Seraphita E-Book

Honore de Balzac

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The story revolves round the angelic and mysterious hermaphrodite Seraphita who seems to inspire love in all she meets. One of Balzac's most unusual novels which will appeal to lovers of the mystical and the supernatural.

Leseprobe

LIST OF CONTENTS

Title

Introduction

Séraphita

I

Seraphitus

II

Seraphita

III

Seraphita—Seraphitus

IV

The Clouds Of The Sanctuary

V

The Farewell

VI

The Road To Heaven

VII

The Assumption

Louis Lambert

Exiles

Select Bibliography

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Balzac: man, machine or trademark? Or, alternatively: demi-God, dupe or egomaniac? With Balzac, there are all sorts of choices to be made. Was he really the very type of the restless romantic genius, at odds with the world and only truly at home in his art? Or was Balzac just a boastful, immoderate producer of assembly-line fiction (‘littérature industrielle’ was Sainte-Beuve’s pointed term), a wild, compulsive hack who could never say no to pen, paper and the prospect of profit? Did he really have to create, did art make him write, or did he just have to see his name in print? Maker and shaper or product of circumstances? Assessments of the man and his work are so varied that sometimes they sound like they are about entirely different people. Is your Balzac mine? Is there room for disagreement? To Baudelaire and Gautier, to name but two, he was a visionary. Victor Hugo thought that he was a revolutionarty writer. Théodore de Banville believed that he was nothing less than a modern Homer, or a Homer for modern times. Zola discovered a kindred soul. To him, Balzac was a proto-Naturalist, committed, as Zola was, to telling it as it was. But he earned his fair share of critical emnity and his emergence as a literary classic was slow. Sainte-Beuve, in his own time an influential shaper of opinions, found Balzac lacking in style, without good taste and wanting in sound aesthetic judgement. In his view, Balzac’s most original characteristic, his chief claim to fame, was the fact that he would invariably be thinking about thirty novels when he was writing one. In other words, his mind was always elsewhere. This profligacy, this outrageous rate of production would furnish many critics with an easy, slow-moving target. Balzac was proud of his invention of recurring characters, of peopling his novels with folk who come and go, but his detractors noted that it merely enabled him to publish unfinished novels.

Add to the fact of his slippery fortunes, in his life and afterwards, the further fact of when he lived, and the business of deciding exactly what he was is further complicated. In Balzac’s case the mundane co-ordinates of time and place — he was born in Tours in 1799 and died in Paris in 1850 — do something more than define or isolate a lifetime. The man has grown larger than his life and seeped into the substance of history. His life and its products span the second quarter of a hectic century that saw the growth of the culture and institutions of modern France. It is in part due to the celebrated detail and the ambitious architecture of his novels that so much of that formative historical process, at least as it applies to Paris, seems comprehensible on a human scale. The brute abstractions of industrialisation and urbanisation are brought down to size and fleshed-out with human consequences. Like Kafka’s Prague or Dicken’s London, Balzac’s Paris provides a special kind of urban and social history. In 1842 Balzac explained that ‘French society is the real historian, and I have merely tried to guide its pen.’ And in 1845 he was gratified to learn that ‘People are beginning to realise that I am much more of a historian than a novelist.’ Later, Engels would write: ‘I have learnt more from Balzac than from all the professional historians, economists and statisticians put together.’

For what would turn out to be the last fifteen years of his life, by which time he had achieved fame and notoriety, Balzac set himself the task of compiling a Western Arabian Nights. The project would lend form and overall purpose to his life’s work. Gently parodying Dante, it would be a resolutely Human Comedy, ‘the history of the human heart traced thread by thread.’ The plan was to fashion a spacious prose panorama depicting modern urban life. Bored with greenery and tired of pastoral, The Human Comedy would be played out on the stone fields and in the brick built gulleys of early nineteenth-century Paris. It is a cold disenchanted scene, full of folly and misery. Some critics would pillory Balzac for his pessimism. Others would celebrate his brave realism and unflinching eye.

It is not surprising that The Human Comedy proved to be a severe taskmaster. To the elusive end of seeing it through to completion (it was only half finished at his death), Balzac wrote hundreds of books and many thousands of letters, articles and reviews. He exiled himself to his fiction, to a world bounded by the edge of a page. It is, quite literally, exhausting to contemplate how much he wrote, and how he wrote it. Fuelled by black coffee, drived by ambition and battling against the constant undertow of debt, he laboured long into the night, night after night, for months on end, methodically folding his life into art. He became, on his own admission, a ‘Mind Factory.’ As all around him the means of production were being transformed by industry and technology, Balzac cranked out unit after unit of fiction. He consumed acres of paper and lakes of ink. Gradually, episode by episode, character by character (there are 2,472 named characters in The Human Comedy), Balzac fashioned a version of the society and culture in which he moved. His vast correspondence is full of weary accounts like this:

I go to bed at six or seven in the evening, like the hens. I am called at one in the morning and work until eight. At eight I go to sleep again for an hour and a half; then I have something very light, a cup of pure coffee, and harness myself to my cab until four. At four I receive visitors, have a bath or go out. After dinner I go to bed.

Routines like this made him susceptible to illness and he constantly complained about aches and pains. This is a particularly strange example: ‘Sometimes it seems to me as if my brain were on fire and as if I were fated to die on the ruins of my mind.’ Caffeine poisoning and exhaustion would seem a likely cause of that sensation.

In the end his heart, weakened by work and weight, failed him. Balzac died a self-made literary celebrity, drained by the high cost of his way of living, and the higher price of art. In a famous speech at his graveside, Victor Hugo remarked: ‘His life was short but it was full. It was richer in works than in days.’ With the growth of Balzac’s reputation towards the end of the nineteenth century, due in large part to Zola’s advocacy, The Human Comedy came to be viewed as a landmark in the making of literary realism. Balzac achieved only posthumously the stature of a classic. By the beginning of the twentieth century he ranked alongside Molière in the pantheon of French literary genius. But go back to the mid-eighteenth century, to pre-Revolutionary France, and Balzac’s ancestors are, literally, peasants scratching a precarious living from the land.

Balzac’s father was born in 1746 in the small village of La Nougayrié and he was the last of eleven children. He escaped these circumstances by the usual route of learning to read and write. In 1765 he left for Paris and once there changed his name from Balssa to Balzac. Like many capable young men on the make he did well out of the revolutionary years and by 1793 his peasant origins were well behind him. He was employed as a civil servant and later by the bankers Daniel Doumerc where he met his wife, Anne Charlotte Laure Sallambier. In 1798 the Balzac family moved to Tours and on May 20, 1799, Honoré Balzac was born (the first of four children). It is well known that his mother made his childhood and youth miserable. She described him as ‘the fruit of duty and chance.’ Balzac himself would later write: ‘I never had a mother.’ He suffered ‘the most dreadful childhood ever fallen to the lot of any man.’ In the year of Balzac’s birth Napoleon Bonaparte was elected Consul and in 1804 he was crowned Emperor. Later in life Balzac would keep a bust of the Emperor on his mantlepiece with a label attached to the base: ‘What he began with the sword, I shall consumate with the pen.’

The young Honoré Balzac started school in 1805 as a boarder at the Collège des Oratoriens in Vendôme. He was desperately unhappy there and the experience would later be distilled into Louis Lambert. For the remainder of his unfortunate and undistinguished school career he was shunted from school to school, always treated indifferently by his parents. His mother’s lack of care and concern would haunt him to the end of his life and be a constant source of bitterness.

Balzac left school in 1816 and started studying law at the Sorbonne, apprenticed to Maître Guillonnet-Merville. At about this time he started thinking seriously about writing. He resented the drudgery of law and did not relish the prospect of a lifetime spent buried in legal documents. In 1819 he announced to his shocked family that he intended to become a great writer and to prove his point set about writing a dramatic tragedy, Cromwell; an abortive effort which would be his first literary work and the last to be published (in 1925). Balzac spent the next couple of years working hard at literary success. But the harder he tried the less likely it seemed that success would be his. He began a substantial novel, Falthurne, which he never finished, and in 1821 collaborated with Auguste le Poiteven de L’Égreville on a series of popular romantic novels and thrillers.

In the early 1820s Balzac wrote a huge amount, at incredible speed, under two pseudonyms: Lord R’Hoone and Horace de Saint-Aubin. At least he had found literary success of a sort. He enthused to his sister: ‘Lord R’Hoone will before long be the man of the day, the most prolific author in the world, the most charming companion, and the ladies will love him as the apple of their eye.’ He looked forward to travelling around town with ‘pockets full of money.’ That, however, was never to be. The more Balzac earned, the more he spent, and he was soon on the fatal spiral whereby debts are always two steps ahead of earnings. At about this time he started another serious novel, Sténie, but that too was abandoned unfinished.

By 1825 Balzac’s ambitions were growing. He fancied himself as a publisher and went into business. He produced cheap editions of Molière and La Fontaine but sales were agonisingly slow and the business collapsed within three years. The debts were huge. But his spirit was unbroken and in 1826 he published his first serious literary effort, Wann-Chlore. Henri de Latouche, who would later be an important figure in the history of Séraphita, helped propel the author towards his goal by writing an enthusiastic review: ‘This is the work of a courageous young man with a great future.’

1829 proved to be Balzac’s year and a ‘great future’ at last seemed to be within his grasp. Les Chouans and Physiologie du Mariage were both published to considerable acclaim and respectable sales. At last, his career as a writer was off the ground. He started writing for various newspapers and periodicals and began to live the life of a literary tyro about town. His work now unfolds at a hectic pace. Scènes de la Vie Privée and La Peau de Chagrin gained extensive if mixed review coverage. Jules Janin praised the latter in L’Artiste. And in 1830, as a sign that at least Balzac was taking his aristocratic pretensions seriously, he added ‘de’ to his name.

From 1830 onwards the burden of work was constant. Stefan Zweig estimated that at about this time he must have been churning out nearly sixteen printed pages a day, not including the laborious, meticulous and time consuming business of correcting an endless succession of proofs. Balzac complained to Madame Zulma Carraud: ‘The days melt in my hands like ice in the sun.’ To Madame Hanska he declared: ‘I want to govern the intellectual world of Europe, and, two years more of patience and labour, and I shall walk above the heads of those who seek to bind my hands, and retard my flight!’ At the same time he is struck down by another of his ailments: ‘I had an inflammation of the brain yesterday in consequence of my excessive labours.’

Séraphita is a product of these early years of fame and fortune. In the Autumn of 1833, according to his correspondence, Balzac was already considering writing a novel about an angel. The inspiration had come to him during a visit to the studio of the sculptor Théophile Bra, a minor figure who seldom merits even a footnote in histories of nineteenth-century French sculpture. They had become aquainted in a circuitous way and enjoyed a commom interest in Swedenborg, all kinds of esoteric philosophy, and hermaphrodites. Bra was the cousin of the celebrated poetess Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, who was the mistress of Henri de Latouche, who had helpfully praised Wann-Chlore so warmly. It is also entirely possible that Séraphita owes something to de Latouche’s own Fragolette, a romantic yarn about a hermaphrodite. But this is speculation and Balzac traced the idea for Séraphita to a piece in Bra’s studio, ‘the most beautiful masterpiece in existence.’ It was apparently a sculpture of ‘Mary holding the infant Christ, adored by the angels.’ Balzac was spell-bound. In November he wrote to Madame Hanska:

I have conceived the finest book you can imagine, a small volumne to which Louis Lambert would be the preface, a work entitled Séraphita. Séraphita would be the two natures in a single being, like Fragoletta, but with this difference, that I assume this creature to be an angel arrived at his final transformation, and bursting through his envelope to ascend to the skies. This being is loved by a man and by a woman, to whom he says, as he is about to take wing towards the heavens, that they have both loved the love which bound them to each other, seeing it in him, an angel all pure, and he reveals to them their passion and leaves them love, while escaping from their earthly miseries.

But Séraphita proves to be a hard book to finish. In March 1834 he wrote to Madame Hanska:

What am I to say to you about the matter? The completion of this work is killing me. I have a fever every day. Never has so great a conception presented itself to the mind of man. Only I know what I am putting into it; I am putting into it my life!

In 1834 he managed to complete three major books; L’Histoire des Treize, La Recherche de l’Absolu and La Duchesse de Langeais. But writing Séraphita would extract the highest toll. In July he wrote to Madame Hanska:

La Recherche de l’Absolu will certainly widen the limits of my reputation; but these are victories too dearly bought. One morning I shall be seriously ill. Séraphita has cost me just as much loss of hair. I must have these exhalations which only come at the expense of life.

But he also anticipated a mixed response to the book.

Séraphita, that will be the master-stroke: it shall bring me the cold sneers of the Parisian, but I shall have touched the hearts of all privileged beings. There is in it a treatise on prayer entitled ‘The Path that Leads to God,’ in which are the angel’s last words, which will fill people with a yearning to live by the soul. Those mystical ideas have taken possession of my mind. I am the artist-believer. One can create a Goriot every day, but one creates a Séraphita only once in a lifetime.

Séraphita did indeed have mixed reception. It is a strikingly atypical Balzacian product, a mixture of weird science and theosophy, set in Norway at the end of the eighteenth century. Writing in 1859, the spiritualist ElmeMarie Caro claimed that Balzac’s descriptions of Norway in Séraphita are amongst his most inspired treatments of landscape. It is the story of a mysterious being, an angel, who, in the course of the novel travels upwards to Heaven. It is full of mysticism and Madame Carraud spoke for many when she complained that ‘what is good in it won’t be understood. All the attention will go to Swedenborg’s religion.’ In time, Séraphita would help to confirm the suspicion of many of Balzac’s critics; that he was a man without any serious or worthwhile message, a writer with no systematic philosophy or clear ideas to call his own. His was an untutored and unrestrained intellect, deeply curious about the occult sciences, about mesmerism, astrology, animal magnetism, mysticism and alchemy, but uncontaminated by science and commonsense. Logic and the evidence of experience passed him by. His was a world of obscure forces and occult powers. He owed it all to superstition and credulity, as well as to his mother. Balzac later reported Madame de Berny’s opinion: ‘She is the only one with the courage to tell me that the angel talks too much like a trollop.’

But Balzac soon put the exhausting and difficult business of Séraphita behind him. In 1836 he had other things on his mind when he became embroiled in an expensive lawsuit over an unauthorised reprinting of Le Lys dans la vallée. In the same year he established a journal, Chronique de Paris, which soon failed. For the rest of the decade he was furiously busy writing novel after novel in an attempt to pay off his growing debts. In 1838 he travelled to Sardinia with the intention of exploiting some silver mines, but he arrived too late and some Genoese businessmen beat him to it.

In 1842 Balzac published and wrote a famous preface to a collected edition of his works. It was there that he outlines the idea of running all of his novels together in a single epic called The Human Comedy. In the autumn of 1843 he travelled to St. Petersburg to be with Madame de Hanska. In the following spring he suffered the first of what would be many bouts of serious illness, brought on by overwork and a weak heart. The remainder of the decade turned out to be his period of marked decline. His energies deserted him, he somehow lost the spark. In 1846 he published Le Cóusin Pons and bought a large house, the Pavilion Beaujou in Paris. In 1847 he published his last major work, La Cousine Bette. In 1848 he made another visit to Russia. In the following year he was severely ill again.

In March 1850 Balzac married Evelina Hanska in the parish church of St. Barbara at Berdichev in the Ukraine. He wrote the following to Madame Carraud:

Well then, three days ago, I married the only woman whom I have ever loved. This union is, I think, the recompense that God was keeping in reserve for me, to make up for so many adversities, for all those years of toil, of difficulties encountered and overcome. I had no happy youth, no flowery blossoming time; but I shall have the most brilliant summer, the softest and sweetest of autumns.

But it was not to be. He was in fact unwell throughout April: ‘My heart and lungs are both giving me trouble. I have to catch my breath after every step and am unable to speak.’ In May they returned to Paris late at night to find their house locked with all the lights ablaze. Inside, their servant had gone mad.

It was a bleak summer and by August Balzac was close to death. By Sunday August 18 he was dying. In the evening Victor Hugo paid his last visit.

I heard a loud, ominous rattling sound. I was in Balzac’s room. His bed stood in the centre of the chamber. it was of mahogany, and at the head and foot was an apparatus of straps and cross-bars for enabling the sick man to be moved. Balzac lay with his head supported on a mass of pillows to which had been added red damask cushions from the settee. His face was purple, almost black, and inclined towards the right, he was unshaven, his hair gray and cut short, his eyes open and staring. I saw him in profile, and he looked like the Emperor.

That night, he died. His physician put his death down to ‘an old heart trouble, aggravated by working at night and the use, or rather abuse, of coffee, to which he had to have recourse in order to combat the normal human need for sleep.’ He was not the first artist to fall foul of his own habits, or to suffer the weakness of a reluctant muscle.

David Blow

SERAPHITA

To Madame Eveline de Hanska, née Countess Rzewuska.

Madam,—Here is the work you desired of me; in dedicating it to you I am happy to offer you some token of the respectful affection you allow me to feel for you. If I should be accused of incapacity after trying to extract from the depths of mysticism this book, which demanded the glowing poetry of the East under the transparency of our beautiful language; the blame be yours! Did you not compel me to the effort—such an effort as Jacob’s—by telling me that even the most imperfect outline of the figure dreamed of by you, as it has been by me from my infancy, would still be something in your eyes? Here, then, is that something.—Why cannot this book be set apart exclusively for those lofty spirits who, like you, are preserved from worldly pettiness by solitude! They might impress on it the melodious rhythm which it lacks, and which, in the hands of one of our poets, might have made it the glorious epic for which France still waits. Still, they will accept it from me as one of those balustrades, carved by some artist full of faith, on which the pilgrim leans to meditate on the end of man, while gazing at the choir of a fine church.

I remain, Madam, with respect, your faithful servant,

De Balzac.

PARIS, August 23, 1835.

I

SERAPHITUS

ON seeing the Norwegian coast as outlined on the map, what imagination can fail to be amazed at its fantastic contour—long tongues of granite, round which the surges of the North Sea are for ever moaning? Who has not dreamed of the majestic spectacle of these beachless shores, these endless creeks, and inlets, and little bays, no two of which are alike, and each a pathless gulf? Would it not seem as though Nature had amused herself by representing, in an indestructible hieroglyphic, the symbol of life in Norway, by giving its coast the configuration of the bones of an enormous fish? For fishing is the staple of commerce, and almost the sole article of food to a handful of men who cling, like a tuft of lichen, to those barren rocks. On a land extending over fourteen degrees of longitude there are scarcely seven hundred thousand souls. Owing to the inglorious dangers and the perpetual snow that these Norwegian peaks offer to the traveller—the very name of Norway makes one cold—their sublime beauty remains inviolate and harmonises with certain human phenomena, which took place there—equally unknown, at least to romance, and of which this is the story.

When one of these inlets, a mere fissure in the sight of the eider-ducks, is wide enough to prevent the sea from freezing over in the rocky prison it tosses and struggles in, the inhabitants call such a little gulf a fjord, a word which most geographers have tried to adopt into their respective languages. In spite of the general resemblance of all these channels, each has its own individuality; the sea penetrates into all these breaches, but in each the rocks are differently riven, and their contorted precipices defy the terms of geometry: here the crest is toothed like a saw; there its sides are too perpendicular to allow the snow to rest on them, or the glorious clumps of northern pines to take root; further on, the convulsions of the globe have rounded off some soft declivity, a lovely valley furnished with stage on stage of dark-plumed trees. You feel inclined to call this land Marine Switzerland.

One of these gulfs, lying between Dronthjem and Christiania, is called Stromfiord. If the Stromfiord is not the most beautiful of these scenes, it has at least the merit of presenting the earthly magnificence of Norway, and of having been the background to the scenes of a really heavenly romance.

The general outline of the Stromfiord is, at a first glance, that of a funnel forced, open by the sea. The entrance made by the waves is the record of a contest between the ocean and the granite, two equally powerful elements—one by its inertia, the other by its motion. The proof lies in some half-sunken rocks of fantastic shapes which prohibit the entrance of vessels. The hardy sons of the soil can in some places leap from rock to rock, undismayed by a gulf a hundred fathoms deep and six feet wide. Here and there a frail and ill-balanced block of gneiss, thrown across, joins two crags, or hunters or fishermen have flung some pine-trees, by way of a bridge, from one perpendicular cliff to another, where the sea murmurs unceasingly below.

This dangerous inlet turns to the right with a serpentine twist, where it meets a mountain rising three hundred fathoms above the surface of the sea, its foot forming a vertical shelf half a league in length, where the unyielding granite does not begin to split into rifts and inequalities till at about two hundred feet above the water. Thus the sea, rushing violently in, is no less violently driven back, by the resistant inertia of the mountain, towards the opposite shore, which the rebounding waves have worn into gentle indentations. The fiord is closed at the head by a cliff of gneiss, crowned with forest, whence a stream falls in cascades, forms a river when the snows melt, spreads into a lake of considerable extent, and escapes with a rush, carrying down old pine-trees and ancient larches, hardly perceptible in the tumbling torrent. Flung by the fall to the bottom of the abyss, these trees presently come to the surface again, and combine in a tangle, forming islets which are stranded on the left bank, where the inhabitants of the little village built on the Stromfiord find them splintered, broken, sometimes entire, but always stripped of their leaves and branches.

The mountain, which thus receives at its feet the assaults of the sea, and on its head the buffeting of the north wind, is the Falberg. Its summit, always wrapped in a mantle of ice and snow, is the highest in Norway, where the vicinity of the Pole produces, at a level of eighteen hundred feet above the sea, such cold as prevails elsewhere on the highest mountains on the globe. The crest of this cliff, perpendicular on the side towards the sea, shelves gradually away to the east down to the falls of the Sieg, by a succession of slopes where the cold allows no vegetation but heath and much-enduring shrubs. That part of the fiord where the waters escape under the thick forests is called Siegdalen, or the valley of the Sieg—the name of the river.

The bay opposite to the cliffs of the Falberg is the valley of Jarvis—a pretty spot overlooked by hills covered with fir-trees, larches, and birch, with a few oaks and beeches, the thickest and most variously coloured hangings Nature ever affords to this wild northern scenery. The eye can easily distinguish the line where the ground, warmed by the sun’s rays, first admits of culture and shows the first signs of the Norwegian flora. At this part the gulf is wide enough to allow the waters flung back by the Falberg to die murmuring on the lowest ledge of the hills, where the strand is softly fringed with fine sand, mingled with mica, tiny crystals, and pretty pebbles of porphyry and many-coloured marbles brought from Sweden by the river, with waifs from the sea, and shells and ocean weeds tossed up by storms from the Pole or from the South.

At the foot of the Jarvis hills is the village, consisting of about two hundred wooden houses, inhabited by a population that live there, lost, like the swarms of bees in a forest, happily vegetating and extorting a living from the wilderness around them. The unrecognised existence of this village is easily explained. Few of its men were bold enough to venture out among the rocks to reach the open sea and attempt the fishing which the Norwegians carry on to a great extent on less dangerous parts of the coast. The various fish in the fiord partly supplies the food of the inhabitants; the pasture land in the valleys affords milk and butter; a few plots of good land allow them to reap a harvest of rye, of hemp, and vegetables, which they manage to protect against the bitter cold and the transient but terrible heat of the sun, showing true Norwegian ingenuity in this twofold conflict. The absence of communications, either by land, where roads are impracticable, or by sea, where only small boats can thread the watery labyrinths of the fiord, hinders them from acquiring wealth by the sale of their timber. It would cost an equally enormous sum to clear the channel at the entrance or to open up a road to the interior.

The roads from Christiania to Dronthjem all make a bend round the Stromfiord, crossing the Sieg by a bridge several leagues above the falls; the coast between the Jarvis valley and Dronthjem is covered with impenetrable forests, and the Falberg is divided from Christiania by inaccessible precipices. The village of Jarvis might perhaps have opened communications with Sweden by way of the Sieg, but to bring it into touch with civilisation the Stromfiord needed a man of genius. The genius indeed came: a poet, a pious Swede, who died admiring and respecting the beauties of the land as being one of the grandest of the Creator’s works.

Those of my readers who have been gifted by study with that ‘mind’s eye,’ whose rapid perception can throw on the soul, as on a canvas, the most diverse landscapes of the world, may now readily conceive of the general aspect of the Stromfiord. They alone, perhaps, will be able to thread their tortuous way through the reef of the inlet where the sea fights and foams; to glide on its swell below the shelves of the Falberg, whose white peaks mingle with the misty clouds of a sky that is almost constantly pearl-grey; to admire the dented margin of the pretty sheet of water; to hear the falls of the Sieg, which drops in long streamers on to a picturesque medley of large trees tossed in confusion, some upright, some hidden among boulders of gneiss; and at last to rest on the smiling pictures offered to the eye by the lower hills of Jarvis, whence rise the noblest products of the north in clumps, in myriads: here, birch-trees, as graceful as girls and, like them, gently stooping; there, pillared aisles of beech with centennial, mossy trunks; all the contrast of these various shades of green, of white clouds among black pine-trees, of heath-grown commons in every shade of purple—all the colours, all the fragrance, the unknown marvels, in short, of this vegetation.

Expand the proportions of this amphitheatre, soar up to the clouds, lose yourself in the caves of the rocks where the walruses hide, still your fancy will never be equal to the riches, the poetry of this Norwegian scene. For can your thought ever be as vast as the ocean that bounds the land, as fantastic as the strange forms assumed by the forests, as the clouds, the shadows, the changes of light?

Do you see now, above the meadows on the shore, on the furthest fold of the plain that undulates at the foot of the high hills of Jarvis, two or three hundred houses, roofed with nœver, a kind of thatch of birch bark; frail-looking dwellings, quite low, and suggesting silkworms flung there on a mulberry leaf brought by the wind? Above these humble and peaceful dwellings is a church, built with a simplicity that harmonises with the poverty of the village. A graveyard lies round the chancel of this church; the parsonage is seen beyond. A little higher, on a knoll of the hillside, stands a dwelling, the only one built of stone, and for that reason called by the natives the Castle—the Swedish Castle.

In fact, a rich man had come from Sweden thirty years before this story opens and settled at Jarvis, trying to improve its fortunes. This little mansion, erected with a view to tempting the inhabitants to build the like, was remarkable for its substantial character, for a garden wall—a rare thing in Norway, where, in spite of the abundance of stone, wood is used for all the fences, even for those that divide the fields. The house, thus protected from snow, stood on a mound in the midst of a vast courtyard. The windows were screened by those verandahs of immense depth supported on large squared fir-trunks, which give Northern buildings a sort of patriarchal expression.

From under their shelter the savage bareness of the Falberg could easily be seen, and the infinitude of the open ocean be compared with the drop of water in the foam-flecked gulf; the portentous rush of the Sieg could be heard, though from afar the sheet of water looked motionless, where it threw itself into its granite bowl hedged in for three leagues round with vast glaciers—in short, the whole landscape where the scene is laid of the supernatural but simple events of this narrative.

The winter of 1799-1800 was one of the hardest in the memory of Europe; the Norway sea froze in every fiord, where the violence of the undertow commonly prevents the ice from forming. A wind, in its effects resembling the Spanish desert wind, had swept the ice of the Stromfiord by drifting the snow to the head of the gulf. It was long since the good folks of Jarvis had seen the vast mirror of the pool in winter reflecting the sky—a curious effect here in the heart of the hills whose curves were effaced under successive layers of snow, the sharpest peaks, like the deepest hollows, forming mere faint undulations under the immense sheet thrown by nature over the landscape now so dolefully dazzling and monotonous. The long hangings of the Sieg, suddenly frozen, described a vast arch, behind which the traveller might have walked sheltered from the storm if any one had been bold enough to venture across country. But the dangers of any expedition kept the boldest hunters within doors, fearing that they might fail to discern under the snow the narrow paths traced along the edge of the precipices, the ravines, and the cliffs. Not a creature gave life to this white desert reigned over by the Polar blast, whose voice alone was sometimes though rarely heard.

The sky, always grey, gave the pool a hue of tarnished steel. Now and again an eider-duck might fly across with impunity, thanks to the thick down that shelters the dreams of the wealthy, who little know the dangers that purchase it; but the bird—like the solitary Bedouin who traverses the sands of Africa—was neither seen nor heard; in the torpid air, bereft of electric resonance, the rush of its wings was noiseless, its joyous cry unheard. What living eye could endure the sparkle of that precipice hung with glittering icicles, and the hard reflections from the snows, scarcely tinted on the peaks by the beams of the pallid sun which peeped out now and then like a dying thing anxious to prove that it still lives? Many a time, when the rack of grey clouds, driven in squadrons over the mountains and pine forests, hid the sky with their dense shroud, the earth, for lack of heavenly lights, had an illumination of its own.

Here, then, were met all the majestic attributes of the eternal cold that reigns at the Pole, of which the most striking is such royal silence as absolute monarchs dwell in. Every condition carried to excess has the appearance of negation, or the stamp of apparent death; is not life the conflict of two forces? Here nothing showed a sign of life. One force alone, the barren force of frost, reigned supreme. The beating of the open sea even did not penetrate to this silent hollow, so full of sound during the three brief months when nature hurriedly produces the uncertain harvest needful to support this patient race. A few tall fir-trees protruded their dark pyramids loaded with festoons of snow; and the droop of their boughs, bending under these heavy beards, gave a finishing touch to the mourning aspect of the heights, where they were seen as black points.

Every family clung to the fireside in a house carefully closed, with a store of biscuit, run butter, dried fish, and provisions laid in to stand seven months of winter. Even the smoke of these dwellings was scarcely visible; they were all nearly buried in snow, of which the weight was broken by long planks starting from the roof, and supported at some distance from the walls on strong posts, thus forming a covered way round the house. During these dreadful winters the women weave and dye the stuffs of wool or linen of which the clothes are made; while the men for the most part read, or else lose themselves in those prodigious meditations which have given birth to the grand theories, the mystical dreams of the North, its beliefs and its studies—so thorough on certain points of science that they have probed to the core; a semi-monastic mode of life, which forces the soul back on itself, to feed on itself, and which makes the Norwegian peasant a being apart in the nations of Europe.

This, then, was the state of things on the Stromfiord in the first year of the nineteenth century, about the middle of the month of May.

One morning, when the sun was blazing down into the heart of this landscape, lighting up the flashes of the ephemeral diamonds produced by the crystallised surface of the snow and ice, two persons crossed the gulf and flew along the shelves of the Falberg, mounting towards the summit from ledge to ledge. Were they two human beings, or were they arrows? Any one who should have seen them would have taken them for two eiders soaring with one consent below the clouds. Not the most superstitious fisherman, not the most daring hunter, would have supposed that human creatures could have the power of pursuing a path along the faint lines traced on the granite sides, where this pair were, nevertheless, gliding along with the appalling skill of somnambulists, when, utterly unconscious of the laws of gravity and the perils of the least false step, they run along a roof, preserving their balance under the influence of an unknown power.

‘Stop here, Seraphitus,’ said a pale girl, ‘and let me take breath. I would look only at you as we climbed the walls of this abyss; if I had not, what would have become of me? But, at the same time, I am but a feeble creature. Do I tire you?’

‘No,’ said the being on whose arm she leaned. ‘Let us go on, Minna; the spot where we are standing is not firm enough to remain on.’

Once more the snow hissed off from the long boards attached to their feet, and they presently reached the first angular crag which chance had thrown out boldly from the face of the precipice. The person whom Minna had addressed as Seraphitus poised himself on his right heel to raise the lath of about six feet long, and as narrow as a child’s shoe, which was fastened to his boot by two straps of walrus skin; this lath, about an inch thick, had a sole of reindeer skin, and the hair, pressed back against the snow, brought him to a full stop. By turning his left foot, on which this snow-shoe (or ski) was not less than twelve feet in length, he was able to turn nimbly round, he returned to his timid companion, lifted her up in spite of his awkward foot gear, and set her down on a rocky seat, after dusting away the snow with his pelisse.

‘You are safe here, Minna, and may tremble at your ease.’

‘We have already reached a third of the height of the Ice-cap,’ said she, looking at the peak, which she called by its popular Norwegian name. ‘I do not yet believe––’

But she was too much out of breath to talk; she smiled at Seraphitus, who, without replying, held her up, his hand on her heart, listening to its palpitations, as rapid as those of a startled fledgling.

‘It often beats as fast as that when I have been running,’ said she.

Seraphitus bowed, without any contempt or coldness. In spite of the grace of this reply, which made it almost sweet, it nevertheless betrayed a reserve which in a woman would have been intoxicatingly provoking. Seraphitus clasped the girl to him, and Minna took the caress for an answer, and sat looking at him. As Seraphitus raised his head, tossing back the golden locks of his hair with an almost impatient jerk, he saw happiness in his companion’s eyes.

‘Yes, Minna,’ said he, in a paternal tone that was peculiarly charming in a youth scarcely full grown, ‘look at me. Do not look down.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you want to know?—Try then.’

Minna gave one hasty glance at her feet, and cried out like a child that has met a tiger. The dreadful influence of the void had seized her, and one look had been enough to give it to her. The fiord, greedy of its prey, had a loud voice, stunning her by ringing in her ears, as though to swallow her up more surely by coming between her and life. From her hair to her feet, all down her back, ran a shudder, at first of cold; but then it seemed to fire her nerves with intolerable heat, throbbed in her veins, and made her limbs feel weak from electrical shocks, like those caused by touching the electrical eel. Too weak to resist, she felt herself drawn by some unknown force to the bottom of the cliff, where she fancied she could see a monster spouting venom, a monster whose magnetic eyes fascinated her, and whose yawning jaws crunched his prey by anticipation.

‘I am dying, my Seraphitus, having loved no one but you,’ said she, mechanically moving to throw herself down.

Seraphitus blew softly on her brow and eyes. Suddenly, as a traveller is refreshed by a bath, Minna had forgotten that acute anguish; it had vanished under that soothing breath, which penetrated her frame and bathed it in balsamic effluence, as swiftly as the breath had passed through the air.

‘Who and what are you?’ said she, with an impulse of delicious alarm. ‘But I know.—You are my life.—How can you look down into the gulf without dying?’ she asked after a pause.

Seraphitus left Minna clinging to the granite, and went as a shadow might have done to stand on the edge of the crag, his eyes sounding the bottom of the fiord, defying its bewildering depths; his figure did not sway, his brow was as white and calm as that of a marble statue—deep meeting deep.

‘Seraphitus, if you love me, come back!’ cried the girl. ‘Your danger brings back all my torments. Who —who are you to have such superhuman strength at your age?’ she asked, feeling his arms around her once more.

‘Why,’ said Seraphitus, ‘you can look into far vaster space without a qualm’; and raising his hand, the strange being pointed to the blue halo formed by the clouds round a clear opening just over their heads, in which they could see the stars, though it was daylight, in consequence of some atmospheric laws not yet fully explained.

‘But what a difference!’ she said, smiling.

‘You are right,’ he replied; ‘we are born to aspire skywards. Our native home, like a mother’s face, never frightens its children.’

His voice found an echo in his companion’s soul; she was silent.

‘Come, let us go on,’ said he.

They rushed on together by the paths faintly visible along the mountain side, devouring the distance, flying from shelf to shelf, from ledge to ledge, with the swiftness of the Arab horse, that bird of the desert. In a few minutes they reached a green carpet of grass, moss, and flowers, on which no one yet had ever rested.

‘What a pretty sœter!’ cried Minna, giving the native name to this little meadow; ‘but how comes it here, so high up?’

‘Here, indeed, the Norwegian vegetation ceases,’ said Seraphitus; ‘and if a few plants and flowers thrive on this spot, it is thanks to the shelter of the rock which protects them from the Polar cold.—Put this spray in your bosom, Minna,’ he went on, plucking a flower; ‘take this sweet creature on which no human eye has yet rested, and keep the unique blossom in memory of this day, unique in your life! You will never again find a guide to lead you to this sœter.’

He hastily gave her a hybrid plant which his eagle eye had discerned among the growth of silene acaulis and saxifrage, a real miracle developed under the breath of angels. Minna seized it with childlike eagerness; a tuft of green, as transparent and vivid as an emerald, composed of tiny leaves curled into cones, light brown at the heart, shaded softly to green at the point, and cut into infinitely delicate teeth. These leaves were so closely set that they seemed to mingle in a dense mass of dainty rosettes. Here and there this cushion was studded with white stars edged with a line of gold, and from the heart of each grew a bunch of purple stamens without a pistil. A scent that seemed to combine that of the rose and of the orange-blossom, but wilder and more ethereal, gave a heavenly charm to this mysterious flower, at which Seraphitus gazed with melancholy, as though its perfume had expressed to him a plaintive thought, which he alone understood. To Minna this amazing blossom seemed a caprice of Nature, who had amused herself by endowing a handful of gems with the freshness, tenderness, and fragrance of a plant.

‘Why should it be unique? Will it never reproduce its kind?’ said she to Seraphitus, who coloured and changed the subject.

‘Let us sit down—turn round—look! At such a height you will perhaps not be frightened. The gulfs are so far below that you cannot measure their depth; they have the level perspective of the sea, the indefiniteness of the clouds, the hue of the sky. The ice in the fiord is an exquisite turquoise, the pine forests are visible only as dim brown streaks. To us the depths may well be thus disguised.’

Seraphitus spoke these words with that unction of tone and gesture which is known only to those who have attained to the highest places on the mountains of the earth, and which is so involuntarily assumed that the most arrogant master finds himself prompted to treat his guide as a brother, and never feels himself the superior till they have descended into the valleys where men dwell.

He untied Minna’s snow-shoes, kneeling at her feet. The girl did not notice it, so much was she amazed at the imposing spectacle of the Norwegian panorama—the long stretch of rocks lying before her at a glance, so much was she struck by the perennial solemnity of those frozen summits, for which words have no expression.

‘We have not come here by unaided human strength!’ said she, clasping her hands. ‘I must be dreaming!’

‘You call a fact supernatural, because you do not know its cause,’ he replied.

‘Your answers are always stamped with some deep meaning,’ said she. ‘With you I understand everything without an effort.—Ah! I am free!’

‘Your snow-shoes are off, that is all.’

‘Oh!’ cried she, ‘and I would fain have untied yours, and have kissed your feet!’

‘Keep those speeches for Wilfrid,’ said Seraphitus mildly.

‘Wilfrid!’ echoed Minna in a tone of fury, which died away as she looked at her companion. ‘You are never angry!’ said she, trying, but in vain, to take his hand. ‘You are in all things so desperately perfect!’

‘Whence you infer that I have no feelings?’

Minna was startled at a glance so penetratingly thrown into her mind.

‘You prove to me that we understand each other,’ replied she, with the grace of a loving woman.

Seraphitus gently shook his head, with a flashing look that was at once sweet and sad.

‘You who know everything,’ Minna went on, ‘tell me why the alarm I felt below, by your side, is dissipated now that I am up here; why I dare for the first time to look you in the face; whereas, down there, I scarce dare steal a glance at you?’

‘Perhaps up here we have cast off the mean things of the earth,’ said he, pulling off his pelisse.

‘I never saw you so beautiful,’ said Minna, sitting down on a mossy stone, and gazing in contemplation of the being who had thus brought her to a part of the mountain which from afar seemed inaccessible.

Never, in fact, had Seraphitus shone with such brilliant splendour—the only expression that can do justice to the eagerness of his face and the aspect of his person. Was this radiance due to the effulgence given to the complexion by the pure mountain air and the reflection from the snow? Was it the result of an internal impetus which still excites the frame at the moment it is resting after long exertion? Was it produced by the sudden contrast between the golden glow of sunshine and the gloom of the clouds through which this pretty pair had passed?

To all these causes we must perhaps add the effects of one of the most beautiful phenomena that human nature can offer. If some skilled physiologist had studied this being, who, to judge by the boldness of his brow and the light in his eyes at this moment, was a youth of seventeen; if he had sought the springs of this blooming life under the whitest skin that the North ever bestowed on one of its sons, he would, no doubt, have believed in the existence of a phosphoric fluid in the sinews that seemed to shine through the skin, or in the constant presence of an internal glow, which tinted Seraphitus as a light shines through an alabaster vase. Delicately slender as his hands were—he had taken off his gloves to loosen Minna’s sandals—they seemed to have such strength as the Creator has given to the diaphanous joints of a crab. The fire that blazed in his eyes rivalled the rays of the sun; he seemed not to receive but to give out light. His frame, as slight and fragile as a woman’s, was that of a nature feeble in appearance, but whose strength is always adequate to its desires, which are sometimes strong. Seraphitus, though of middle height, seemed taller as seen in front; he looked as if he fain would spring upwards. His hair, with its light curls, as if touched by a fairy hand and tossed by a breeze, added to the illusion produced by his airy attitude; but this absolutely effortless mien was the outcome rather of a mental state than of physical habit.

Minna’s imagination seconded this constant hallucination; it would have affected any beholder, for it gave to Seraphitus the appearance of one of the beings we see in our happiest dreams. No familiar type can give any idea of this face, to Minna so majestically manly, though in the sight of a man its feminine grace would have eclipsed the loveliest heads by Raphael. That Painter of Heaven has frequently given a sort of tranquil joy and tender suavity to the lines of his angelic beauties; but without seeing Seraphitus himself, what mind can conceive of the sadness mingled with hope which half clouded the ineffable feelings expressed in his features? Who could picture to himself, even in the artist’s dream, where all things are possible, the shadows cast by mysterious awe on that too intellectual brow, which seemed to interrogate the skies, and always to pity the earth? That head could tower disdainful, like a noble bird of prey whose cries rend the air, or bow resigned, like the turtle-dove whose voice sheds tenderness in the depths of the silent forest.

Seraphitus had a complexion of surprising whiteness, made all the more remarkable by red lips, brown eyebrows, and silky lashes, the only details that broke the pallor of a face whose perfect regularity did not hinder the strong expression of his feelings; they were mirrored there without shock or violence, but with the natural, majestic gravity we like to attribute to superior beings. Everything in those monumental features spoke of strength and repose.

Minna stood up to take the young man’s hand, hoping to draw him down to her so as to press on that fascinating brow a kiss of admiration rather than of love; but one look from his eyes, a look that went through her as a sunbeam goes through a glass prism, froze the poor child. She felt the gulf between them without understanding it; she turned away her head and wept. Suddenly a strong hand was round her waist, and a voice full of kindness said—

‘Come.’

She obeyed, resting her head in sudden relief on the young man’s heart; while he, measuring his steps by hers in gentle and attentive conformity, led her to a spot whence they could behold the dazzling beauty of the Polar scenery.

‘But before I look or listen, tell me, Seraphitus, why do you repulse me? Have I displeased you? And how? Tell me. I do not want to call anything my own; I would that my earthly possessions should be yours, as the riches of my heart already are; that light should come to me only from your eyes, as my mind is dependent on yours; then I should have no fear of offending you, since I should but reflect the impulses of your soul, the words of your heart, the light of your light, as we send up to God the meditations by which He feeds our spirit.—I would be wholly you!’

‘Well, Minna, a constant aspiration is a promise made by the future. Hope on!—Still, if you would be pure always, unite the thought of the Almighty to your earthly affections. Thus will you love all creatures, and your heart will soar high!’

‘I will do whatever you desire,’ said she, looking up at him timidly.

‘I cannot be your companion,’ said Seraphitus sadly.

He suppressed some reflections, raised his arms in the direction of Christiania, which was visible as a speck on the horizon, and said—

‘Look!’

‘We are indeed small,’ said she.

‘Yes; but we become great by feeling and intellect,’ said Seraphitus. ‘The knowledge of things, Minna, begins with us; the little we know of the laws of the visible world enables us to conceive of the immensity of higher spheres. I know not whether the time is ripe for talking thus to you; but I so long to communicate to you the flame of my hopes! Some day, perhaps, we may meet in the world where love never dies.’

‘Why not now and for ever?’ said she in a murmur.

‘Here nothing is permanent!’ said he in a tone of scorn. ‘The transient joys of earthly love are false lights which reveal to some souls the dawn of more durable bliss, just as the discovery of a law of nature enables certain privileged minds to deduct a whole system. Is not our perishable happiness here below an earnest of some other more perfect happiness, as the earth, a mere fragment of the universe, testifies to the universe? We cannot measure the orbit of the Divine mind, of which we are but atoms as minute as God is great; but we may have our intuitions of its vastness, we may kneel, adore, and wait. Men are constantly mistaken in their science, not seeing that everything on their globe is relative and subordinate to a general cycle, an incessant productiveness which inevitably involves progress, and an aim. Man himself is not the final creation; if he were, God would not exist.’

‘How have you had time to learn so many things?’ said the girl.

‘They are memories,’ replied he.

‘To me you are more beautiful than anything I see.’

‘We are one of the greatest works of God. Has He not bestowed on us the faculty of reflecting nature, concentrating it in ourselves by thought, and making it a stepping-stone from which to fly to Him? We love each other in proportion to what is heavenly in our souls.—But do not be unjust, Minna; look at the scene displayed at our feet; is it not grand? The ocean lies spread like a floor, the mountains are like the walls of an amphitheatre, the ether above is like the suspended velarium of the theatre, and we can inhale the mind of God as a perfume.

‘Look! the storms that wreck vessels filled with men from hence appear like mere froth; if you look above you all is serene; we see a diadem of stars. The shades of earthly expression are here lost. Thus supported by nature so attenuated by space, do you not feel your mind to be deep rather than keen? Are you not conscious of more loftiness than enthusiasm, of more energy than will? Have you not feelings to which nothing within us can give utterance? Do you not feel your wings?—Let us pray!’

Seraphitus knelt, crossing his hands over his bosom, and Minna fell on her knees weeping. Thus they remained for some minutes, and for some minutes the blue halo that quivered in the sky above them spread, and rays of light fell round the unconscious pair.

‘Why do you not weep when I cannot help it?’ said Minna in a broken voice.

‘Those who are pure in spirit shed no tears,’ replied Seraphitus, rising. ‘Why should I weep? I no longer see human misery. Here all is good and shines in majesty. Below I hear the supplications and the lament of the harp of suffering, sounding under the hands of the spirit held captive. Here I listen to the concert of harmonious harps. Below, you have hope, the beautiful rudiment of faith; but here faith reigns, the realisation of hope!’

‘You can never love me, I am too imperfect; you disdain me,’ said the girl.

‘Minna, the violet hidden at the foot of the oak says to itself, “The sun does not love me, he never comes.” —The sun says, “If I fell on her, that poor little flower would perish!” Because he is the flower’s friend he lets his beams steal through the oak-leaves, subduing them to tint the petals of the blossom he loves.—I feel I am not sufficiently shrouded, and fear lest you should see me too clearly; you would quail if you knew me too well. Listen; I have no taste for the fruits of the earth; I have understood your joys too well; like the debauched Emperors of Pagan Rome, I am disgusted with all things, for I have the gift of vision.—Leave me for ever,’ added Seraphitus sorrowfully.

He went away to sit down on a projecting rock, his head drooping on his breast.

‘Why thus drive me to despair?’ said Minna.