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New England houses and the stories attached to them, several of them Boston's own.","text_extract":"The Project Gutenberg eBook of Clarimonde\r\n    \r\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\r\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\r\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\r\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online\r\nat www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,\r\nyou will have to check the laws of the country where you are located\r\nbefore using this eBook.\r\n\r\nTitle: Clarimonde\r\n\r\nAuthor: Théophile Gautier\r\n\r\nTranslator: Lafcadio Hearn\r\n\r\n\r\n        \r\nRelease date: September 18, 2007 [eBook #22661]\r\n                Most recently updated: October 1, 2016\r\n\r\nLanguage: English\r\n\r\nOther information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22661\r\n\r\nCredits: Produced by David Widger\r\n\r\n\r\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARIMONDE ***\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nProduced by David Widger\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCLARIMONDE\r\n\r\nBy Théophile Gautier\r\n\r\nTranslated By Lafcadio Hearn\r\n\r\n1908\r\n\r\n\r\nBrother, you ask me if I have ever loved. Yes. My story is a strange and\r\nterrible one; and though I am sixty-six years of age, I scarcely dare\r\neven now to disturb the ashes of that memory. To you I can refuse\r\nnothing; but I should not relate such a tale to any less experienced\r\nmind. So strange were the circumstances of my story, that I can scarcely\r\nbelieve myself to have ever actually been a party to them. For more\r\nthan three years I remained the victim of a most singular and diabolical\r\nillusion. Poor country priest though I was, I led every night in a\r\ndream--would to God it had been all a dream!--a most worldly life, a\r\ndamning life, a life of Sardanapalus. One single look too freely cast\r\nupon a woman well-nigh caused me to lose my soul; but finally by the\r\ngrace of God and the assistance of my patron saint, I succeeded in\r\ncasting out the evil spirit that possessed me. My daily life was long\r\ninterwoven with a nocturnal life of a totally different character. By\r\nday I was a priest of the Lord, occupied with prayer and sacred things;\r\nby night, from the instant that I closed my eyes I became a young\r\nnobleman, a fine connoisseur in women, dogs, and horses; gambling,\r\ndrinking, and blaspheming; and when I awoke at early daybreak, it seemed\r\nto me, on the other hand, that I had been sleeping, and had only dreamed\r\nthat I was a priest. Of this somnambulistic life there now remains to me\r\nonly the recollection of certain scenes and words which I cannot banish\r\nfrom my memory; but although I never actually left the walls of my\r\npresbytery, one would think to hear me speak that I were a man who,\r\nweary of all worldly pleasures, had become a religious, seeking to end a\r\ntempestuous life in the service of God, rather than a humble seminarist\r\nwho has grown old in this obscure curacy, situated in the depths of the\r\nwoods and even isolated from the life of the century.\r\n\r\nYes, I have loved as none in the world ever loved--with an insensate\r\nand furious passion--so violent that I am astonished it did not cause my\r\nheart to burst asunder. Ah, what nights--what nights!\r\n\r\nFrom my earliest childhood I had felt a vocation to the priesthood, so\r\nthat all my studies were directed with that idea in view. Up to the\r\nage of twenty-four my life had been only a prolonged novitiate. Having\r\ncompleted my course of theology I successively received all the minor\r\norders, and my superiors judged me worthy, despite my youth, to pass the\r\nlast awful degree. My ordination was fixed for Easter week.\r\n\r\nI had never gone into the world. My world was confined by the walls of\r\nthe college and the seminary. I knew in a vague sort of a way that there\r\nwas something called Woman, but I never permitted my thoughts to dwell\r\non such a subject, and I lived in a state of perfect innocence. Twice\r\na year only I saw my infirm and aged mother, and in those visits were\r\ncomprised my sole relations with the outer world.\r\n\r\nI regretted nothing; I felt not the least hesitation at taking the last\r\nirrevocable step; I was filled with joy and impatience. Never did a\r\nbetrothed lover count the slow hours with more feverish ardour; I slept\r\nonly to dream that I was saying mass; I believed there could be nothing\r\nin the world more delightful than to be a priest; I would have refused\r\nto be a king or a poet in preference. My ambition could conceive of no\r\nloftier aim.\r\n\r\nI tell you this in order to show you that what happened to me could\r\nnot have happened in the natural order of things, and to enable you to\r\nunderstand that I was the victim of an inexplicable fascination.\r\n\r\nAt last the great day came. I walked to the church with a step so light\r\nthat I fancied myself sustained in air, or that I had wings upon my\r\nshoulders. I believed myself an angel, and wondered at the sombre and\r\nthoughtful faces of my companions, for there were several of us. I\r\nhad passed all the night in prayer, and was in a condition wellnigh\r\nbordering on ecstasy. The bishop, a venerable old man, seemed to me God\r\nthe Father leaning over His Eternity, and I beheld Heaven through the\r\nvault of the temple.\r\n\r\nYou well know the details of that ceremony--the benediction, the\r\ncommunion under both forms, the anointing of the palms of the hands with\r\nthe Oil of Catechumens, and then the holy sacrifice offered in concert\r\nwith the bishop.\r\n\r\nAh, truly spake Job when he declared that the imprudent man is one who\r\nhath not made a covenant with his eyes! I accidentally lifted my head,\r\nwhich until then I had kept down, and beheld before me, so close that\r\nit seemed that I could have touched her--although she was actually a\r\nconsiderable distance from me and on the further side of the sanctuary\r\nrailing--a young woman of extraordinary beauty, and attired with royal\r\nmagnificence. It seemed as though scales had suddenly fallen from my\r\neyes. I felt like a blind man who unexpectedly recovers his sight. The\r\nbishop, so radiantly glorious but an instant before, suddenly vanished\r\naway, the tapers paled upon their golden candlesticks like stars in the\r\ndawn, and a vast darkness seemed to fill the whole church. The charming\r\ncreature appeared in bright relief against the background of that\r\ndarkness, like some angelic revelation. She seemed herself radiant, and\r\nradiating light rather than receiving it.\r\n\r\nI lowered my eyelids, firmly resolved not to again open them, that\r\nI might not be influenced by external objects, for distraction had\r\ngradually taken possession of me until I hardly knew what I was doing.\r\n\r\nIn another minute, nevertheless, I reopened my eyes, for through my\r\neyelashes I still beheld her, all sparkling with prismatic colours, and\r\nsurrounded with such a penumbra as one beholds in gazing at the sun.\r\n\r\nOh, how beautiful she was! The greatest painters, who followed ideal\r\nbeauty into heaven itself, and thence brought back to earth the true\r\nportrait of the Madonna, never in their delineations even approached\r\nthat wildly beautiful reality which I saw before me. Neither the verses\r\nof the poet nor the palette of the artist could convey any conception\r\nof her. She was rather tall, with a form and bearing of a goddess. Her\r\nhair, of a soft blonde hue, was parted in the midst and flowed back over\r\nher temples in two rivers of rippling gold; she seemed a diademed\r\nqueen. Her forehead, bluish-white in its transparency, extended its calm\r\nbreadth above the arches of her eyebrows, which by a strange singularity\r\nwere almost black, and admirably relieved the effect of sea-green eyes\r\nof unsustainable vivacity and brilliancy. What eyes! With a single flash\r\nthey could have decided a man’s destiny. They had a life, a limpidity,\r\nan ardour, a humid light which I have never seen in human eyes; they\r\nshot forth rays like arrows, which I could distinctly _see_ enter my\r\nheart. I know not if the fire which illumined them came from heaven or\r\nfrom hell, but assuredly it came from one or the other. That woman was\r\neither an angel or a demon, perhaps both. Assuredly she never sprang\r\nfrom the flank of Eve, our common mother. Teeth of the most lustrous\r\npearl gleamed in her ruddy smile, and at every inflection of her lips\r\nlittle dimples appeared in the satiny rose of her adorable cheeks. There\r\nwas a delicacy and pride in the regal outline of her nostrils bespeaking\r\nnoble blood. Agate gleams played over the smooth lustrous skin of her\r\nhalf-bare shoulders, and strings of great blonde pearls--almost equal\r\nto her neck in beauty of colour--descended upon her bosom. From time\r\nto time she elevated her head with the undulating grace of a startled\r\nserpent or peacock, thereby imparting a quivering motion to the high\r\nlace ruff which surrounded it like a silver trellis-work.\r\n\r\nShe wore a robe of orange-red velvet, and from her wide ermine-lined\r\nsleeves there peeped forth patrician hands of infinite delicacy, and so\r\nideally transparent that, like the fingers of Aurora, they permitted the\r\nlight to shine through them.\r\n\r\nAll these details I can recollect at this moment as plainly as though\r\nthey were of yesterday, for notwithstanding I was greatly troubled at\r\nthe time, nothing escaped me; the faintest touch of shading, the little\r\ndark speck at the point of the chin, the imperceptible down at the\r\ncorners of the lips, the velvety floss upon the brow, the quivering\r\nshadows of the eyelashes upon the cheeks--I could notice everything with\r\nastonishing lucidity of perception.\r\n\r\nAnd gazing I felt opening within me gates that had until then remained\r\nclosed; vents long obstructed became all clear, permitting glimpses of\r\nunfamiliar perspectives within; life suddenly made itself visible to me\r\nunder a totally novel aspect. I felt as though I had just been born into\r\na new world and a new order of things. A frightful anguish commenced to\r\ntorture-my heart as with red-hot pincers. Every successive minute seemed\r\nto me at once but a second and yet a century. Meanwhile the ceremony was\r\nproceeding, and I shortly found myself transported far from that world\r\nof which my newly born desires were furiously besieging the entrance.\r\nNevertheless I answered ‘Yes’ when I wished to say ‘No,’ though all\r\nwithin me protested against the violence done to my soul by my tongue.\r\nSome occult power seemed to force the words from my throat against my\r\nwill. Thus it is, perhaps, that so many young girls walk to the altar\r\nfirmly resolved to refuse in a startling manner the husband imposed\r\nupon them, and that yet not one ever fulfils her intention. Thus it is,\r\ndoubtless, that so many poor novices take the veil, though they have\r\nresolved to tear it into shreds at the moment when called upon to utter\r\nthe vows. One dares not thus cause so great a scandal to all present,\r\nnor deceive the expectation of so many people. All those eyes, all those\r\nwills seem to weigh down upon you like a cope of lead, and, moreover,\r\nmeasures have been so well taken, everything has been so thoroughly\r\narranged beforehand and after a fashion so evidently irrevocable, that\r\nthe will yields to the weight of circumstances and utterly breaks down.\r\n\r\nAs the ceremony proceeded the features of the fair unknown changed their\r\nexpression. Her look had at first been one of caressing tenderness;\r\nit changed to an air of disdain and of mortification, as though at not\r\nhaving been able to make itself understood.\r\n\r\nWith an effort of will sufficient to have uprooted a mountain, I strove\r\nto cry out that I would not be a priest, but I could not speak; my\r\ntongue seemed nailed to my palate, and I found it impossible to express\r\nmy will by the least syllable of negation. Though fully awake, I felt\r\nlike one under the influence of a nightmare, who vainly strives to\r\nshriek out the one word upon which life depends.\r\n\r\nShe seemed conscious of the martyrdom I was undergoing, and, as though\r\nto encourage me, she gave me a look replete with divinest promise. Her\r\neyes were a poem; their every glance was a song.\r\n\r\nShe said to me:\r\n\r\n‘If thou wilt be mine, I shall make thee happier than God Himself in His\r\nparadise. The angels themselves will be jealous of thee. Tear off that\r\nfuneral shroud in which thou art about to wrap thyself. I am Beauty, I\r\nam Youth, I am Life. Come to me! Together we shall be Love. Can Jehovah\r\noffer thee aught in exchange? Our lives will flow on like a dream, in\r\none eternal kiss.\r\n\r\n‘Fling forth the wine of that chalice, and thou art free. I will conduct\r\nthee to the Unknown Isles. Thou shalt sleep in my bosom upon a bed of\r\nmassy gold under a silver pavilion, for I love thee and would take thee\r\naway from thy God, before whom so many noble hearts pour forth floods of\r\nlove which never reach even the steps of His throne!’\r\n\r\nThese words seemed to float to my ears in a rhythm of infinite\r\nsweetness, for her look was actually sonorous, and the utterances of her\r\neyes were reechoed in the depths of my heart as though living lips had\r\nbreathed them into my life. I felt myself willing to renounce God,\r\nand yet my tongue mechanically fulfilled all the formalities of\r\nthe ceremony. The fair one gave me another look, so beseeching, so\r\ndespairing that keen blades seemed to pierce my heart, and I felt my\r\nbosom transfixed by more swords than those of Our Lady of Sorrows.\r\n\r\nAll was consummated; I had become a priest.\r\n\r\nNever was deeper anguish painted on human face than upon hers. The\r\nmaiden who beholds her affianced lover suddenly fall dead at her side,\r\nthe mother bending over the empty cradle of her child, Eve seated at\r\nthe threshold of the gate of Paradise, the miser who finds a stone\r\nsubstituted for his stolen treasure, the poet who accidentally permits\r\nthe only manuscript of his finest work to fall into the fire, could not\r\nwear a look so despairing, so inconsolable. All the blood had abandoned\r\nher charming face, leaving it whiter than marble; her beautiful arms\r\nhung lifelessly on either side of her body as though their muscles\r\nhad suddenly relaxed, and she sought the support of a pillar, for her\r\nyielding limbs almost betrayed her. As for myself, I staggered toward\r\nthe door of the church, livid as death, my forehead bathed with a sweat\r\nbloodier than that of Calvary; I felt as though I were being strangled;\r\nthe vault seemed to have flattened down upon my shoulders, and it seemed\r\nto me that my head alone sustained the whole weight of the dome.\r\n\r\nAs I was about to cross the threshold a hand suddenly caught mine--a\r\nwoman’s hand! I had never till then touched the hand of any woman.\r\nIt was cold as a serpent’s skin, and yet its impress remained upon my\r\nwrist, burnt there as though branded by a glowing iron. It was she.\r\n‘Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?’ she exclaimed in a low\r\nvoice, and immediately disappeared in the crowd.\r\n\r\nThe aged bishop passed by. He cast a severe and scrutinising look upon\r\nme. My face presented the wildest aspect imaginable: I blushed and\r\nturned pale alternately; dazzling lights flashed before my eyes. A\r\ncompanion took pity on me. He seized my arm and led me out. I could\r\nnot possibly have found my way back to the seminary unassisted. At the\r\ncorner of a street, while the young priest’s attention was momentarily\r\nturned in another direction, a negro page, fantastically garbed,\r\napproached me, and without pausing on his way slipped into my hand\r\na little pocket-book with gold-embroidered corners, at the same time\r\ngiving me a sign to hide it. I concealed it in my sleeve, and there kept\r\nit until I found myself alone in my cell. Then I opened the clasp. There\r\nwere only two leaves within, bearing the words, ‘Clarimonde. At the\r\nConcini Palace.’ So little acquainted was I at that time with the things\r\nof this world that I had never heard of Clarimonde, celebrated as she\r\nwas, and I had no idea as to where the Concini Palace was situated. I\r\nhazarded a thousand conjectures, each more extravagant than the last;\r\nbut, in truth, I cared little whether she were a great lady or a\r\ncourtesan, so that I could but see her once more.\r\n\r\nMy love, although the growth of a single hour, had taken imperishable\r\nroot. I did not even dream of attempting to tear it up, so fully was I\r\nconvinced such a thing would be impossible. That woman had completely\r\ntaken possession of me. One look from her had sufficed to change my very\r\nnature. She had breathed her will into my life, and I no longer lived\r\nin myself, but in her and for her. I gave myself up to a thousand\r\nextravagancies. I kissed the place upon my hand which she had touched,\r\nand I repeated her name over and over again for hours in succession. I\r\nonly needed to close my eyes in order to see her distinctly as though\r\nshe were actually present; and I reiterated to myself the words she had\r\nuttered in my ear at the church porch: ‘Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What\r\nhast thou done?’ I comprehended at last the full horror of my situation,\r\nand the funereal and awful restraints of the state into which I had just\r\nentered became clearly revealed to me. To be a priest!--that is, to be\r\nchaste, to never love, to observe no distinction of sex or age, to turn\r\nfrom the sight of all beauty, to put out one’s own eyes, to hide for\r\never crouching in the chill shadows of some church or cloister, to visit\r\nnone but the dying, to watch by unknown corpses, and ever bear about\r\nwith one the black soutane as a garb of mourning for oneself, so that\r\nyour very dress might serve as a pall for your coffin.\r\n\r\nAnd I felt life rising within me like a subterranean lake, expanding\r\nand overflowing; my blood leaped fiercely through my arteries; my\r\nlong-restrained youth suddenly burst into active being, like the aloe\r\nwhich blooms but once in a hundred years, and then bursts into blossom\r\nwith a clap of thunder.\r\n\r\nWhat could I do in order to see Clarimonde once more? I had no pretext\r\nto offer for desiring to leave the seminary, not knowing any person in\r\nthe city. I would not even be able to remain there but a short time,\r\nand was only waiting my assignment to the curacy which I must thereafter\r\noccupy. I tried to remove the bars of the window; but it was at a\r\nfearful height from the ground, and I found that as I had no ladder it\r\nwould be useless to think of escaping thus. And, furthermore, I could\r\ndescend thence only by night in any event, and afterward how should I be\r\nable to find my way through the inextricable labyrinth of streets?\r\nAll these difficulties, which to many would have appeared altogether\r\ninsignificant, were gigantic to me, a poor seminarist who had fallen in\r\nlove only the day before for the first time, without experience, without\r\nmoney, without attire.\r\n\r\n‘Ah!’ cried I to myself in my blindness, ‘were I not a priest I could\r\nhave seen her every day; I might have been her lover, her spouse.\r\nInstead of being wrapped in this dismal shroud of mine I would have had\r\ngarments of silk and velvet, golden chains, a sword, and fair plumes\r\nlike other handsome young cavaliers. My hair, instead of being\r\ndishonoured by the tonsure, would flow down upon my neck in waving\r\ncurls; I would have a fine waxed moustache; I would be a gallant.’ But\r\none hour passed before an altar, a few hastily articulated words, had\r\nfor ever cut me off from the number of the living, and I had myself\r\nsealed down the stone of my own tomb; I had with my own hand bolted the\r\ngate of my prison! I went to the window. The sky was beautifully blue;\r\nthe trees had donned their spring robes; nature seemed to be making\r\nparade of an ironical joy. The _Place_ was filled with people, some\r\ngoing, others coming; young beaux and young beauties were sauntering in\r\ncouples toward the groves and gardens; merry youths passed by, cheerily\r\ntrolling refrains of drinking-songs--it was all a picture of vivacity,\r\nlife, animation, gaiety, which formed a bitter contrast with my mourning\r\nand my solitude. On the steps of the gate sat a young mother playing\r\nwith her child. She kissed its little rosy mouth still impearled with\r\ndrops of milk, and performed, in order to amuse it, a thousand divine\r\nlittle puerilities such as only mothers know how to invent. The father\r\nstanding at a little distance smiled gently upon the charming group, and\r\nwith folded arms seemed to hug his joy to his heart. I could not endure\r\nthat spectacle. I closed the window with violence, and flung myself on\r\nmy bed, my heart filled with frightful hate and jealousy, and gnawed my\r\nfingers and my bedcovers like a tiger that has passed ten days without\r\nfood.\r\n\r\nI know not how long I remained in this condition, but at last, while\r\nwrithing on the bed in a fit of spasmodic fury, I suddenly perceived\r\nthe Abbé Sérapion, who was standing erect in the centre of the room,\r\nwatching me attentively. Filled with shame of myself, I let my head fall\r\nupon my breast and covered my face with my hands.\r\n\r\n‘Romuald, my friend, something very extraordinary is transpiring within\r\nyou,’ observed Sérapion, after a few moments’ silence; ‘your conduct is\r\naltogether inexplicable. You--always so quiet, so pious, so gentle--you\r\nto rage in your cell like a wild beast! Take heed, brother--do not\r\nlisten to the suggestions of the devil The Evil Spirit, furious that you\r\nhave consecrated yourself for ever to the Lord, is prowling around you\r\nlike a ravening wolf and making a last effort to obtain possession of\r\nyou. Instead of allowing yourself to be conquered, my dear Romuald,\r\nmake to yourself a cuirass of prayers, a buckler of mortifications, and\r\ncombat the enemy like a valiant man; you will then assuredly overcome\r\nhim. Virtue must be proved by temptation, and gold comes forth purer\r\nfrom the hands of the assayer. Fear not. Never allow yourself to become\r\ndiscouraged. The most watchful and steadfast souls are at moments liable\r\nto such temptation. Pray, fast, meditate, and the Evil Spirit will\r\ndepart from you.’\r\n\r\nThe words of the Abbé Sérapion restored me to myself, and I became a\r\nlittle more calm. ‘I came,’ he continued, ‘to tell you that you have\r\nbeen appointed to the curacy of C------. The priest who had charge of\r\nit has just died, and Monseigneur the Bishop has ordered me to have you\r\ninstalled there at once. Be ready, therefore, to start to-morrow.’\r\nI responded with an inclination of the head, and the Abbé retired. I\r\nopened my missal and commenced reading some prayers, but the letters\r\nbecame confused and blurred under my eyes, the thread of the ideas\r\nentangled itself hopelessly in my brain, and the volume at last fell\r\nfrom my hands without my being aware of it.\r\n\r\nTo leave to-morrow without having been able to see her again, to add yet\r\nanother barrier to the many already interposed between us, to lose\r\nfor ever all hope of being able to meet her, except, indeed, through a\r\nmiracle! Even to write to her, alas! would be impossible, for by whom\r\ncould I dispatch my letter? With my sacred character of priest, to whom\r\ncould I dare unbosom myself, in whom could I confide? I became a prey to\r\nthe bitterest anxiety.\r\n\r\nThen suddenly recurred to me the words of the Abbé Sérapion regarding\r\nthe artifices of the devil; and the strange character of the adventure,\r\nthe supernatural beauty of Clarimonde, the phosphoric light of her eyes,\r\nthe burning imprint of her hand, the agony into which she had thrown\r\nme, the sudden change wrought within me when all my piety vanished in a\r\nsingle instant--these and other things clearly testified to the work\r\nof the Evil One, and perhaps that satiny hand was but the glove which\r\nconcealed his claws. Filled with terror at these fancies, I again picked\r\nup the missal which had slipped from my knees and fallen upon the floor,\r\nand once more gave myself up to prayer.\r\n\r\nNext morning Sérapion came to take me away. Two mules freighted with\r\nour miserable valises awaited us at the gate. He mounted one, and I the\r\nother as well as I knew how.\r\n\r\nAs we passed along the streets of the city, I gazed attentively at all\r\nthe windows and balconies in the hope of seeing Clarimonde, but it was\r\nyet early in the morning, and the city had hardly opened its eyes. Mine\r\nsought to penetrate the blinds and window-curtains of all the palaces\r\nbefore which we were passing. Sérapion doubtless attributed this\r\ncuriosity to my admiration of the architecture, for he slackened the\r\npace of his animal in order to give me time to look around me. At last\r\nwe passed the city gates and commenced to mount the hill beyond. When\r\nwe arrived at its summit I turned to take a last look at the place where\r\nClarimonde dwelt. The shadow of a great cloud hung over all the city;\r\nthe contrasting colours of its blue and red roofs were lost in the\r\nuniform half-tint, through which here and there floated upward, like\r\nwhite flakes of foam, the smoke of freshly kindled fires. By a\r\nsingular optical effect one edifice, which surpassed in height all the\r\nneighbouring buildings that were still dimly veiled by the vapours,\r\ntowered up, fair and lustrous with the gilding of a solitary beam of\r\nsunlight--although actually more than a league away it seemed\r\nquite near. The smallest details of its architecture were plainly\r\ndistinguishable--the turrets, the platforms, the window-casements, and\r\neven the swallow-tailed weather-vanes.\r\n\r\n‘What is that palace I see over there, all lighted up by the sun?’ I\r\nasked Sérapion. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and having looked in\r\nthe direction indicated, replied: ‘It is the ancient palace which the\r\nPrince Concini has given to the courtesan Clarimonde. Awful things are\r\ndone there!’\r\n\r\nAt that instant, I know not yet whether it was a reality or an illusion,\r\nI fancied I saw gliding along the terrace a shapely white figure,\r\nwhich gleamed for a moment in passing and as quickly vanished. It was\r\nClarimonde.\r\n\r\nOh, did she know that at that very hour, all feverish and restless--from\r\nthe height of the rugged road which separated me from her, and which,\r\nalas! I could never more descend--I was directing my eyes upon the\r\npalace where she dwelt, and which a mocking beam of sunlight seemed to\r\nbring nigh to me, as though inviting me to enter therein as its lord?\r\nUndoubtedly she must have known it, for her soul was too sympathetically\r\nunited with mine not to have felt its least emotional thrill, and that\r\nsubtle sympathy it must have been which prompted her to climb--although\r\nclad only in her nightdress--to the summit of the terrace, amid the icy\r\ndews of the morning.\r\n\r\nThe shadow gained the palace, and the scene became to the eye only\r\na motionless ocean of roofs and gables, amid which one mountainous\r\nundulation was distinctly visible. Sérapion urged his mule forward, my\r\nown at once followed at the same gait, and a sharp angle in the road at\r\nlast hid the city of S------ for ever from my eyes, as I was destined\r\nnever to return thither. At the close of a weary three-days’ journey\r\nthrough dismal country fields, we caught sight of the cock upon the\r\nsteeple of the church which I was to take charge of, peeping above\r\nthe trees, and after having followed some winding roads fringed with\r\nthatched cottages and little gardens, we found ourselves in front of the\r\nfaçade, which certainly possessed few features of magnificence. A porch\r\nornamented with some mouldings, and two or three pillars rudely hewn\r\nfrom sandstone; a tiled roof with counterforts of the same sandstone as\r\nthe pillars--that was all. To the left lay the cemetery, overgrown with\r\nhigh weeds, and having a great iron cross rising up in its centre; to\r\nthe right stood the presbytery under the shadow of the church. It was a\r\nhouse of the most extreme simplicity and frigid cleanliness. We entered\r\nthe enclosure. A few chickens were picking up some oats scattered upon\r\nthe ground; accustomed, seemingly, to the black habit of ecclesiastics,\r\nthey showed no fear of our presence and scarcely troubled themselves to\r\nget out of our way. A hoarse, wheezy barking fell upon our ears, and we\r\nsaw an aged dog running toward us.\r\n\r\nIt was my predecessor’s dog. He had dull bleared eyes, grizzled hair,\r\nand every mark of the greatest age to which a dog can possibly attain.\r\nI patted him gently, and he proceeded at once to march along beside me\r\nwith an air of satisfaction unspeakable. A very old woman, who had been\r\nthe housekeeper of the former curé, also came to meet us, and after\r\nhaving invited me into a little back parlour, asked whether I intended\r\nto retain her. I replied that I would take care of her, and the dog, and\r\nthe chickens, and all the furniture her master had bequeathed her at\r\nhis death. At this she became fairly transported with joy, and the\r\nAbbé Sérapion at once paid her the price which she asked for her little\r\nproperty.\r\n\r\nAs soon as my installation was over, the Abbé Sérapion returned to the\r\nseminary. I was, therefore, left alone, with no one but myself to look\r\nto for aid or counsel. The thought of Clarimonde again began to haunt\r\nme, and in spite of all my endeavours to banish it, I always found it\r\npresent in my meditations. One evening, while promenading in my little\r\ngarden along the walks bordered with box-plants, I fancied that I saw\r\nthrough the elm-trees the figure of a woman, who followed my every\r\nmovement, and that I beheld two sea-green eyes gleaming through the\r\nfoliage; but it was only an illusion, and on going round to the other\r\nside of the garden, I could find nothing except a footprint on the\r\nsanded walk--a footprint so small that it seemed to have been made\r\nby the foot of a child. The garden was enclosed by very high walls. I\r\nsearched every nook and corner of it, but could discover no one there.\r\nI have never succeeded in fully accounting for this circumstance, which,\r\nafter all, was nothing compared with the strange things which happened\r\nto me afterward.\r\n\r\nFor a whole year I lived thus, filling all the duties of my calling\r\nwith the most scrupulous exactitude, praying and fasting, exhorting and\r\nlending ghostly aid to the sick, and bestowing alms even to the extent\r\nof frequently depriving myself of the very necessaries of life. But I\r\nfelt a great aridness within me, and the sources of grace seemed closed\r\nagainst me. I never found that happiness which should spring from the\r\nfulfilment of a holy mission; my thoughts were far away, and the words\r\nof Clarimonde were ever upon my lips like an involuntary refrain. Oh,\r\nbrother, meditate well on this! Through having but once lifted my eyes\r\nto look upon a woman, through one fault apparently so venial, I have for\r\nyears remained a victim to the most miserable agonies, and the happiness\r\nof my life has been destroyed for ever.\r\n\r\nI will not longer dwell upon those defeats, or on those inward victories\r\ninvariably followed by yet more terrible falls, but will at once proceed\r\nto the facts of my story. One night my door-bell was long and violently\r\nrung. The aged housekeeper arose and opened to the stranger, and the\r\nfigure of a man, whose complexion was deeply bronzed, and who was richly\r\nclad in a foreign costume, with a poniard at his girdle, appeared under\r\nthe rays of Barbara’s lantern. Her first impulse was one of terror, but\r\nthe stranger reassured her, and stated that he desired to see me at once\r\non matters relating to my holy calling. Barbara invited him upstairs,\r\nwhere I was on the point of retiring. The stranger told me that his\r\nmistress, a very noble lady, was lying at the point of death, and\r\ndesired to see a priest. I replied that I was prepared to follow him,\r\ntook with me the sacred articles necessary for extreme unction, and\r\ndescended in all haste. Two horses black as the night itself stood\r\nwithout the gate, pawing the ground with impatience, and veiling their\r\nchests with long streams of smoky vapour exhaled from their nostrils. He\r\nheld the stirrup and aided me to mount upon one; then, merely laying his\r\nhand upon the pommel of the saddle, he vaulted on the other, pressed\r\nthe animal’s sides with his knees, and loosened rein. The horse bounded\r\nforward with the velocity of an arrow. Mine, of which the stranger held\r\nthe bridle, also started off at a swift gallop, keeping up with his\r\ncompanion. We devoured the road. The ground flowed backward beneath us\r\nin a long streaked line of pale gray, and the black silhouettes of\r\nthe trees seemed fleeing by us on either side like an army in rout. We\r\npassed through a forest so profoundly gloomy that I felt my flesh creep\r\nin the chill darkness with superstitious fear. The showers of bright\r\nsparks which flew from the stony road under the ironshod feet of our\r\nhorses remained glowing in our wake like a fiery trail; and had any one\r\nat that hour of the night beheld us both--my guide and myself--he must\r\nhave taken us for two spectres riding upon nightmares. Witch-fires ever\r\nand anon flitted across the road before us, and the night-birds\r\nshrieked fearsomely in the depth of the woods beyond, where we beheld\r\nat intervals glow the phosphorescent eyes of wild cats. The manes of the\r\nhorses became more and more dishevelled, the sweat streamed over their\r\nflanks, and their breath came through their nostrils hard and fast. But\r\nwhen he found them slacking pace, the guide reanimated them by uttering\r\na strange, gutteral, unearthly cry, and the gallop recommenced with\r\nfury. At last the whirlwind race ceased; a huge black mass pierced\r\nthrough with many bright points of light suddenly rose before us, the\r\nhoofs of our horses echoed louder upon a strong wooden drawbridge, and\r\nwe rode under a great vaulted archway which darkly yawned between two\r\nenormous towers. Some great excitement evidently reigned in the castle.\r\nServants with torches were crossing the courtyard in every direction,\r\nand above lights were ascending and descending from landing to landing.\r\nI obtained a confused glimpse of vast masses of architecture--columns,\r\narcades, flights of steps, stairways--a royal voluptuousness and elfin\r\nmagnificence of construction worthy of fairyland. A negro page--the\r\nsame who had before brought me the tablet from Clarimonde, and whom\r\nI instantly recognised--approached to aid me in dismounting, and the\r\nmajor-domo, attired in black velvet with a gold chain about his neck,\r\nadvanced to meet me, supporting himself upon an ivory cane. Large tears\r\nwere falling from his eyes and streaming over his cheeks and white\r\nbeard. ‘Too late!’ he cried, sorrowfully shaking his venerable head.\r\n‘Too late, sir priest! But if you have not been able to save the soul,\r\ncome at least to watch by the poor body.’\r\n\r\nHe took my arm and conducted me to the death-chamber. I wept not less\r\nbitterly than he, for I had learned that the dead one was none other\r\nthan that Clarimonde whom I had so deeply and so wildly loved. A\r\n_prie-dieu_ stood at the foot of the bed; a bluish flame flickering in a\r\nbronze patern filled all the room with a wan, deceptive light, here\r\nand there bringing out in the darkness at intervals some projection\r\nof furniture or cornice. In a chiselled urn upon the table there was a\r\nfaded white rose, whose leaves--excepting one that still held--had all\r\nfallen, like odorous tears, to the foot of the vase. A broken black\r\nmask, a fan, and disguises of every variety, which were lying on the\r\narmchairs, bore witness that death had entered suddenly and unannounced\r\ninto that sumptuous dwelling. Without daring to cast my eyes upon the\r\nbed, I knelt down and commenced to repeat the Psalms for the Dead, with\r\nexceeding fervour, thanking God that He had placed the tomb between\r\nme and the memory of this woman, so that I might thereafter be able to\r\nutter her name in my prayers as a name for ever sanctified by death.\r\nBut my fervour gradually weakened, and I fell insensibly into a reverie.\r\nThat chamber bore no semblance to a chamber of death. In lieu of the\r\nfetid and cadaverous odours which I had been accustomed to breathe\r\nduring such funereal vigils, a languorous vapour of Oriental perfume--I\r\nknow not what amorous odour of woman--softly floated through the tepid\r\nair. That pale light seemed rather a twilight gloom contrived for\r\nvoluptuous pleasure, than a substitute for the yellow-flickering\r\nwatch-tapers which shine by the side of corpses. I thought upon the\r\nstrange destiny which enabled me to meet Clarimonde again at the very\r\nmoment when she was lost to me for ever, and a sigh of regretful anguish\r\nescaped from my breast. Then it seemed to me that some one behind me\r\nhad also sighed, and I turned round to look. It was only an echo. But in\r\nthat moment my eyes fell upon the bed of death which they had till then\r\navoided. The red damask curtains, decorated with large flowers worked in\r\nembroidery and looped up with gold bullion, permitted me to behold the\r\nfair dead, lying at full length, with hands joined upon her bosom. She\r\nwas covered with a linen wrapping of dazzling whiteness, which formed\r\na strong contrast with the gloomy purple of the hangings, and was of so\r\nfine a texture that it concealed nothing of her body’s charming form,\r\nand allowed the eye to follow those beautiful outlines--undulating like\r\nthe neck of a swan--which even death had not robbed of their supple\r\ngrace. She seemed an alabaster statue executed by some skilful sculptor\r\nto place upon the tomb of a queen, or rather, perhaps, like a slumbering\r\nmaiden over whom the silent snow had woven a spotless veil.\r\n\r\nI could no longer maintain my constrained attitude of prayer. The air\r\nof the alcove intoxicated me, that febrile perfume of half-faded roses\r\npenetrated my very brain, and I commenced to pace restlessly up and down\r\nthe chamber, pausing at each turn before the bier to contemplate the\r\ngraceful corpse lying beneath the transparency of its shroud. Wild\r\nfancies came thronging to my brain. I thought to myself that she might\r\nnot, perhaps, be really dead; that she might only have feigned death for\r\nthe purpose of bringing me to her castle, and then declaring her love.\r\nAt one time I even thought I saw her foot move under the whiteness of\r\nthe coverings, and slightly disarrange the long straight folds of the\r\nwinding-sheet.\r\n\r\nAnd then I asked myself: ‘Is this indeed Clarimonde? What proof have I\r\nthat it is she? Might not that black page have passed into the service\r\nof some other lady? Surely, I must be going mad to torture and afflict\r\nmyself thus!’ But my heart answered with a fierce throbbing: ‘It is she;\r\nit is she indeed!’ I approached the bed again, and fixed my eyes with\r\nredoubled attention upon the object of my incertitude. Ah, must I\r\nconfess it? That exquisite perfection of bodily form, although purified\r\nand made sacred by the shadow of death, affected me more voluptuously\r\nthan it should have done; and that repose so closely resembled slumber\r\nthat one might well have mistaken it for such. I forgot that I had come\r\nthere to perform a funeral ceremony; I fancied myself a young bridegroom\r\nentering the chamber of the bride, who all modestly hides her fair face,\r\nand through coyness seeks to keep herself wholly veiled. Heartbroken\r\nwith grief, yet wild with hope, shuddering at once with fear and\r\npleasure, I bent over her and grasped the corner of the sheet. I lifted\r\nit back, holding my breath all the while through fear of waking her. My\r\narteries throbbed with such violence that I felt them hiss through my\r\ntemples, and the sweat poured from my forehead in streams, as though I\r\nhad lifted a mighty slab of marble. There, indeed, lay Clarimonde, even\r\nas I had seen her at the church on the day of my ordination. She was not\r\nless charming than then. With her, death seemed but a last coquetry. The\r\npallor of her cheeks, the less brilliant carnation of her lips, her long\r\neyelashes lowered and relieving their dark fringe against that white\r\nskin, lent her an unspeakably seductive aspect of melancholy chastity\r\nand mental suffering; her long loose hair, still intertwined with some\r\nlittle blue flowers, made a shining pillow for her head, and veiled the\r\nnudity of her shoulders with its thick ringlets; her beautiful hands,\r\npurer, more diaphanous, than the Host, were crossed on her bosom in an\r\nattitude of pious rest and silent prayer, which served to counteract all\r\nthat might have proven otherwise too alluring--even after death--in the\r\nexquisite roundness and ivory polish of her bare arms from which the\r\npearl bracelets had not yet been removed. I remained long in mute\r\ncontemplation, and the more I gazed, the less could I persuade myself\r\nthat life had really abandoned that beautiful body for ever. I do not\r\nknow whether it was an illusion or a reflection of the lamplight, but it\r\nseemed to me that the blood was again commencing to circulate under that\r\nlifeless pallor, although she remained all motionless. I laid my hand\r\nlightly on her arm; it was cold, but not colder than her hand on the\r\nday when it touched mine at the portals of the church. I resumed my\r\nposition, bending my face above her, and bathing her cheek with the warm\r\ndew of my tears. Ah, what bitter feelings of despair and helplessness,\r\nwhat agonies unutterable did I endure in that long watch! Vainly did I\r\nwish that I could have gathered all my life into one mass that I might\r\ngive it all to her, and breathe into her chill remains the flame which\r\ndevoured me. The night advanced, and feeling the moment of eternal\r\nseparation approach, I could not deny myself the last sad sweet pleasure\r\nof imprinting a kiss upon the dead lips of her who had been my only\r\nlove.... Oh, miracle! A faint breath mingled itself with my breath, and\r\nthe mouth of Clarimonde responded to the passionate pressure of mine.\r\nHer eyes unclosed, and lighted up with something of their former\r\nbrilliancy; she uttered a long sigh, and uncrossing her arms, passed\r\nthem around my neck with a look of ineffable delight. ‘Ah, it is thou,\r\nRomuald!’ she murmured in a voice languishingly sweet as the last\r\nvibrations of a harp. ‘What ailed thee, dearest? I waited so long for\r\nthee that I am dead; but we are now betrothed: I can see thee and visit\r\nthee. Adieu, Romuald, adieu! I love thee. That is all I wished to\r\ntell thee, and I give thee back the life which thy kiss for a moment\r\nrecalled. We shall soon meet again.’\r\n\r\nHer head fell back, but her arms yet encircled me, as though to retain\r\nme still. A furious whirlwind suddenly burst in the window, and entered\r\nthe chamber. The last remaining leaf of the white rose for a moment\r\npalpitated at the extremity of the stalk like a butterfly’s wing, then\r\nit detached itself and flew forth through the open casement, bearing\r\nwith it the soul of Clarimonde. The lamp was extinguished, and I fell\r\ninsensible upon the bosom of the beautiful dead.\r\n\r\nWhen I came to myself again I was lying on the bed in my little room at\r\nthe presbytery, and the old dog of the former curé was licking my\r\nhand, which had been hanging down outside of the covers. Barbara, all\r\ntrembling with age and anxiety, was busying herself about the room,\r\nopening and shutting drawers, and emptying powders into glasses. On\r\nseeing me open my eyes, the old woman uttered a cry of joy, the dog\r\nyelped and wagged his tail, but I was still so weak that I could not\r\nspeak a single word or make the slightest motion. Afterward I learned\r\nthat I had lain thus for three days, giving no evidence of life beyond\r\nthe faintest respiration. Those three days do not reckon in my life, nor\r\ncould I ever imagine whither my spirit had departed during those three\r\ndays; I have no recollection of aught relating to them. Barbara told me\r\nthat the same coppery-complexioned man who came to seek me on the night\r\nof my departure from the presbytery had brought me back the next morning\r\nin a close litter, and departed immediately afterward. When I became\r\nable to collect my scattered thoughts, I reviewed within my mind all the\r\ncircumstances of that fateful night. At first I thought I had been the\r\nvictim of some magical illusion, but ere long the recollection of other\r\ncircumstances, real and palpable in themselves, came to forbid that\r\nsupposition. I could not believe that I had been dreaming, since Barbara\r\nas well as myself had seen the strange man with his two black horses,\r\nand described with exactness every detail of his figure and apparel.\r\nNevertheless it appeared that none knew of any castle in the\r\nneighbourhood answering to the description of that in which I had again\r\nfound Clarimonde.\r\n\r\nOne morning I found the Abbé Sérapion in my room. Barbara had advised\r\nhim that I was ill, and he had come with all speed to see me. Although\r\nthis haste on his part testified to an affectionate interest in me, yet\r\nhis visit did not cause me the pleasure which it should have done. The\r\nAbbé Sérapion had something penetrating and inquisitorial in his\r\ngaze which made me feel very ill at ease. His presence filled me with\r\nembarrassment and a sense of guilt. At the first glance he divined my\r\ninterior trouble, and I hated him for his clairvoyance.\r\n\r\nWhile he inquired after my health in hypocritically honeyed accents,\r\nhe constantly kept his two great yellow lion-eyes fixed upon me, and\r\nplunged his look into my soul like a sounding-lead. Then he asked me\r\nhow I directed my parish, if I was happy in it, how I passed the leisure\r\nhours allowed me in the intervals of pastoral duty, whether I had\r\nbecome acquainted with many of the inhabitants of the place, what was my\r\nfavourite reading, and a thousand other such questions. I answered these\r\ninquiries as briefly as possible, and he, without ever waiting for\r\nmy answers, passed rapidly from one subject of query to another. That\r\nconversation had evidently no connection with what he actually wished to\r\nsay. At last, without any premonition, but as though repeating a piece\r\nof news which he had recalled on the instant, and feared might otherwise\r\nbe forgotten subsequently, he suddenly said, in a clear vibrant voice,\r\nwhich rang in my ears like the trumpets of the Last Judgment:\r\n\r\n‘The great courtesan Clarimonde died a few days ago, at the close of\r\nan orgie which lasted eight days and eight nights. It was something\r\ninfernally splendid. The abominations of the banquets of Belshazzar and\r\nCleopatra were re-enacted there. Good God, what age are we living in?\r\nThe guests were served by swarthy slaves who spoke an unknown tongue,\r\nand who seemed to me to be veritable demons. The livery of the very\r\nleast among them would have served for the gala-dress of an emperor.\r\nThere have always been very strange stories told of this Clarimonde, and\r\nall her lovers came to a violent or miserable end. They used to say that\r\nshe was a ghoul, a female vampire; but I believe she was none other than\r\nBeelzebub himself.’\r\n\r\nHe ceased to speak, and commenced to regard me more attentively than\r\never, as though to observe the effect of his words on me. I could not\r\nrefrain from starting when I heard him utter the name of Clarimonde, and\r\nthis news of her death, in addition to the pain it caused me by reason\r\nof its coincidence with the nocturnal scenes I had witnessed, filled\r\nme with an agony and terror which my face betrayed, despite my utmost\r\nendeavours to appear composed. Sérapion fixed an anxious and severe\r\nlook upon me, and then observed: ‘My son, I must warn you that you are\r\nstanding with foot raised upon the brink of an abyss; take heed lest you\r\nfall therein. Satan’s claws are long, and tombs are not always true to\r\ntheir trust. The tombstone of Clarimonde should be sealed down with a\r\ntriple seal, for, if report be true, it is not the first time she has\r\ndied. May God watch over you, Romuald!’\r\n\r\nAnd with these words the Abbé walked slowly to the door. I did not see\r\nhim again at that time, for he left for S------ almost immediately.\r\n\r\nI became completely restored to health and resumed my accustomed duties.\r\nThe memory of Clarimonde and the words of the old Abbé were constantly\r\nin my mind; nevertheless no extraordinary event had occurred to verify\r\nthe funereal predictions of Sérapion, and I had commenced to believe\r\nthat his fears and my own terrors were over-exaggerated, when one\r\nnight I had a strange dream. I had hardly fallen asleep when I heard my\r\nbed-curtains drawn apart, as their rings slided back upon the curtain\r\nrod with a sharp sound. I rose up quickly upon my elbow, and beheld\r\nthe shadow of a woman standing erect before me. I recognised Clarimonde\r\nimmediately. She bore in her hand a little lamp, shaped like those which\r\nare placed in tombs, and its light lent her fingers a rosy transparency,\r\nwhich extended itself by lessening degrees even to the opaque and milky\r\nwhiteness of her bare arm. Her only garment was the linen winding-sheet\r\nwhich had shrouded her when lying upon the bed of death. She sought to\r\ngather its folds over her bosom as though ashamed of being so scantily\r\nclad, but her little hand was not equal to the task. She was so white\r\nthat the colour of the drapery blended with that of her flesh under\r\nthe pallid rays of the lamp. Enveloped with this subtle tissue which\r\nbetrayed all the contour of her body, she seemed rather the marble\r\nstatue of some fair antique bather than a woman endowed with life. But\r\ndead or living, statue or woman, shadow or body, her beauty was still\r\nthe same, only that the green light of her eyes was less brilliant, and\r\nher mouth, once so warmly crimson, was only tinted with a faint tender\r\nrosiness, like that of her cheeks. The little blue flowers which I had\r\nnoticed entwined in her hair were withered and dry, and had lost nearly\r\nall their leaves, but this did not prevent her from being charming--so\r\ncharming that, notwithstanding the strange character of the adventure,\r\nand the unexplainable manner in which she had entered my room, I felt\r\nnot even for a moment the least fear.\r\n\r\nShe placed the lamp on the table and seated herself at the foot of my\r\nbed; then bending toward me, she said, in that voice at once silvery\r\nclear and yet velvety in its sweet softness, such as I never heard from\r\nany lips save hers:\r\n\r\n‘I have kept thee long in waiting, dear Romuald, and it must have seemed\r\nto thee that I had forgotten thee. But I come from afar off, very far\r\noff, and from a land whence no other has ever yet returned. There is\r\nneither sun nor moon in that land whence I come: all is but space and\r\nshadow; there is neither road nor pathway: no earth for the foot, no air\r\nfor the wing; and nevertheless behold me here, for Love is stronger than\r\nDeath and must conquer him in the end. Oh what sad faces and fearful\r\nthings I have seen on my way hither! What difficulty my soul, returned\r\nto earth through the power of will alone, has had in finding its body\r\nand reinstating itself therein! What terrible efforts I had to make ere\r\nI could lift the ponderous slab with which they had covered me! See, the\r\npalms of my poor hands are all bruised! Kiss them, sweet love, that they\r\nmay be healed!’ She laid the cold palms of her hands upon ray mouth, one\r\nafter the other. I kissed them, indeed, many times, and she the while\r\nwatched me with a smile of ineffable affection.\r\n\r\nI confess to my shame that I had entirely forgotten the advice of the\r\nAbbé Sérapion and the sacred office wherewith I had been invested. I had\r\nfallen without resistance, and at the first assault. I had not even\r\nmade the least effort to repel the tempter. The fresh coolness of\r\nClarimonde’s skin penetrated my own, and I felt voluptuous tremors pass\r\nover my whole body. Poor child! in spite of all I saw afterward, I can\r\nhardly yet believe she was a demon; at least she had no appearance\r\nof being such, and never did Satan so skilfully conceal his claws and\r\nhorns. She had drawn her feet up beneath her, and squatted down on the\r\nedge of the couch in an attitude full of negligent coquetry. From time\r\nto time she passed her little hand through my hair and twisted it into\r\ncurls, as though trying how a new style of wearing it would become my\r\nface. I abandoned myself to her hands with the most guilty pleasure,\r\nwhile she accompanied her gentle play with the prettiest prattle. The\r\nmost remarkable fact was that I felt no astonishment whatever at so\r\nextraordinary ah adventure, and as in dreams one finds no difficulty\r\nin accepting the most fantastic events as simple facts, so all these\r\ncircumstances seemed to me perfectly natural in themselves.\r\n\r\n‘I loved thee long ere I saw thee, dear Romuald, and sought thee\r\neverywhere. Thou wast my dream, and I first saw thee in the church at\r\nthe fatal moment. I said at once, “It is he!” I gave thee a look into\r\nwhich I threw all the love I ever had, all the love I now have, all\r\nthe love I shall ever have for thee--a look that would have damned a\r\ncardinal or brought a king to his knees at my feet in view of all his\r\ncourt. Thou remainedst unmoved, preferring thy God to me!\r\n\r\n‘Ah, how jealous I am of that God whom thou didst love and still lovest\r\nmore than me!\r\n\r\n‘Woe is me, unhappy one that I am! I can never have thy heart all to\r\nmyself, I whom thou didst recall to life with a kiss--dead Clarimonde,\r\nwho for thy sake bursts asunder the gates of the tomb, and comes to\r\nconsecrate to thee a life which she has resumed only to make thee\r\nhappy!’\r\n\r\nAll her words were accompanied with the most impassioned caresses, which\r\nbewildered my sense and my reason to such an extent, that I did not fear\r\nto utter a frightful blasphemy for the sake of consoling her, and to\r\ndeclare that I loved her as much as God.\r\n\r\nHer eyes rekindled and shone like chrysoprases. ‘In truth?--in very\r\ntruth?--as much as God!’ she cried, flinging her beautiful arms around\r\nme. ‘Since it is so, thou wilt come with me; thou wilt follow me\r\nwhithersoever I desire. Thou wilt cast away thy ugly black habit. Thou\r\nshalt be the proudest and most envied of cavaliers; thou shalt be my\r\nlover! To be the acknowledged lover of Clarimonde, who has refused\r\neven a Pope! That will be something to feel proud of. Ah, the fair,\r\nunspeakably happy existence, the beautiful golden life we shall live\r\ntogether! And when shall we depart, my fair sir?’\r\n\r\n‘To-morrow! To-morrow!’ I cried in my delirium.\r\n\r\n‘To-morrow, then, so let it be!’ she answered. ‘In the meanwhile I shall\r\nhave opportunity to change my toilet, for this is a little too light\r\nand in nowise suited for a voyage. I must also forthwith notify all\r\nmy friends who believe me dead, and mourn for me as deeply as they are\r\ncapable of doing. The money, the dresses, the carriages--all will be\r\nready. I shall call for thee at this same hour. Adieu, dear heart!’ And\r\nshe lightly touched my forehead with her lips. The lamp went out, the\r\ncurtains closed again, and all became dark; a leaden, dreamless sleep\r\nfell on me and held me unconscious until the morning following.\r\n\r\nI awoke later than usual, and the recollection of this singular\r\nadventure troubled me during the whole day. I finally persuaded myself\r\nthat it was a mere vapour of my heated imagination. Nevertheless its\r\nsensations had been so vivid that it was difficult to persuade myself\r\nthat they were not real, and it was not without some presentiment of\r\nwhat was going to happen that I got into bed at last, after having\r\nprayed God to drive far from me all thoughts of evil, and to protect the\r\nchastity of my slumber.\r\n\r\nI soon fell into a deep sleep, and my dream was continued. The curtains\r\nagain parted, and I beheld Clarimonde, not as on the former occasion,\r\npale in her pale winding-sheet, with the violets of death upon her\r\ncheeks, but gay, sprightly, jaunty, in a superb travelling-dress of\r\ngreen velvet, trimmed with gold lace, and looped up on either side to\r\nallow a glimpse of satin petticoat. Her blond hair escaped in thick\r\nringlets from beneath a broad black felt hat, decorated with white\r\nfeathers whimsically twisted into various shapes. In one hand she held a\r\nlittle riding-whip terminated by a golden whistle. She tapped me lightly\r\nwith it, and exclaimed: ‘Well, my fine sleeper, is this the way you\r\nmake your preparations? I thought I would find you up and dressed. Arise\r\nquickly, we have no time to lose.’\r\n\r\nI leaped out of bed at once.\r\n\r\n‘Come, dress yourself, and let us go,’ she continued, pointing to\r\na little package she had brought with her. ‘The horses are becoming\r\nimpatient of delay and champing their bits at the door. We ought to have\r\nbeen by this time at least ten leagues distant from here.’\r\n\r\nI dressed myself hurriedly, and she handed me the articles of apparel\r\nherself one by one, bursting into laughter from time to time at my\r\nawkwardness, as she explained to me the use of a garment when I had made\r\na mistake. She hurriedly arranged my hair, and this done, held up\r\nbefore me a little pocket-mirror of Venetian crystal, rimmed with silver\r\nfiligree-work, and playfully asked: ‘How dost find thyself now? Wilt\r\nengage me for thy valet de chambre?’\r\n\r\nI was no longer the same person, and I could not even recognise myself.\r\nI resembled my former self no more than a finished statue resembles\r\na block of stone. My old face seemed but a coarse daub of the one\r\nreflected in the mirror. I was handsome, and my vanity was sensibly\r\ntickled by the metamorphosis.\r\n\r\nThat elegant apparel, that richly embroidered vest had made of me\r\na totally different personage, and I marvelled at the power of\r\ntransformation owned by a few yards of cloth cut after a certain\r\npattern. The spirit of my costume penetrated my very skin and within ten\r\nminutes more I had become something of a coxcomb.\r\n\r\nIn order to feel more at ease in my new attire, I took several turns\r\nup and down the room. Clari-monde watched me with an air of maternal\r\npleasure, and appeared well satisfied with her work. ‘Come, enough of\r\nthis child’s play! Let us start, Romuald, dear. We have far to go, and\r\nwe may not get there in time.’ She took my hand and led me forth. All\r\nthe doors opened before her at a touch, and we passed by the dog without\r\nawaking him.\r\n\r\nAt the gate we found Margheritone waiting, the same swarthy groom who\r\nhad once before been my-escort. He held the bridles of three horses, all\r\nblack like those which bore us to the castle--one for me, one for him,\r\none for Clarimonde. Those horses must have been Spanish genets born of\r\nmares fecundated by a zephyr, for they were fleet as the wind itself,\r\nand the moon, which had just risen at our departure to light us on the\r\nway, rolled over the sky like a wheel detached from her own chariot. We\r\nbeheld her on the right leaping from tree to tree, and putting herself\r\nout of breath in the effort to keep up with us. Soon we came upon\r\na level plain where, hard by a clump of trees, a carriage with four\r\nvigorous horses awaited us. We entered it, and the postillions urged\r\ntheir animals into a mad gallop. I had one arm around Clarimonde’s\r\nwaist, and one of her hands clasped in mine; her head leaned upon my\r\nshoulder, and I felt her bosom, half bare, lightly pressing against\r\nmy arm. I had never known such intense happiness. In that hour I had\r\nforgotten everything, and I no more remembered having ever been a priest\r\nthan I remembered what I had been doing in my mother’s womb, so great\r\nwas the fascination which the evil spirit exerted upon me. From that\r\nnight my nature seemed in some sort to have become halved, and there\r\nwere two men within me, neither of whom knew the other. At one moment I\r\nbelieved myself a priest who dreamed nightly that he was a gentleman, at\r\nanother that I was a gentleman who dreamed he was a priest. I could\r\nno longer distinguish the dream from the reality, nor could I discover\r\nwhere the reality began or where ended the dream. The exquisite\r\nyoung lord and libertine railed at the priest, the priest loathed the\r\ndissolute habits of the young lord. Two spirals entangled and confounded\r\nthe one with the other, yet never touching, would afford a fair\r\nrepresentation of this bicephalic life which I lived. Despite the\r\nstrange character of my condition, I do not believe that I ever\r\ninclined, even for a moment, to madness. I always retained with extreme\r\nvividness all the perceptions of my two lives. Only there was one absurd\r\nfact which I could not explain to myself--namely, that the consciousness\r\nof the same individuality existed in two men so opposite in character.\r\nIt was an anomaly for which I could not account--whether I believed\r\nmyself to be the curé of the little village of C------, or _Il Signor\r\nRomualdo_, the titled lover of Clarimonde.\r\n\r\nBe that as it may, I lived, at least I believed that I lived, in Venice.\r\nI have never been able to discover rightly how much of illusion and how\r\nmuch of reality there was in this fantastic adventure. We dwelt in a\r\ngreat palace on the Canaleio, filled with frescoes and statues, and\r\ncontaining two Titians in the noblest style of the great master, which\r\nwere hung in Clarimonde’s chamber. It was a palace well worthy of a\r\nking. We had each our gondola, our _barcarolli_ in family livery,\r\nour music hall, and our special poet. Clarimonde always lived upon a\r\nmagnificent scale; there was something of Cleopatra in her nature. As\r\nfor me, I had the retinue of a prince’s son, and I was regarded with as\r\nmuch reverential respect as though I had been of the family of one of\r\nthe twelve Apostles or the four Evangelists of the Most Serene Republic.\r\nI would not have turned aside to allow even the Doge to pass, and I do\r\nnot believe that since Satan fell from heaven, any creature was ever\r\nprouder or more insolent than I. I went to the Ridotto, and played with\r\na luck which seemed absolutely infernal. I received the best of all\r\nsociety--the sons of ruined families, women of the theatre, shrewd\r\nknaves, parasites, hectoring swashbucklers. But notwithstanding the\r\ndissipation of such a life, I always remained faithful to Clarimonde.\r\nI loved her wildly. She would have excited satiety itself, and chained\r\ninconstancy. To have Clarimonde was to have twenty mistresses; ay,\r\nto possess all women: so mobile, so varied of aspect, so fresh in new\r\ncharms was she all in herself--a very chameleon of a woman, in sooth.\r\nShe made you commit with her the infidelity you would have committed\r\nwith another, by donning to perfection the character, the attraction,\r\nthe style of beauty of the woman who appeared to please you. She\r\nreturned my love a hundred-fold, and it was in vain that the young\r\npatricians and even the Ancients of the Council of Ten made her the most\r\nmagnificent proposals. A Foscari even went so far as to offer to espouse\r\nher. She rejected all his overtures. Of gold she had enough. She wished\r\nno longer for anything but love--a love youthful, pure, evoked by\r\nherself, and which should be a first and last passion. I would have been\r\nperfectly happy but for a cursed nightmare which recurred every night,\r\nand in which I believed myself to be a poor village curé, practising\r\nmortification and penance for my excesses during the day. Reassured by\r\nmy constant association with her, I never thought further of the strange\r\nmanner in which I had become acquainted with Clarimonde. But the words\r\nof the Abbé Sérapion concerning her recurred often to my memory, and\r\nnever ceased to cause me uneasiness.\r\n\r\nFor some time the health of Clarimonde had not been so good as usual;\r\nher complexion grew paler day by day. The physicians who were summoned\r\ncould not comprehend the nature of her malady and knew not how to treat\r\nit. They all prescribed some insignificant remedies, and never called\r\na second time. Her paleness, nevertheless, visibly increased, and she\r\nbecame colder and colder, until she seemed almost as white and dead as\r\nupon that memorable night in the unknown castle. I grieved with anguish\r\nunspeakable to behold her thus slowly perishing; and she, touched by my\r\nagony, smiled upon me sweetly and sadly with the fateful smile of those\r\nwho feel that they must die.\r\n\r\nOne morning I was seated at her bedside, and breakfasting from a little\r\ntable placed close at hand, so that I might not be obliged to leave her\r\nfor a single instant. In the act of cutting some fruit I accidentally\r\ninflicted rather a deep gash on my finger. The blood immediately gushed\r\nforth in a little purple jet, and a few drops spurted upon Clarimonde.\r\nHer eyes flashed, her face suddenly assumed an expression of savage and\r\nferocious joy such as I had never before observed in her. She leaped out\r\nof her bed with animal agility--the agility, as it were, of an ape or a\r\ncat--and sprang upon my wound, which she commenced to suck with an air\r\nof unutterable pleasure. She swallowed the blood in little mouthfuls,\r\nslowly and carefully, like a connoisseur tasting a wine from Xeres or\r\nSyracuse. Gradually her eyelids half closed, and the pupils of her green\r\neyes became oblong instead of round. From time to time she paused in\r\norder to kiss my hand, then she would recommence to press her lips to\r\nthe lips of the wound in order to coax forth a few more ruddy drops.\r\nWhen she found that the blood would no longer come, she arose with eyes\r\nliquid and brilliant, rosier than a May dawn; her face full and fresh,\r\nher hand warm and moist--in fine, more beautiful than ever, and in the\r\nmost perfect health.\r\n\r\n‘I shall not die! I shall not die!’ she cried, clinging to my neck, half\r\nmad with joy. ‘I can love thee yet for a long time. My life is thine,\r\nand all that is of me comes from thee. A few drops of thy rich and noble\r\nblood, more precious and more potent than all the elixirs of the earth,\r\nhave given me back life.’\r\n\r\nThis scene long haunted my memory, and inspired me with strange\r\ndoubts in regard to Clarimonde; and the same evening, when slumber had\r\ntransported me to my presbytery, I beheld the Abbé Sérapion, graver\r\nand more anxious of aspect than ever. He gazed attentively at me, and\r\nsorrowfully exclaimed: ‘Not content with losing your soul, you now\r\ndesire also to lose your body. Wretched young man, into how terrible\r\na plight have you fallen!’ The tone in which he uttered these words\r\npowerfully affected me, but in spite of its vividness even that\r\nimpression was soon dissipated, and a thousand other cares erased it\r\nfrom my mind. At last one evening, while looking into a mirror whose\r\ntraitorous position she had not taken into account, I saw Clarimonde in\r\nthe act of emptying a powder into the cup of spiced wine which she had\r\nlong been in the habit of preparing after our repasts. I took the\r\ncup, feigned to carry it to my lips, and then placed it on the nearest\r\narticle of furniture as though intending to finish it at my leisure.\r\nTaking advantage of a moment when the fair one’s back was turned, I\r\nthrew the contents under the table, after which I retired to my chamber\r\nand went to bed, fully resolved not to sleep, but to watch and discover\r\nwhat should come of all this mystery. I did not have to wait long,\r\nClarimonde entered in her nightdress, and having removed her apparel,\r\ncrept into bed and lay down beside me. When she felt assured that I\r\nwas asleep, she bared my arm, and drawing a gold pin from her hair,\r\ncommenced to murmur in a low voice:\r\n\r\n‘One drop, only one drop! One ruby at the end of my needle.... Since\r\nthou lovest me yet, I must not die!... Ah, poor love! His beautiful\r\nblood, so brightly purple, I must drink it. Sleep, my only treasure!\r\nSleep, my god, my child! I will do thee no harm; I will only take of thy\r\nlife what I must to keep my own from being for ever extinguished. But\r\nthat I love thee so much, I could well resolve to have other lovers\r\nwhose veins I could drain; but since I have known thee all other men\r\nhave become hateful to me.... Ah, the beautiful arm! How round it is!\r\nHow white it is! How shall I ever dare to prick this pretty blue vein!’\r\nAnd while thus murmuring to herself she wept, and I felt her tears\r\nraining on my arm as she clasped it with her hands. At last she took the\r\nresolve, slightly punctured me with her pin, and commenced to suck up\r\nthe blood which oozed from the place. Although she swallowed only a few\r\ndrops, the fear of weakening me soon seized her, and she carefully tied\r\na little band around my arm, afterward rubbing the wound with an unguent\r\nwhich immediately cicatrised it. Further doubts were impossible. The\r\nAbbé Sérapion was right. Notwithstanding this positive knowledge,\r\nhowever, I could not cease to love Clarimonde, and I would gladly of\r\nmy own accord have given her all the blood she required to sustain her\r\nfactitious life. Moreover, I felt but little fear of her. The woman\r\nseemed to plead with me for the vampire, and what I had already heard\r\nand seen sufficed to reassure me completely. In those days I had\r\nplenteous veins, which would not have been so easily exhausted as at\r\npresent; and I would not have thought of bargaining for my blood, drop\r\nby drop. I would rather have opened myself the veins of my arm and said\r\nto her: ‘Drink, and may my love infiltrate itself throughout thy body\r\ntogether with my blood!’ I carefully avoided ever making the least\r\nreference to the narcotic drink she had prepared for me, or to the\r\nincident of the pin, and we lived in the most perfect harmony.\r\n\r\nYet my priestly scruples commenced to torment me more than ever, and\r\nI was at a loss to imagine what new penance I could invent in order to\r\nmortify and subdue my flesh. Although these visions were involuntary,\r\nand though I did not actually participate in anything relating to them,\r\nI could not dare to touch the body of Christ with hands so impure and a\r\nmind defiled by such debauches whether real or imaginary. In the effort\r\nto avoid falling under the influence of these wearisome hallucinations,\r\nI strove to prevent myself from being overcome by sleep. I held my\r\neyelids open with my fingers, and stood for hours together leaning\r\nupright against the wall, fighting sleep with all my might; but the dust\r\nof drowsiness invariably gathered upon my eyes at last, and finding all\r\nresistance useless, I would have to let my arms fall in the extremity\r\nof despairing weariness, and the current of slumber would again bear\r\nme away to the perfidious shores. Sérapion addressed me with the most\r\nvehement exhortations, severely reproaching me for my softness and want\r\nof fervour. Finally, one day when I was more wretched than usual, he\r\nsaid to me: ‘There is but one way by which you can obtain relief from\r\nthis continual torment, and though it is an extreme measure it must be\r\nmade use of; violent diseases require violent remedies. I know where\r\nClarimonde is buried. It is necessary that we shall disinter her\r\nremains, and that you shall behold in how pitiable a state the object of\r\nyour love is. Then you will no longer be tempted to lose your soul for\r\nthe sake of an unclean corpse devoured by worms, and ready to crumble\r\ninto dust. That will assuredly restore you to yourself.’ For my part, I\r\nwas so tired of this double life that I at once consented, desiring to\r\nascertain beyond a doubt whether a priest or a gentleman had been the\r\nvictim of delusion. I had become fully resolved either to kill one of\r\nthe two men within me for the benefit of the other, or else to kill\r\nboth, for so terrible an existence could not last long and be endured.\r\nThe Abbé Sérapion provided himself with a mattock, a lever, and a\r\nlantern, and at midnight we wended our way to the cemetery of ------,\r\nthe location and place of which were perfectly familiar to him. After\r\nhaving directed the rays of the dark lantern upon the inscriptions of\r\nseveral tombs, we came at last upon a great slab, half concealed by\r\nhuge weeds and devoured by mosses and parasitic plants, whereupon we\r\ndeciphered the opening lines of the epitaph:\r\n\r\n     Here lies Clarimonde\r\n     Who was famed in her life-time\r\n     As the fairest of women.*\r\n\r\n          * Ici gît Clarimonde\r\n          Qui fut de son vivant\r\n          La plus belle du monde.\r\n\r\n          The broken beauty of the lines is unavoidably\r\n          lost in the translation.\r\n\r\n‘It is here without a doubt,’ muttered Sérapion, and placing his lantern\r\non the ground, he forced the point of the lever under the edge of the\r\nstone and commenced to raise it. The stone yielded, and he proceeded to\r\nwork with the mattock. Darker and more silent than the night itself, I\r\nstood by and watched him do it, while he, bending over his dismal toil,\r\nstreamed with sweat, panted, and his hard-coming breath seemed to have\r\nthe harsh tone of a death rattle. It was a weird scene, and had any\r\npersons from without beheld us, they would assuredly have taken us\r\nrather for profane wretches and shroud-stealers than for priests of God.\r\nThere was something grim and fierce in Sérapion’s zeal which lent him\r\nthe air of a demon rather than of an apostle or an angel, and his great\r\naquiline face, with all its stern features, brought out in strong relief\r\nby the lantern-light, had something fearsome in it which enhanced the\r\nunpleasant fancy. I felt an icy sweat come out upon my forehead in huge\r\nbeads, and my hair stood up with a hideous fear. Within the depths of my\r\nown heart I felt that the act of the austere Sérapion was an abominable\r\nsacrilege; and I could have prayed that a triangle of fire would issue\r\nfrom the entrails of the dark clouds, heavily rolling above us,\r\nto reduce him to cinders. The owls which had been nestling in the\r\ncypress-trees, startled by the gleam of the lantern, flew against it\r\nfrom time to time, striking their dusty wings against its panes, and\r\nuttering plaintive cries of lamentation; wild foxes yelped in the far\r\ndarkness, and a thousand sinister noises detached themselves from the\r\nsilence. At last Séra-pion’s mattock struck the coffin itself, making\r\nits planks re-echo with a deep sonorous sound, with that terrible sound\r\nnothingness utters when stricken. He wrenched apart and tore up the\r\nlid, and I beheld Clarimonde, pallid as a figure of marble, with hands\r\njoined; her white winding-sheet made but one fold from her head to her\r\nfeet. A little crimson drop sparkled like a speck of dew at one corner\r\nof her colourless mouth. Sérapion, at this spectacle, burst into fury:\r\n‘Ah, thou art here, demon! Impure courtesan! Drinker of blood and gold!\r\n‘And he flung holy water upon the corpse and the coffin, over which he\r\ntraced the sign of the cross with his sprinkler. Poor Clarimonde had\r\nno sooner been touched by the blessed spray than her beautiful body\r\ncrumbled into dust, and became only a shapeless and frightful mass of\r\ncinders and half-calcined bones.\r\n\r\n‘Behold your mistress, my Lord Romuald!’ cried the inexorable priest, as\r\nhe pointed to these sad remains. ‘Will you be easily tempted after this\r\nto promenade on the Lido or at Fusina with your beauty?’ I covered my\r\nface with my hands, a vast ruin had taken place within me. I returned\r\nto my presbytery, and the noble Lord Romuald, the lover of Clarimonde,\r\nseparated himself from the poor priest with whom he had kept such\r\nstrange company so long. But once only, the following night, I saw\r\nClarimonde. She said to me, as she had said the first time at the\r\nportals of the church: ‘Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?\r\nWherefore have hearkened to that imbecile priest? Wert thou not happy?\r\nAnd what harm had I ever done thee that thou shouldst violate my poor\r\ntomb, and lay bare the miseries of my nothingness? All communication\r\nbetween our souls and our bodies is henceforth for ever broken. Adieu!\r\nThou wilt yet regret me!’ She vanished in air as smoke, and I never saw\r\nher more.\r\n\r\nAlas! she spoke truly indeed. I have regretted her more than once, and I\r\nregret her still. My soul’s peace has been very dearly bought. The\r\nlove of God was not too much to replace such a love as hers. And this,\r\nbrother, is the story of my youth. Never gaze upon a woman, and walk\r\nabroad only with eyes ever fixed upon the ground; for however chaste and\r\nwatchful one may be, the error of a single moment is enough to make one\r\nlose eternity.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLARIMONDE ***\r\n\r\n\r\n    \r\n\r\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will\r\nbe renamed.\r\n\r\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\r\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\r\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\r\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\r\nroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part\r\nof this license, apply to copying and distributing Project\r\nGutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™\r\nconcept and trademark. 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