One of Cleopatra's Nights (28 page)

Overcome by the power of the nepenthe-juice, the king at last slumbered.
Nyssia made a sign for Gyges to come forth from his retreat; and, laying
her finger upon the breast of the victim, she directed upon her
accomplice a look so humid, so lustrous, so weighty with languishment,
so replete with intoxicating promise, that Gyges, maddened and
fascinated, sprang from his hiding-place like the tiger from the summit
of the rock where it has been crouching, traversed the chamber at a
bound, and plunged the Bactrian poniard up to the very hilt in the
heart of the descendant of Hercules. The chastity of Nyssia was avenged,
and the dream of Gyges accomplished.

Thus ended the dynasty of the Heracleidæ, after having endured for five
hundred and five years, and commenced that of the Mermnades in the
person of Gyges, son of Dascylus. The Sardians, indignant at the death
of Candaules, threatened revolt; but the oracle of Delphi having
declared in favor of Gyges, who had sent thither a vast number of silver
vases and six golden cratera of the value of thirty talents, the new
king maintained his seat on the throne of Lydia, which he occupied for
many long years, lived happily, and never showed his wife to any one,
knowing too well what it cost.

A. There is no correct English plural of "necropolis"; the French word
nécropole
is more normal. As the Greek plural could not be used very
euphoniously, and as I have tried throughout to render an exact English
equivalent for each French word whenever comprehensible, I beg
indulgence for the illegitimate plural "necropoli," used to signify more
than one necropolis, as an equivalent for the French
nécropoles
.

B. In the opening scene of "One of Cleopatra's Nights," the reader may
be surprised at the expression "the
chuckling
of the crocodiles." Our
own southern alligators often make a little noise which could not be
better described—a low, guttural sound, bearing a sinister resemblance
to a human chuckle or subdued, sneering laugh. A Creole friend who has
lived much in those regions of Southern Louisiana intersected by bayous
and haunted by alligators, comprehended at once the whole force of the
term
rire étouffe
as applied to the sounds made by the crocodile.
"
Je l'ai entendu souvent
" he said, with a smile.

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 Tâches 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,
Pass 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?

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
gods 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 cock 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 gods."—
La Sorcière
,
pages 32-34; edition of 1863.

[1]
Panegyris
; pl.,
panegyreis
,—from the Greek [], —signifies the
meeting of a whole people to worship at a common sanctuary or
participate in a national religious festival. The assemblies at the
Olympic, Pythian, Nemean, or Isthmian games were in this sense
panegyreis
. See Smith's Dict. Antiq.—(Trans.)

[2]
Conculcatrice des peuples
. From the Latin
conculcare,
to trample
under foot: therefore, the epithet literally signifies the "Trampler of
nations." (Trans.)

[3]
The Greeks and Romans usually termed such figures Hermæ or Termini. Caryatides were, strictly, entire figures of women.—(Trans.)

[4]
Does not this suggest the lines which DeQuincey so much admired?—
"A wilderness of building, sinking far,
And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth
Far sinking into splendor, without end.
Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold,
With alabaster domes and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
Uplifted. Here serene pavilions bright,
In avenues disposed; their towers begirt
With
battlements that on their restless fronts
Bore stars
."

[5]
John Martin, the English painter, whose creations were unparalleled
in breadth and depth of composition. His pictures seem to have made a
powerful impression upon the highly imaginative author of these
Romances. There is something in these descriptions of antique
architecture that suggests the influence of such pictured fantasies as
Martin's "Seventh Plague;" "The Heavenly City;" and perhaps, especially,
the famous "Pandemonium," with its infernal splendor, in Martin's
illustrations to "Paradise Lost."—(Trans.)

[6]
Antique castanets.—(Trans.)

[7]
"La Morte Amoureuse."

[8]
Ici gît Clarimonde
Qui fut de son vivant
La plus belle du monde.
The broken beauty of the lines is unavoidably lost in the translation.

[9]
Beauty-spot.