Stories in Yellow, Black, White, Blue, Violet and Red

Remy de Gourmont

Translated from the French by Isaac Goldberg.

HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY GIRARD, KANSAS

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Copyright, 1924. Haldeman-Julius Company.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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STORIES IN YELLOW, BLACK, WHITE, BLUE, VIOLET AND RED

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FOREWORD

It is now some time since I wrote, somewhat vaguely (with reference to one of d’Annunzio’s books) that a novel is a poem and should be conceived and executed as such if it is to prove of worth.

At that time I said:

“The novel is based upon the same esthetic as the poem; the original novel was composed in verse: for example, the Odyssey, a novel of adventure; the Aeneid, a chivalrous romance; the first French novels, as everybody knows, were poems, and it is only at a fairly late day that they were transposed into prose to adapt them to the indolence and the ignorance of a larger reading public. From this origin the novel inherits the possibility of a certain nobility, and any genuine writer, if he concerns himself with it, will restore that nobility to the form: whom would one wish to convince that Don Quixote is not a poem, that Pantagruel is not a poem, that Salammbo is not a poem? The novel is a poem; the novel that is not a poem does not exist.”

Flaubert had not yet taught me, through the letters that narrate the arduous composition of Madame Bovary, that one must “endow prose [Pg 6]with the rhyme of verse (leaving to it, however, its distinctly prosaic character) and write to ordinary life as one writes history or epic.” Upon thinking this over I found that Flaubert carried a bit too far the idea that we must achieve a literary prose whose beauty may be fashioned only of words and rhythm, the rhythm being primordial. The method that he prescribed for the novel I believe suited likewise to the play, the tale, even when it is but an anecdote—almost all form of composition—even the simple article done for the morning-paper. There is no inferior art. An article may be a poem from the moment one has assigned to it the rhythm against which it will dance its brief pavan. Once the rhythm has been found, all is found, for the idea incorporates itself into the tempo, and the ball of yarn or silk is formed almost without the intervention of any consciousness of a task.

The tale, it seems to me, demands a special condition: in order to write it one must possess the illusion, no matter how fleeting, of being happy; a merry afternoon is enough. And this relates it more closely to the poem than any reasoned-out theory could do. To be happy—that is to say, to have enjoyed a flower, the flower of one’s choice, or the bright glance of [Pg 7]certain eyes: then one becomes interested in the games of others. In fact, when one is happy, or almost so, one can no longer stay inside, where one sees well only through desire. A tale is a stroll.

Almost all the stories that you are about to read were written in a single breath, save the polishing touches, the expansion of too slender parts, and excisions. Thus there comes, at certain times, a moment when the breath runs short. One lays the work aside for the following day, and this is a pity, for dreams trouble one’s days.

I do not write all this to instruct in a method a public that cares very little for methods. The stream of these notes flowed one evening in a few moments on to a stray sheet of paper.

I clarified it, at first for my own pleasure, and then in an attempt to solve a problem. Take this poet who now overflows in novels, even in feuilletons, in all the petty tasks of a man of letters—do you really think him unfaithful to his first muse? Yes, doubtless, often. Not always. As long as rhythm sings within him, he is faithful. His downfall does not begin until that day when the harmony of the phrase is utterly sacrificed to reason—to what persons without any beyond in their [Pg 8]spirits call truth. The true poet and the true sage can always, like Goethe, conciliate Poesy and Reality, and all the more easily since Poesy is the daughter of Reality. I remember hearing M. Quinton express surprise that Pasteur should have written a tragedy. Beyond doubt it was very bad (not worse than those in which M. Claretie’s abilities as régisseur excel), but this exercise attests an original sense of rhythm. His beautiful experiments were, in the days that followed, rhythmed like poems, like the marbles of his compatriots Hugo, Rude, Clésinger. The Satyre who scales the mountain

of mysteries, the Bacchante au Thyrse, who rushes into voluptuousness, the game of chemical retorts which prove that life arises only from life—these are the gestures of genius animated by one and the same rhythm. One likes to recall that Descartes composed a ballet to pleasure the great Christine; one is fond of remembering that Montesquieu rhythmed the games of his young imagination, that Pascal composed a symphony upon the Passions of love, that Nietzsche caused the forests to resound with the superhuman laughter of Zarathustra, that Flaubert rhythmed like Homeric verses the quotidian words of that Stupidity to whom he played Hercules.

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It is rhythm that lends beauty to the poor ballerina who seems draped only in her chemise. May it lend a little to those women who, in their rushing adventures, dance too madly perhaps, each in one of the rays of light resolved by the naïve prism of their desire.—⁠R. G.

July 30, 1908.

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YELLOW

Que c’est beau, le jaune!

Van Gogh.

It was understood.

The last time he had sent her a long kiss, his eyes closed as in ecstasy, and she had smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes.

They had never spoken to each other.

She lived there. There were houses, along the river bank and half way up the hill, bordering the road that wound up the slope: there was a mill, a tavern, a sabot factory and two or three little farmhouses, with a shed in which slumbered a cart. One could hear whinnying, a waggoner’s heavy oath, the crowing of a cock, the patter of the water under the mill wheels and its murmuring beneath the wooden bridge.

He, too, lived there, but higher up, behind the trees that framed the horizon. At evening, returning from the hunt, he would pause upon the bridge, look at the water, the willows, the grass, the narrow valley, where the sun, before dying, came to rest for a moment.

It was from this point that he had beheld her. She was spreading out upon the fresh lawn some strips of unbleached linen. He thought [Pg 11]she must be the daughter of the weaver who could be heard at work near the tavern, or else some servant. On other days she would be washing clothes beneath the large hazel tree whose branches bent to kiss the stream, and would lay them on the bushes; then, before returning, she would pick some hazel nuts, or flowers, or would throw pebbles into the water. When she felt that she was being observed she would laugh, but she refused to be disturbed in her work or her play.

One day, however, she stood for a long time looking at him, eating hazel nuts that she cracked between her teeth with all the nimbleness of a squirrel.

Then he came daily. She would be there, or else she would arrive slowly, raising her head. They might have spoken to each other, but they said nothing. He threw flowers to her, or twigs, and she paid no attention. He brought her a yellow carnation: she hid it in her corsage and, without a token, disappeared.

It was on the next day that their mute agreement was concluded.

The following evening, after the first glances had been exchanged, he saw her climb in the direction of the woods and plunge into the coppice. He made a detour and caught up [Pg 12]with her just as she was clearing the rails of a fence. Her short skirt pulled up. She showed a white knee. That decided him. This fresh little peasant lass was just the thing. Desire made him tremble a little.

He received her into his arms, pressed her close, kissed her upon the lips, but gently she freed herself and, curving her shoulders, glided in under the branches.

It was a sunken, abandoned path that led to an old cart-road; she ran quickly, avoiding the brambles, grazing the broom, the honeysuckle and the foxglove that made a crazy arabesque in this sombre lair of sand and gravel which the branches of the beeches, the ash-trees and the oaks sheltered with their thick green mantle.

Stopped by a bramble that clutched at her legs, she was caught by him; he knelt down, vanquished the bramble and threw his arm about her knees. But she did not wish to fall yet. She stiffened; she turned her back upon him. He rose to his feet; his hands ascended to the breasts which she was pressing; he kissed the back of her neck; he nibbled at an ear.

Then she turned her head; her eyes were serious; she abandoned all resistance. Leaning [Pg 13]against the arm that encircled her waist, she surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to caresses.

They fell tenderly.

Seated now side by side they glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes, occupied in similar motions. She was dressing her hair; he was knotting his cravat.

She was smiling.

He was dreaming.

This happy encounter enchanted him. In his career as an equivocal huntsman he had met with few that could match it. “But how difficult it is to rouse women! The transports of this loving lass were pretty feeble. She seemed more ashamed than tender, more resolved than self-abandoned, I can’t just say.”

He, however, had tasted intense happiness, and what sweet peace he now enjoyed! What charm in this young body, in those contours fresh with their first form. “She is as lissome as the trunk of a beech-tree and her flesh yielded with such pride, yet with such simplicity as well! How simple is love!”

He looked at the young girl, hunting words to say to her, but he did not have the habit of speech, and above all of tender speeches.

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She appeared prettier than ever, now—more natural. This sensation of naturalness he had never before experienced. Perhaps the silence had led him to reflect.

At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of the moment, the coolness of this grotto, his happiness, his repose.

She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a scape of foxglove between her fingers, smiled, but gave no sign of contentment.

“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, if she would only fondle me.”

Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand into the wrong pocket and struck his purse.

“Ah!”

Secretly he extracted a gold-piece, took the child’s hand and clamped her fingers over the surprise. She opened them immediately, looked, and blushed; her bosom swelled, she heaved a deep sigh, then crushed into her friend’s arms, all aquiver with nervous sobs of joy.

On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, the corners of his lips.

She was happy.

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BLACK

Le charme inattendu d’un bijou rose et noir.

Baudelaire.

The most beautiful flower that Duclos had ever seen was a black dahlia.

It was in the public garden of a little town in Normandy—a garden of tulips, of daisies, of wistaria, hornbeams and orange trees—a garden where the rare plant, sprung up amidst the familiar ones, seemed truly rare, exceptional and beautiful.

How well a bunch of white violets would go in a torrid greenhouse, amidst the singularity of the orchids! How welcome is an orchid, and how strangely it strikes the eye in a spacious provincial garden, where three children are laughing, or an ecclesiastic, who has just finished his breviary, exchanges timorous words with two old ladies in black!

This garden was fresh and attractive, as elegant as a young woman who is perhaps on her way to love, for surely enough one discovers here the four-leaf clover. Its plots and its beds mingled willingly with the hothouse flowers that were out to take the air, and with the rustic blossoms that sleep outside—those that close at night the eyes which they open to the [Pg 16]sun, those that have always a new smile to take the place of the one that has died, and those who surrender completely, all at once, in a single great kiss.

There were also numerous trees, and even ash, willows and red osiers, among the lilacs, the snowballs and the roses of Jericho. There were lawns, basins, fountains, red fishes and white fishes.

There were black flowers.

During all the summer that he spent in this little town, Duclos came every morning for a walk along the avenue of dahlias. He looked like an inspector of flowers. He examined them one by one, welcoming the newcomers and deploring the fate of those which were about to die.

He would pause for a long time before the clump of black dahlias. A black flower is black. It is a strip of black velvet cut in the shape of a flower, and nothing more.

Black dahlias are simple or double, like all dahlias. The double dahlias are fluted balls, stiff, seemingly fashioned of metal or linen that has been well starched and ironed. Simple dahlias are shaped like a sun or a monstrance and seem, from the height of their green stems, to spread a friendly benediction. [Pg 17]They have an eye, and almost always, in the black dahlias, a yellow eye—an insolvent louis d’or placed in the center of the black velvet sun. They inspire fear, for they seem to be alive, and this is contrary to the nature of flowers, which must be only things, pretty things.

However, the black dahlias that so exalted Duclos every morning in the large solitary garden had no eyes: crisp, curly petals intertwined above the mystery of the stamens and pistils.

“This flower is only an idea, it is a desire. It is a flower?”

One day he met with a surprise. A tiny bindweed had slipped its supple stem in between the petals of a large dahlia and had just opened in the heart of the flower. It had dared to set amidst this night of black velvet the caress of a carnal mother-of-pearl.

“... And I,” he said to himself, “... to think that I never understood that line of Baudelaire’s.... No, it’s impossible.... Farewell, innocent flower that offends the peace of my heart.... Whom am I to love now, since you are not a woman and this country is a desert of love?”

He walked off ill content, his eyes lowered, thrusting at the pebbles of the path with his [Pg 18]foot and with the tip of his cane, meditating upon the disharmony between thought and deed that renders pleasant realizations so difficult and so rare.

“Desire comes rarely at the right moment. One yearns only after the impossible—water that flows, the bird that flies off, the woman who goes back into the house and rudely slams her door. Wisdom would consist in never desiring anything save the bit of bread one is raising to his mouth. And even then, who knows whether one’s throat will not contract as the food is swallowed? Better, then, to desire only that which has already been accomplished, to accept chance and live over again those moments which were happy....”

A cry interrupted his reflections.

He looked up and perceived, seated upon a bench before him, a young woman who, with the hem of her skirt turned up somewhat, was feeling her ankle uneasily, above a white shoe. The hem was black.

Duclos was not timid. As he bowed, his hat in hand, explaining the wickedness of the pebbles that one is apt to trip over, he observed the severity of a toilette that enchanted him. Everything was black and white, save, at the neck, the gleam of a pink ribbon, quite similar [Pg 19]in shade to the bindweed that opened, yonder, in the heart of the black dahlia.

Near the woman, a play in brochure form, yellow and somewhat soiled. He connected this with a large poster that he had seen that morning, and still drunk with his flower and his desire, he murmured, looking at her neck, which was so fresh, then at her subdued, golden face and her very sombre eyes: “The unexpected charm of a pink and black jewel.”

“White, black and pink,” he amended, smiling.

A somewhat forced smile replied to him.

The spoke of the drama. And when he took a seat upon the bench no one made a wry face.

“Such stupidity!” exclaimed the lady, rolling up the pamphlet.

Then he recited some verses for her:

She was soon gazing at him through tender eyes.

Long, shrill whistles. The train rumbled by.

“The station is near,” said Duclos. “You go down a small staircase.”

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“We have the afternoon,” murmured the lady.

“I love you!” said the young man.

“Why not?” replied the lady.

“Who knows?”

“Who knows?”

They arose at the same impulse.

As they passed the large black dahlia, black and pink now, Duclos stopped, and pointing to the flower:

“I love you, because I love this black and pink flower. I love you, because you are both sisters.”

“And to think,” she said, “that this morning I was weeping over the wickedness of men....”

“Not all men are wicked.”

They gazed at each other for a long time, then took each other’s hands.

“Are you my destined one?”

“Perhaps,” she answered.

Then she added, as at the first time:

“Who knows?”

“Quickly,” said Duclos, “this is the hour.”

They hastened down the little staircase to the station. They set out on their journey.

Sometimes Duclos would call his lady friend “My Dahlia.” This would make her laugh, and dream, too.

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As soon as they had known each other each loved the other with deep passion.

The black dahlia with the pink heart became for Duclos an everlasting comfort. The large velvet flower soothed his brow, his heart and his lips. It made a beautiful mystery against the marble whiteness.

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WHITE

Cet unanime blanc conflit d’une guirlande avec la même.

S. Mallarmé.

Once upon a time there were two children of the same age—a little boy and a little girl. They were exceedingly fond of each other, were never happy unless together, and there was something tender about their games. At hide and seek, when the little girl had been caught, she would drop into the arms of her companion, throw back her head, lower her lashes, purse her lips; and if the kisses did not rain down, she would demand them, or go to seek them by graciously raising her lips to the other pair of distrait or timid lips. They had just passed their tenth year.

One very warm day they rolled down their stockings to go wading in the brook. They got very wet and lay down to dry upon the warm grass, in the sun. The sight of their little pink legs, however, and of their dripping knees excited their curiosity. They made comparisons, and the little boy was wise enough to adjudge his skin the less smooth. “It is also less soft,” he said; and his hands went in company of his eyes.

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They began anew the next day, and each day they read more. Their kisses, now, were companioned by sweet caresses that sent the blood swirling to their heads. But the very next instant they had already forgotten this and their innocence burst into laughter. They were happy.

With the coming of the first cold weather and the rain, they transferred their games to a large, half empty room that was left to them. The little boy, who went to school, would spend all his spare time at his friend’s. The little girl received her instruction at home. Upon certain days when the weather was bad the little boy would take his lessons with her. Their parents, with an eye to the future, observed this childish tenderness of the two pupils with great pleasure.

Towards the month of December a curate came to the house and was led by the mother to the large room in which the children were playing. An armchair and a footstool were brought for him. He sat down, took out his snuff-box, wiped his lips, sniffed a generous pinch and spoke of the good Lord. This subject was already known to him, but the little girl grew attentive when the priest, turning toward her, addressed her thus:

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