Martyrs of Science Read online

  Wretch! I destroyed that happiness, destroyed it irredeemably! Oh, Ghigi, how have I repaid you for your kindness!

  My idleness and my solitude in that retreat, set my Sicilian blood on fire. One day, beside myself, I took the sleeping Paola in my arms. She was mine.

  Attracted by the poor woman’s screams, Ghigi came running to take revenge. A dagger-thrust laid him at my feet.

  Then I thought I heard infernal laughter; I thought I heard a voice whispering in my ear: “Leave for Rome with Ghigi’s gold; take his paintings. Say: ‘I’m the painter Ghigi; I’ve come back from Mexico.’”

  Yes, it was the Demon that gave me that advice, for what man could conceive such a sin? Yes, it was the Demon; I felt his burning breath exhaling into my ear!

  But that woman! Ghigi’s body…he might yet revive; his tongue might speak; his hand might write...

  A delirious rage, a fiery vertigo took possession of me…and when I recovered my reason, I was aboard a ship whose cannon was saluting the port of Nettuno, and I was sitting on a crate that contained all of Ghigi’s paintings.

  Arrived in Rome, I exhibited a few of the paintings; I said that I had painted them. Soon, the name of Ghigi was being repeated enthusiastically; his paintings were snatched up. I had glory; I became rich, and the intoxication of glory and fortune stunned the memory of my crime; it sometimes came back, at long intervals, to persecute me, but the whirlwind of pleasure and prestige stifled it.

  I thus had, for nearly ten years, a kind of happiness.

  I had sold all my paintings except for one, representing a Madonna nursing her son; Prince Borgia saw it, gave me a considerable sum for it, and immediately had it transported to his gallery. The painting was not covered by any veil during the journey, and, gripped by admiration, a crowd soon assembled around the masterpiece and started following it to the prince’s gallery, saluting wildly the name of Ghigi. The excitement went so far as to require me to participate in that improvised triumph and follow the painting in the prince’s uncovered carriage, in the midst of enthusiastic shouts.

  There were so many people that a cart carrying a victim to execution could not get past; it was a mute beggar who, driven by need, had stolen a loaf of bread. At the sight of me, and hearing the name of Ghigi, he stood up, extended two mutilated hands toward me, tried to say a few words with his severed tongue…and fell back in despair.

  It was Ghigi.

  Oh, may you never feel remorse!

  THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING

  There are good marriages;

  there are no delightful ones.

  La Rochefoucauld, Maximes.2

  Alas, neither reason, nor imagination,

  Nor intelligence, nor the heart

  can render happiness; I understand that now.

  Lettres d’amour.

  Cologne, 25 September 1820.

  So, my dear Frederick, you are abandoning me at the moment when, according to your advice, I have to sacrificed my most cherished errors to reason!

  You’re leaving for Mexico!

  If, at least, your letters had been able, once a week, to continue to encourage me, to persuade me, to make me persevere…but alas, they’ll only reach me henceforth at long intervals! No more fixed day to receive them, no more desirous waiting for the post! Immense seas will separate us; you’ll be living in another world!

  It’s no longer letters that I’ll be writing to you; it’s a journal that you’ll receive, God knows when…perhaps never...

  If you knew the courage it required for me to break the links that bound me to Madame Narscheid! Poor Louise, who sacrificed to my love her future hopes, her conscience, her domestic joy, and her reputation!

  I admit it: twenty times, during that last meeting, I felt close to renouncing my marriage to Fraulein von Reistadst.

  Yes, Frederick, I would have done it; but, after fits of the most frightful despair, Louise suddenly armed herself with a resignation that I no longer had. “I love you more than my happiness,” she said. “Be happy, Eduard, since you can be, with someone else.”

  Then, after that, without saying another word, she went to collect everything that had come to her from me, and threw it all into the fire.

  Frederick, I bought very dear, that evening, the happiness that you promised me in a marriage of convenience! What interior peace, what wellbeing of fortune, can be worth the love that I’m losing, Louise’s love? It was surrounded by perils, by despair, I know, but it was burning, devoted, sublime.

  Poor fool that I am! Look, there’s my imagination running away with me again!

  I shall not see Louise gain; her husband arrives this evening, and, as you know, my mere presence in Cologne can move him to the most frightful fits of jealousy; since the discovery of one of my letters to Louise, four years ago, he’s capable of anything.

  I’ll leave at daybreak for Aix-la-Chapelle, and I shall finally see my wife.

  Aix-la-Chapelle, 26 September, 3 p.m.

  I’ve just seen her; she’s a pale and rosy-cheeked young woman; a great freshness, beautiful blonde hair, an ingenuous smile. Her name is Fanny.

  Her parents made a big occasion out of our meeting; they introduced me to my fiancée with solemn ostentation.

  It’s a singular thing to find oneself among so many unknown people, that I’ll be calling brother, sister, father, mother and wife tomorrow!

  My wife! A lover who will lavish the mot tender caresses; the only one it will be permissible to love henceforth; a faithful friend in happiness as in adversity; a companion from who death alone can separate me! And I’ve never seen her before today! And it’s tomorrow that she’ll become my wife!

  You’re wiser than I am; I recognize the superiority of your reason over mine; you judge things with a much greater justice than I can contrive; you love me as much as one can love a friend, and it’s you who have proposed to me, have advised me, who have made this marriage,

  Frederick, I need to remind myself of all that; I need that, for otherwise it won’t be tomorrow that she’ll become my wife.

  The same day, 6 p.m.

  I’ve just had a long conversation with her, after supper. Her ideas seem to me to be more solid than extensive; her imagination is as pure as a virgin’s, her soul as affectionate as that of a young woman who has never been parted from a good and wise mother. She has had a prudent education, and has been brought up in great principles of economy.

  The conversation has done me good; yes, my friend, I’m beginning to understand that you were right: a calm, placid, uniform happiness without the slightest shock; peace, repose, a good wife who surrounds you with kindness and tender attention; a fresh and naïve smile always ready to form at your first words; a delicate hand that prepares and presents the beverage when fever burns you and your breast is oppressed... It’s not Louise; it’s not the ideal, impossible happiness of which I once dreamed; but it’s real happiness.

  Yes, the conversation with Fanny has done me good; yes, her smile has calmed my unbearable agitation.

  Frederick, were you telling the truth?

  27 September, 4 a.m.

  I’ve slept, Frederick, slept peacefully until now; yes, I’m going to be happy.

  Yes: until now, I had not sought happiness where one might find it, and, blasphemer that I was, I said: “There is no happiness.”

  A young woman as beautiful and pure as the angels; her innocent caresses, her ineffable tenderness; and then, soon, children who will tighten the solemn bonds more narrowly; children who, with their dear little voices, will cause the delightful name “Father” to resound in my ear, in my intoxicated soul.

  28 September, 6 a.m.

  The virgins of Heaven do not have her purity; the fiery cherubim do not have her tenderness! Oh, Frederick, Frederick, I’m happy, happy forever, and I owe that happiness to you.

  She’s getting dressed at present, and then we’re going to take a long walk in the countryside that surrounds us. Frederick, Frederick, we’ll be alone, al
one with nature and its sublime beauties; we’ll exchange sensations in a glance, a smile, the pressure of a hand. Frederick, my friend, do you comprehend fully the happiness that I possess? Tell me, do you comprehend?

  15 October, same year.

  I’m alone in my room, lying down. Is it a dream I’ve had—a horrible dream? Oh, if it were only a dream!

  Madman that I am, it can’t be otherwise; such misfortune isn’t possible; no, no!

  Can you imagine that I dreamed going for a walk with my young wife, with Fanny; I’d never seen a more beautiful sunrise. That’s because I’d never seen the sun rise while my Fanny was giving me her arm.

  We were on the bank of a river. Suddenly, I saw something floating in the water, something indistinct…it came closer…a woman’s corpse…Louise!

  Oh, what a dream! What a frightful dream!

  I don’t know what I experienced at that moment: a convulsive rage set all my limbs ablaze and trembling; my eyes could no longer see; my ears were deafened by an execrable ringing...

  I seized, I clutched tightly, obstinately, something warm and delicate; then I felt a flaccid weight fall upon my breast and slide to my feet with a dull sound.

  Then people surrounded me; they were uttering cries of horror; I struggled against those numerous man; they tied me up and took me away, through an immense crowd.

  And I saw two female corpses on a stretcher that was being carried in front of me: Louise and Fanny.

  Oh, what a dream! What a frightful dream!

  My God, what an impression it has made on me! I’ve just looked in the mirror; I saw myself livid, emaciated.

  But everything around me is in chaos, broken, strewn with debris...

  My clothes! They’re no more than tatters!

  Iron bars on my windows! Enormous bars at the door!

  Ah…it wasn’t a dream! It isn’t a dream...

  THERIAKI3

  Better one grain of opium than twelve gourds full of rice.

  (Oriental proverb.)

  Happiness? It’s drunkenness that takes away reason.

  (Anonymous.)

  “Alas, my feeble and convulsive hands can scarcely raise this cup to my lips; the shaking is making its contents spill. Oh, I would bless the angel of death if he would extend his redoubtable blade over my mouth! Life weighs upon me so heavily! There is no true believer more miserable than me; my contracted muscles are inclining my heavy head toward me left shoulder; a cup seems a burden in my trembling hands; my stiff legs are buckling beneath my paltry body and the slightest light closes my eyes, too weak to support it.

  “I would like to be in a shroud on which the pious hands of a dervish has inscribed verses from the Koran; I would like the servants of Mohammed to prostrate themselves on seeing my abode illuminated by funeral lamps; yes, I would like them to repeat, while striking their breasts: ‘The Aga Massoud is no more! There is no God but God and Mohammed is his prophet.’

  “What is there left for me to do on the earth?

  “In vain the most delicious dishes are set forth before me; they only excite my disgust.

  “What use is it to me to have slaves in my seraglio from Georgia with white shoulders, Kaffirs with passionate movements and coppery complexions, Africans with large eyes and black breasts? Their smiles leave me cold; their voluptuous dances weary me; it is necessary for me to lower the triple bans of my turban over my ears when they marry their voices and play the lute or the Persian flute; the softest sounds shake my debilitate brain and are too noisy for it.

  “Yes I would like to be in a shroud on which the pious hands of a dervish has inscribed verses from the Koran; I would like the servants of Mohammed to prostrate themselves on seeing my abode illuminated by funeral lamps!”

  Such were the thoughts of the Aga Massoud.

  Lying sadly on a vast sofa, pale and motionless, his eyes half-closed, one might have mistaken him for a corpse if one had not heard the rattle of his slow respiration.

  Soon, the effects of the opium that he had drunk began to manifest themselves: a more rapid breath elevated his bosom; all his limbs quivered with a convulsive frisson; his swollen face became red; a wild expression caused his eyes, previously dull and bleak, to scintillate.

  At the same time, a coolness, an indescribable wellbeing circulated in his veins and rendered an artificial existence to that demi-cadaver; a magical influence caused reflections of dazzling light to gleam in his eyes from all the surrounding objects.

  Suave visions rose up, passing back and forth, rotating before his charmed gaze; there was the vertigo if an intoxication, not like that produced by the fermented beverages of Europe, but a divine intoxication, an inexpressible, sublime ecstasy.

  “Oh,” he murmured, in a halting voice, “Oh, what sensations of happiness are inundating all my senses! They are too delightful for the strength of a mortal: it’s necessary that I succumb to them!

  “A soft languor is half-closing my eyes; my warm and supple limbs allow themselves to relax into the sweetest abandonment. Make the celestial melody sounding around me stop…take away those houris who are fluttering and smiling at me and lifting up garlands of flowers entwined around their semi-naked breasts…leave me alone, beautiful phantoms, oh, leave me alone! Do you want to make me die of voluptuousness?

  “I need to get rid of these fantastic images…it’s necessary to flee...

  “A magic power is dragging me away and making me glide lightly over meadows enameled with flowers, shores sparkling with light, without me having the fatigue of having to lift my feet, without my will directing my body: a delightful sensation in which the inertia of repose is mingled with the wellbeing of movement...

  “I’m no longer gliding now; a vague and languorous swaying is cradling me voluptuously, and mysterious beings are lifting me slowly into the clouds.

  “They’re angels who are supporting me in their interlaced arms, they’re the angels of the divine Allah! I can glimpse their smiling heads over my shoulder; their warm breath exhales over my forehead, and the blond curls of their beautiful hair gently brushes my lips.

  “Will I never be able to stop, being borne away forever and ever by the unknown impulsion that it drawing me? No, divine messengers of the prophet, not even to visit those innumerable palaces sparkling with emeralds and carbuncles, which flee before my gaze, not even for those houris whose modulated voices are calling to me!

  “No, no, don’t stop! One is rocked so softly in your arms, one palpitates with such sweet ecstasy, on breathing the air with which this region is embalmed. The air of mortals makes me die. Keep flying! Let’s fly without stopping, like the rapid arrow of the angel of wrath! Let’s fly and fly, further…let the celestial wind that is blowing over my face never cease to blow...”

  And Massoud’s voice, fading away and becoming inarticulate, no longer murmured any but rare and inconsequential words; and his eyes closed; and he went to sleep: a profound sleep excited by fantastic and voluptuous dreams.

  The next day, when he woke up, Massoud was pale and suffering; his extenuated voice could hardly make itself heard by his slaves. He summoned them so that they could give him another dose of opium.

  NOCTURNAL TERROR

  I am one of those who are most sensible of the power

  of the imagination: everyone is jostled by it,

  but some are overthrown by it.

  (Montaigne, ch. 11.)4

  “Ha ha! You make me laugh uproariously!

  Boasting about your reason and your courage!

  It only requires the most ridiculous accident to

  put the latter in default and ruin the former forever.”

  (Anonymous.)

  Oh, what a delightful day Lord Edgard was about to spend! To depart at daybreak for the ruins of the priory of Saint Ruth, to depart with the naïve Miss Arabella, and the witty and piquant Duchess MacMoran! And to have the mild and indulgent Milady Tornson’s carriage for a conveyance, and for a guide the jovial and knowledgeable Dr.
Raleigh!

  Let’s go then! Forward ho! Farewell to old Edinburgh! There isn’t a cloud in the sky; the refreshing wind is making the foliage of the oaks tremble gently. Let’s go! Onwards, onwards!

  And there was, to begin with, a merry mélange of frivolous remarks, tender words, ingenious pleasantries; I would have defied the most careworn brow not to have cleared; I would have defied the most phlegmatic of men not to have felt the electric gaiety that sprang forth from every direction in sparks.

  But a cloud has formed at the extremity of the horizon; it is extending like a lugubrious veil; instead of the light of a little while ago, of the radiant day that ornamented nature with a soft and living glare, everything becomes dull and inanimate; one can no longer breathe freely, one no longer experiences an indescribable wellbeing; and I don’t know what sadness comes to squeeze the heart and freeze the imagination. Still, if one were to shiver at the sudden glare of lightning, which flashes, dies and is reborn, with the majestic din of thunder...

  But no; it’s a slow, gray, monotonous rain that clutches the limbs with an icy inconvenience.

  They do not have their picnic on the grass; the semi-ruined arcades of the monastery do not resound to their joyful bursts of laughter; shut up in a poor cottage where an old woman is dying hoarsely on a wretched bed, they spend two long hours of rain, disappointment and sadness, without saying a word.

  Finally, the horses are rested; they can leave, and quit that black dwelling where the fetid air makes it so difficult to breathe, where they have been embarrassed and inhibited beside the bed of a dying woman. A few gifts are left to a tall, pale and thin young woman, the only creature weeping by the invalid’s beside. She murmurs, by way of thanks: “This will serve, my ladies, to bury my mother.”