One of Cleopatra's Nights and Other Fantastic Romances Part 18

"CLARIMONDE"

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

With elbow buried in the downy pillow I've lain and read, All through the night, a volume strangely written In tongues long dead.

For at my bedside lie no dainty slippers; And, save my own, Under the paling lamp I hear no breathing:-- I am alone!

But there are yellow bruises on my body And violet stains; Though no white vampire came with lips blood-crimsoned To suck my veins!

Now I bethink me of a sweet weird story, That in the dark Our dead loves thus with seal of chilly kisses Our bodies mark.

Gliding beneath the coverings of our couches They share our rest, And with their dead lips sign their loving visit On arm and breast.

Darksome and cold the bed where now she slumbers, I loved in vain, With sweet soft eyelids closed, to be reopened Never again.

Dead sweetheart, can it be that thou hast lifted With thy frail hand Thy coffin-lid, to come to me again From Shadowland?

Thou who, one joyous night, didst, pale and speechless, Pa.s.s from us all, Dropping thy silken mask and gift of flowers Amidst the ball?

Oh, fondest of my loves, from that far heaven Where thou must be, Hast thou returned to pay the debt of kisses Thou owest me?

"ARRIA MARCELLA"

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

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

Lifting her white hand, she exclaims:

"Am I then such a stranger in the house? Alas! poor recluse that I am!

But I am ashamed to be here. I shall now depart. Repose in peace!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the ghostly hour. She sips with her pale lips the dark wine that is the color of blood. Eagerly he drinks after her. He invokes Love.

She, though her poor heart was dying for it, nevertheless resists him.

But he, in despair, casts himself upon the bed and weeps. Then she, flinging herself down beside him, murmurs:

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

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

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

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

"O, mother, mother! dost thou then envy me my sweet night? dost thou seek to drive me from this warm place? Was it not enough to have wrapped me in the shroud, and borne me so early to the tomb! But there was a power that lifted the stone! Vainly did thy priests hum above my grave.

What avail salt and water where youth burns? The earth may not chill love.... Thou didst promise me to this youth.... I come to claim my right.

"Alack! friend, thou must die. Here thou must pine and wither away. I possess thy hair; to-morrow it shall be white.... Mother, a last prayer!

Open my black dungeon; erect a funeral pyre; and let the sweetheart obtain the repose that only flames can give. Let the sparks gush out, let the ashes redden! We return to our ancient G.o.ds."--_La Sorciere_, pages 32-34; edition of 1863.