GÉRARD DE NERVAL (continued 2)

Consider, friends, that in this scene more than a mere repetition of measured lines was involved and three hearts contended with equal chances, where as in the arena, life-blood itself might flow! The audience, that of a small town where there are no secrets, knew it well; those women, many of them ready to fall at my feet, could I be false to my one love, those men all jealous of me on her account, and the third, well chosen for the part of Britannicus, the poor, stammering suitor, who trembled before me in her presence, but who was destined to be my conqueror in that fearful contest where all the honours were reserved for the latest comer.... Ah! the no-vice in love knew his part well.... However, he had nothing to fear, for I am too just to condemn another for the same love that I feel myself; in this particular, I am far removed from the ideal monster of the poet Racine; I could burn Rome without hesitation, but, in saving Junia, I should also save my brother, Britannicus.

Yes, my brother, yes, frail child of art and fancy like myself, thou hast conquered in the struggle, having merited the prize for which we two contended. Heaven preserve me from taking advantage of my age, strength, or the fierce courage of returning health to question the choice or the caprice of her, the all-powerful, impartial divinity of my dreams and life!... I only feared, for a time, lest my defeat profit thee nothing and the gay suitors of the town wrest from us both the prize lost only for me.

The letter which I have just received from La Caverne reassures me fully on that point. She advises me to renounce an art for which I have no capacity and which is incompatible with my necessities. The jest, in sooth, is bitter, for never did I stand in greater need, if not of my art, at least of its swift returns. This is just the point that you do not understand. You consider that you have acquitted yourself of all obligations toward me in recommending me to the authorities of Soissons as a distinguished personage, whom his family cannot abandon, but whose violent illness has forced you to leave him behind in your journey. Your tool, La Rancune, presented himself at the town hall and the inn with all the airs of a Spanish grandee forced by unpleasant circumstances to spend a couple of nights in such a disagreeable place; the rest of you obliged to leave P—— the day after my disaster, had, as I conceive, no reason to allow yourselves to pass merely for disreputable players: it is quite enough to wear that mask in places where no other course is possible. As for me, what can I say, how shall I extricate myself from the infernal network of conspiracy in which I find myself caught and held through the machinations of La Rancune? The famous couplet from Corneille's "Menteur" assuredly aided him in his invention for the wit of such a rascal as he never reached such a pitch. Think for a moment.... But what can I tell you that you do not know already and have not devised together to ruin me? Have not the white fingers of the ingrate who is the cause of all my misfortunes, tangled inextricably all the silken threads that she could weave about her poor victim?... What a master-plot! Ah, well! I am a captive and I confess it; I yield and implore mercy. You can take me back without fear now, and if the rapid post-chaises that bore you swiftly over the Flanders' route, three months ago, have already given place to the humble equipages of our first adventures, deign at least to receive me in the quality of monster or phenomenon, fit to draw the crowd, and I promise to acquit myself of these duties in a manner calculated to appease the most exacting amateur of the province.... Answer immediately and I will send a trusty messenger to bring me the letter from the post, as I fear the curiosity of mine host....

BRISACIER.

How dispose now of this hero deserted by his mistress and his companions? Is he, in truth, only a strolling player, rightly punished for insulting the public, for indulging in his mad jealousy and alleging ridiculous claims? How can he prove that he is the legitimate son of the Khan of the Crimea, according to the crafty recital of La Rancune? How, from the depths of misery where he is plunged, can he rise to the highest destiny? These are points which would, doubtless, trouble you but little, but which have thrown my mind into a strange disorder. Once persuaded that I was writing my own history, I was touched by this love for a fugitive star which deserted me in the dark night of my destiny; I have wept and shuddered over these visions. Then a ray divine illumined my inferno; surrounded by dim and monstrous shapes of horror against which I struggled blindly, I seized at last the magic clue, the thread of Ariadne, and since then all my visions have become celestial. One day, I shall write the history of this "Descent to Hades," and you will see that it has not been entirely devoid of reason, if it has always been wanting in fact. And, since you have been so rash as to cite one of my sonnets composed in this state of supernatural trance, as the Germans call it, you must hear the rest. You will find them among my poems. They are little more obscure than the metaphysics of Hegel or the Visions of Swedenborg, and would lose their charm with any attempt at explanation, were that possible;—probably my last illusion will be that of thinking myself a poet; criticism must dispel it.

1854.