left for Madrid, and tried to get fond of an Italian dancer. I returned to Seville, then went to Granada, Cordova, Jérez. I sought for Concha Perez. At Cadiz we met again. One evening I entered a drinking saloon. She was there dancing before sailors and fishermen. At the moment I saw her I trembled and throbbed. I must have become pale, and I felt as though I had no breath, no force, no will. I dropped down upon the seat nearest the door, and head in hands watched her. Her dance finished she came towards me. All knew her. From all sides came cries of “Conchita” that made me shudder. On all sides she cast glances. Here a smile, there a laugh, a shrug, a flower accepted, a drink sipped. She sat at my table facing me, and desired coffee.

I said in a low voice that I tried to steady—

“Then you fear nothing, Concha, not even death.”

“You would not kill me.”

“Do you dare me to.”

“Yes, here or where you will. I know you, Don Mateo, as though you were borne in my bosom nine months.”

Bitter reproaches followed, and I taunted her. She rose, furious, and, vowing by her father’s tomb that she was virtuous, left me.

X

After all that had happened I had three paths open before me—

To leave her for ever;

To force her to stay with me;

To take her life.

I took a fourth path. I submitted to her own way of treating me. Each evening I returned to my cozenage, looking at her, and waiting, waiting.

Little by little, I think, she was more softened towards me. It even seemed sometimes that she had not really intended me the harm that had in fact been done. But the tavern life she now made me lead did not suit me. It never has or can. The Señora Perez was there too.

She seemed to know nothing of what had happened. Did she lie? I heard her Memoirs once more, and paid for her glasses of Eau-de-vie.

My sole instants of joy were provided by the dances of Concha. Her triumph was the dance named The Flamenco. What a tragic dance! It is, so to speak, all passion expressed in three acts. I always see her in that dance. She was resplendent. During a month she tolerated me in what may be called the dressing-room, at the rear of the stage where the dances took place. I had not even the right to see her home; I kept my “place” near her on conditions—no reproaches as to the past or the present. As to the future I did not know anything, and had no idea whatever what would be the solution of my most pitiable adventure of body and spirit.

Then came a night when, with other dancers, she danced, with bosom bared, in a room up-stairs. There were two rich Englishmen present.

I went up to her, and said—

“Follow me. Do not be afraid. But come or beware!”

But again, she dared and defied me.

XI

They left us alone.

“Defend yourself. Lie. You lie so well!” I cried.

“Ah,” she answered. “You accuse me. Superb! After entering here like a thief, spoiling my dance, and scaring every one away.”

The usual scene of reproach, recrimination and explanation followed. At the end I drew her on to my knees.

“Listen,” I said. “I cannot live thus. If you stay here a day longer I will indeed leave you for ever, Conchita.”

Then she protested that she loved me, and had always loved me.

Again she tamed me with her words, and the scene ended as so many had ended—in her triumph. We returned to Seville, where I took a house for her. In that house she pretended that she had a lover. It was pretence, but at last I turned and struck her in the face!

She tried to stab me but failed. Then I beat her until I hurt my own hand. On her knees she craved my pardon, and opened her arms to me. I took her. She was virginal as on the day of her birth.

XII and Last

André returned to Seville. He there met Concha Perez.

As they were starting for Paris a letter came by hand addressed to her. A little later in life André knew that the letter was as follows—

“My Conchita, I pardon you. I cannot live where you are not. Return to me. Now it is I who kneel to you. I kiss your feet.

“Mateo.”

The New Pleasure

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I

For four or five years I lived in a flat that was in a street near the little Park Monceau. I was there only for certain days in the week. The flat was not the finest in Paris, but was discreet, and the place generally had a well-valeted look. A distinct drawback was that although one end of my street gave on to the park, I could not enjoy that latter place much, for the gates were closed every evening before midnight—just when I most deeply appreciate walking for exercise and to take the pure air.

One night at the flat I sat in silent contemplation of two blue china cats that crouched upon a white table. I was wondering whether it would be better to pass the time smoking cigarettes or writing sonnets. Another idea was that it might be better to smoke the cigarettes and stare at the painting on the ceiling. Cigarette, sonnet, or stare? The most important thing at such an hour is to have a cigarette ready to hand and lip. It enshrouds all the most material things with scarves of cloud, fine and celestial. It adds something both to the lights and to the dark of the chamber, taking away the hard mathematics of the angles, and by means of a scented magical spell brings to the agitated human spirit a panacea and peace. It brings, too, the land of dreams. On the particular evening I now speak of there was the intention of doing some writing, and yet the desire to do nothing was active and coercive. Put differently, it was an evening that resembled many other similar evenings of the “unlit lamp and ungirt loin.” Evenings that ended with a full ink-well, sheets of dead-white writing paper, and—a large ash-tray full of golden ends of cigarettes, ashes and unused ideas.

Suddenly I was brought back from my “open-eye dreams” by the unexpected ringing of the bell. I raised my head and tried to be positive that on Friday night, the ninth of June, I did not await any one at that hour of the night. A second ring soon came, so I went to the door and drew back the bolt.

When the door was opened I saw a woman waiting. She was wrapped in a sort of mantle, like a travelling cloak, fastened around the throat. Above, the head was poised. I saw that her hair was blond, and that she was young. Beneath the shadow of her tresses gleamed very dark eyes. The face was a trifle teasing in its expression, and rather sensual, the mouth being very red.

“Do you wish me to come in?” she said, inclining her sweet head upon her shoulder.

I drew back, flattened as it were against the wall, suffering from the genuine, the natural astonishment of a man who has to open his door at such an hour to a woman of whom he has not the slightest recollection—a woman, too, who used the intimate form of address, “thou,” in the first phrase she used.

“My dear lady,” I said, with a touch of timidity, as I followed her into my chamber, “spare me any blame. Of course I recognize you clearly, but by some lapse of memory I do not recall your name. Is it not Lucienne or Tototte?”

She smiled a tender, indulgent smile, but, making no reply, unfastened her mantle.

Her robe was of sea-green silk, with an iris pattern. Snared in the low-cut corsage were beautiful breasts, that seemed as though they longed to burst forth—a flow of imprisoned beauty. Clasped around each of the nude, dark arms was a golden snake, with glittering emerald eyes. Around the throat of darkest cream were two rows of pearls—pearls that had meant the loss of many lives.

“If you remember me it is because we have met in the land of dreams, or in some land of the mind, where it seems that dreams come true. I am Callisto, daughter of Lamia. During eighteen hundred years my tomb has had peace. It is in the flowerful fields and woods of Daphne, near to the hills where were the voluptuous dwelling-places of Antioch. But in these days even the tombs have no abiding home. They took me to Paris, and my shadow or spirit followed. For a long time I slept in the icy caves of the Louvre. I should have been there for ever and ever if it had not been for a great and grand pagan, a really holy man, Louis Ménard. He is the only living man in all this land who knows to-day the signs and symbols of the ancient divinities. Before my tomb he solemnly pronounced the words that of old gave a nightly and transitory life to the unhappy dead! Therefore behold me. For seven hours each night I may go through your miserable city....”

“Oh, child of the older world,” I cried, “how you must see the change the world sorrows under!”

“Yes, and yet no. I find the dwellings dark, the dresses ugly, the sky sorrowful. How oddly you dress for such a climate. I find that life in general is more stupid, and that human beings look much less happy than in the older and more golden days. But if there is one thing that greatly stupefies me, it is to see that you have still so many of the things that I knew of old. What ... in eighteen hundred years have you all made nothing more, nothing new? Is that so really and truly? What I have seen in the houses, the open air, the streets, is that all? Have you not succeeded in finding a new thing? If not, what misery, my friend!”

My attitude of astonishment was my sole reply.

She smiled, the lovely red lips parting over her mother-of-pearl teeth most enchantingly. Then she murmured in explanation—

“See how I am dressed. This was my burial attire. Regard it. In my first lifetime one dressed in wool and silk. In returning to the earth I thought that such things would have passed away even from the memory of man. I imagined that after so many years that the human race would have discovered fabrics to dress in more wonderful than a tissue of sun and silk, more pleasurable to touch than the exquisite tender skin of young virgins, of rose-leaves, of downy peaches. But you still dress or clothe yourselves in thread, in wool, in the silk we all had of old. Then look at my shoes of olive morocco, worked with gold like the binding of a rare book. Have you as lovely things for the feet in these days? And so with the gems and jewels of these days. I knew them all, then.”

“Callisto,” at last I said, “you give these things too great an importance. A girl is never so beautiful as when she is made as the gods made her.”

She gazed at me, then said very slowly, “Are you sure now that women themselves, their form, has not changed since my early days of life?”

II

To my utter amazement she followed her last words by slipping off her jewels and robes. She had the grandeur of a goddess from throat to feet. She curved into a long, deep, easy chair, and said, “Why have you people of to-day not perfected the woman as you have perfected flowers?” She continued in a soft, dreamy voice, “Oh, days of the youth of the world, days of the first coming of pleasure!... During the nineteen hundred years of my sleep in the grave what new joy have you all discovered. What new pleasure have you found? Invite me to share it with you....”

“We need more time, Callisto,” I pleaded.

She smiled in derision. “Your art and thought have both borrowed from us—parasites of our dead bodies. Descartes and Kant borrowed from our Parmenides. Euclid, Archimedes, Aristotle, Democritus, Heraclitus ... you have discovered nothing that they had not dreamt. You have discovered nothing, not even America. Aristotle said the earth was round, and indicated the path that Columbus finally took. But, oh! if only you had discovered one new pleasure; only one.”

I sighed. I could not combat her arguments any more than I could resist her beauty. Instead, I simply said, “Will you take a cigarette? Doubtless Aristotle taught you that——”

“No,” Callisto answered; “but do you offer me that as a new pleasure?”

She consented to take one, and I taught her the best method of getting joy from those tubes of white and gold. There followed a long silence. She held in her hand my packet of cigarettes, and seemed to be deep in the enjoyment of an emotion she would not share. Another cigarette was lit for her, and slowly smoked. Callisto, at last, had found a new pleasure!

Byblis

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Amaryllis told to the three young women and the three philosophers, as if they were little children, this fable.

“Travellers I have known, who have gone to Caril by ascending the Méandre far beyond the range of the shepherds, have seen the River God asleep in the shade on the river-bank. He had a long green beard, and his face was wrinkled like the river’s grey and rocky banks from which trailed dripping plants. His old eyelids seemed dead as they overhung the eyes which were for ever blind. It is likely that if any one went to find him now, he would not be discovered alive.

“Now this was the father of Byblis by his marriage with the nymph Cyanée; I will tell you the story of the unhappy Byblis.”

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I

In the grotto from which the river emerged in a mysterious way the nymph Cyanée gave birth to twins; one was a son who was named Caunos, and the other a girl to whom the name of Byblis was given.

They both grew up upon the banks of the Méandre, and sometimes Cyanée showed them beneath its transparent surface the divine appearance of their father, whose soul disturbed its flowing stream.

The only world the children knew was the forest in which they were born. They had never seen the sun except through the network of its branches. Byblis never left her brother, and walked with her arm around his neck.

She wore a little tunic which her mother had woven for her in the depths of the river, which tunic was blue-grey like the first light of dawn. Caunos wore around his waist nothing but a garland of roses from which hung a yellow waist-cloth.

As soon as it was light enough for them to walk in the woods, they wandered far away, playing with the fruits which had fallen to the ground, or searching for the largest and most sweetly-scented flowers. They always shared their finds and never quarrelled, so that their mother spoke proudly of them to the other nymphs her friends.

Now when twelve years from the day of their birth had sped, their mother became uneasy and sometimes followed them.

The two children played no longer, and when they returned from a day in the forest, they brought back nothing with them, neither birds, flowers, fruits, nor garlands. They walked so close together that their hair was mingled. Byblis’ hands strayed about her brother’s arms. Sometimes she kissed him upon the cheek: then they both remained silent.

When the heat was too great they glided beneath the low branches, and lying on their breasts upon the sweet-smelling grass talked and adored each other without ever withdrawing from each other’s embrace.

Then Cyanée took her son aside and said to him—

“Why are you sad?”

Caunos replied—

“I am not sad. I used to be when I was playing and laughing. Now everything is changed. I no longer feel the need of play, and if I do not laugh it is because I am happy.”

Then Cyanée asked him, “Why are you happy?”

The answer which Caunos gave her was—

“Because I look at Byblis.”

Cyanée asked him too—

“Why is it that you do not now look at the forest?”

“Because Byblis’ hair is softer and more scented than the grass; because Byblis’ eyes—”

But Cyanée stopped him. “Child! be silent!”

Hoping to cure him of his illicit passion, she at once took him to a mountain-nymph who had seven daughters most wondrously and indescribably beautiful.

Both of them, after planning together, said to him—

“Make your choice, Caunos, and the one who pleases you shall be your wife.”

But Caunos looked at the seven young girls as unmovedly as if he had been looking at seven rocks; for the image of Byblis quite filled his little soul, and there was not room in him for an alien love.

For a month Cyanée took her son from mountain to mountain, and from plain to plain without succeeding in diverting him from his desire.

At last realizing that she would never overcome his obstinate passion, she began to hate her son and accuse him of infamous conduct. But the child did not understand why his mother reproached him. Why among all women was he to be refused the one he loved? Why was it that caresses, which would have been permissible in the importunate arms of another, became criminal in the arms of his beloved Byblis? For what mysterious reason was it that a sentiment which he knew to be good, tender and capable of any sacrifice, was deemed worthy of every punishment? Zeus, he thought, married his sister, and Aphrodite dared to deceive her brother Ares with her brother Hephaïstos. For he did not yet know that the gods alone have given themselves an intelligent morality and that they disturb men’s virtue by incomprehensible laws.

Now Cyanée said to her son—

“I disown you as my child!”

She made a sign to a Centaur which was going towards the sea, and had Caunos placed upon its back. Then the beast went rapidly away.

For some time Cyanée followed her son with her eyes. Caunos in his fright clung to the shoulders of the beast, and was sometimes buried in its monstrous mane. Then Centaur moved with long and powerful strides; it travelled in a straight line, and soon grew small in the distance. Then it turned behind a clump of bushes, and reappeared looking from afar like a tiny and almost stationary speck. At last Cyanée could see it no longer.

Slowly the mother of Byblis retraced her steps into the forest.

She was sad, but at the same time proud of saving by a forced separation the destiny of her two children; and she thanked the gods for giving her the strength to accomplish such a heartrending duty.

“Now,” she thought, “Byblis being alone will forget the brother who has been sacrificed for her. She will fall in love with the first man who knows how to caress her, and from the marriage-bed will spring, as is right, a race half human and half divine. Blest are the immortal gods!”

But when she returned to the grotto, little Byblis had disappeared.

II

When Byblis found herself alone upon the little bed of green leaves upon which she had slept by her brother’s side every night, she had in vain tried to sleep; but that evening dreams came not to her.

She went out into the warm night. A gentle breath of air swayed the darkness of the forest. She sat down and watched the flowing stream.

“Why,” she thought, “has not Caunos come back. What has called him away and kept him from me. Who is it, father, that is separating us?”

As this last idea came to her she leant over the spring.

“Father!” she repeated, “father! where is Caunos? Reveal the secret to me?”

A murmur of the water answered—

“Far away.”

Byblis in affright quickly continued—

“When will he return? When will he come back to me?”

“Never,” the spring replied.

“Dead! Is he dead?”

“No.”

“Where shall I see him again?”

The spring spake no more. Its gentle ripple resumed its monotonous sound. No divine presence seemed to live in its clear waters.

Byblis got up and fled. She knew the path by which Caunos had started with his mother. It was a narrow track which wound from tree to tree as it buried itself in the forest. She had not traversed it often, for it ran through a valley infested with serpents and dangerous beasts. This time her desire overcame her fear, and she tremblingly followed the path with all the speed of which her little bare feet were capable.

The night was not very dark; but the shadows thrown by the moon are black, and behind the mighty trees Byblis had to feel her way.

She reached a spot where the pathway split in two. Which direction was she to take, which path was she to follow? On her knees she for a long time sought for a footstep to guide her. But the earth was dry. Byblis could see nothing. As she lifted her head she perceived that, hidden in the foliage of an oak, a tree-nymph with green breasts was watching her with a smile.

“Oh!” Byblis cried, “which way did they go? Tell me if you saw them.”

The tree-nymph extended one of her long branch-like arms to the right, and Byblis thanked her with a grateful glance.

She walked on that night for a long way. The pathway seemed never-ending, and, besides, it was hardly visible beneath a covering of dead leaves; it ceaselessly wound its way, determined in its direction by the chance of the soil, and the position of the trees; it seemed to climb up and descend into the shadows for ever.

At last worn out with fatigue Byblis fell to the ground and went to sleep.

She awakened in the morning when the sun was high in the heavens with a soft, warm sensation upon her outstretched hand. She opened her eyes to see a white hind gently licking her. But at Byblis’ first movement the graceful animal jumped up, pricked its ears, and fixed its lovely dark eyes, which glittered like a mountain stream, upon a distant point.

“Hind,” Byblis said, “to whom do you belong? If your mistress is the Goddess Artemis guide me, for I know her. I offer up to her in the full moonlight libations of goat’s milk which are very pleasing to her, and, hind, she loves me dearly. If you are one of her company listen to the voice of my anguish, and be sure that by so doing you will not displease the kind Huntress of the Night.”

The hind appeared to understand; it started off at a pace slow enough for the child to follow. In this way they both traversed a vast expanse of forest and crossed two streams, the hind crossing them with a bound while Byblis had to wade knee-deep across them. Byblis was full of confidence. She was now sure that she was upon the right track; without a doubt the hind had been sent by the goddess herself out of gratitude for her devoutness, and the divine animal was leading her through the woods to her beloved brother from whom she would never again be separated. Every step took her nearer to the place where she would see Caunos again. She could even now feel upon her breast the fugitive’s affectionate embrace. A part of his breath seemed to have entered into the atmosphere and to have charmed the breeze.

Suddenly the hind stopped. She slid her long head between two young trees, where at the same time the horns of a stag appeared, and just as if she had reached the end of her journey the hind lay down with her hoofs beneath her and her head upon the ground.

“Caunos!” Byblis called aloud, “Caunos, where are you?”

Her only answer was from the stag, as he took a few steps towards her and threatened her with his terrible horns, which were interwoven like ten brown serpents.

Then Byblis understood that the hind, like her, had come to meet her lover, and that it was perhaps useless to reckon upon the help of these entirely absorbed by an inward passion.