Читать книгу French and Oriental Love in a Harem - Mario Uchard - Страница 4

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Madam, let me be very candid; I have a warm temperament, certainly—more so, perhaps, than an ordinary Provençal. I will confess to even more than this, if your grace so wills it, and I will not blush for it; but pray condescend to believe that I am also a respecter of conventional proprieties, and that I should feel most keenly the loss of your esteem in this regard. Now, from a few words of satirical wit, concealed like small serpents under the flowery condolences of your malicious letter, I concluded that this miserable fellow Louis, abandoning all considerations of delicacy, and at the risk of ruining my reputation, had played me a most abominable trick, by reading out to you all the nonsense which I wrote to him last week. You need not deny it! He confesses it to-day, unblushingly, in the budget of news which he sends me, adding that you "laughed over it." Good gracious! what can you have thought of me? After such a story, I certainly could never again look you in the face, but that I can clear myself by assuring you at once that all this tale was nothing but a mystification, invented as a return for some of his impertinent chaff regarding my uncle Barbassou's will. Louis fell into the trap like any booby. But for him to have drawn you with him, is enough to make me die of shame.

Madam, I prefer now to make my confession. I am not the hero of a romance of the Harem. I am a good young man, an advocate of morality and propriety, notwithstanding the fact that you have often honoured me with the title of "a regular original." Be so good as to believe, then, that the most I have been guilty of is a too artless simplicity of character. I did not suppose that Louis would show you this eccentric letter, for I had expressly enjoined him to keep it from you. My only crime therefore in all this matter has been that I forgot that a woman of your intelligence would read everything, when she had the mind to do so, and a husband like yours.

In fact, madam, I hardly know why I have taken the trouble to excuse myself with so much deliberation. I perceive that by such apologies I run the risk of aggravating my mistake. What did I write, after all, but a very commonplace specimen of those Arabian stories which girls such as you have read continually in the winter evenings, under the eyes of their delighted mothers? When I consider it, I begin to understand that your laughter, if you did laugh, must have been at the feebleness of my imagination—you compared it with the Palace of gold and the thousand wives of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid.—But please remember, once more, that I am a poor Provençal and not a Sultan.

"My tastes are those of a simple bachelor."

Observe moreover that, out of regard for probability, no less than from respect for local colouring, I was obliged to decide upon a somewhat simple harem, and to confine it within the strictly necessary limits. Like a school-boy, falling in love with the heroine he has put into his story, I found myself so charmed with my fancy, that in order to further enjoy my pleasures of illusion, I determined not to overstep the limits of a perfectly realisable adventure.

But since I abandoned myself to this folly, does it not seem to you, reconsidering the matter, that a great deal would have been lost if such a romance had never occurred to me? And above all if it had stopped short at the first page? Is it not astonishing that no author had thought of writing such a thing before? Would not this have been just the work for a moralist and a philosopher, worthy at once of a poet and of a scholar? This poor world of ours, madam, moves in a narrow circle of passions and sensations, so limited that it seems to me as if every soul rather more lofty than the average must continually feel itself imprisoned. What felicity it must be, by a single flight of the imagination, to escape from this prison locked by prejudice! To fly away into the regions of dreamland! Slave of our civilized conventions, what bliss to run away unfettered into the shady paths of the pagan world, peopled with its merry, enchanting nymphs! Or again to wander, like a happy child of Asiatic climes in gardens of sycamores, where young sultanas bathe and disport themselves in basins of porphyry. The Bois de Boulogne is a charming place, no doubt, madam; but you will admit that it is inferior to the Valley of Roses, and that the painted and bedizened young women you see there will bear no comparison with my houris.

What, then? Does my thirst after the ideal merit any censure? Do not you consider, you who read novels, that it would, on the contrary, be an instructive as well as a curious study to follow up the strange incidents which would necessarily result from such a very natural conjunction of oriental love transferred to the midst of our own world? What contrasts they would provoke, and what strange occurrences! Does not the absence of such a study leave a void in our illustrious literature?

But I divine upon your lips a word which frightens me—"Immoral! Immoral!" you say.

Madam, this word shows me that you are strangely mistaken about my pure intentions. You are a woman of considerable intelligence; let us understand each other like philosophers or moralists. Suppose my name to be Hassan. You would read without the least ruffle on your brow the very simple narrative of my pretended amours, and if they were hindered by any untoward obstacles, you would perhaps accord them a small tribute of tears, such as you have doubtless shed over the misfortunes of poor Namouna. The question of morality therefore, is in this case simply a question of latitude, and the impropriety of my situation would disappear at once if I inhabited the banks of the Bosphorus, or some palace at Bagdad.

Perhaps you take your stand upon the more elevated ground of "sentiment?" Well, this is precisely the pyschological point of view that I am about to discuss, madam. Yes, if it were only in order to inquire whether the human soul freed from all constraint, is capable of infinite expansion, like a liberated gas. To mix positive and materialist science with etherialised sensualism, such is my object. A simple passion, we all know what that is; but to adore four women at a time—while so many honest folk are well content to love one only—this seems to me a praiseworthy aspiration, fit to inspire the soul of a poet who prides himself upon his gallantry, no less than the brain of a philosopher in search of the vital elixir and the sources of sensation. Such a study would, assuredly, be arduous and severe, and would at any rate not be without glory, as you will admit, if it should happen to terminate logically in the triumph of the sublime Christian love over pagan or Mahometan polygamy.

Again, madam, in reprimanding me for my poor little harem, do you mean to preach against King David, or the seven hundred wives of Solomon? Without going back to the biblical legends of these venerable sovereigns, have you not read the classics? In what respect, may I ask, is the poem of Don Juan more moral than my subject? And did good old Lafontaine drop any of his artless probity, when he dipped his pen into the Boccaccian inkpot? The morality of a given book, madam, depends entirely upon the morality of its author, who respects himself first by respecting his public, and who will not lead the latter into bad company, not wishing to corrupt it with bad sentiments.

It gives me pleasure to draw the picture of those ideal amours which every warm-blooded youth of twenty has at one time or other cherished in his thoughts; to substitute virginal charms and graces for vice and harlotry—and after the manner of those charming heathen poets who have so often filled our dreams with their fancies, to mingle the anacreontic with the idyllic. Open any of your moral stories, madam, and I'll wager my harem you will find that the interest in them is always kept up by adultery, in thought or in deed, which has been erected into a social institution! The same Minotaur has served for us since the time of Menelaus. Adultery, adultery, always adultery! it is as inevitable as it is monotonous!

Do you prefer the novel of the day, on the lives and habits of courtesans? revelations of the boudoir, where all is impure, venal, and degrading? No, madam, I won't proceed any farther, out of respect alike for you and for my pen.

Possibly your taste inclines you to those moralist's studies of "Woman," in which the author warns his readers on the first page that "he does not speak for chaste ears." Madam, it is my boast that I have never written a line which a virtuous woman might not read. … My book will certainly lose thereby in the circulation which it will obtain; but I shall console myself by the thought that if I sometimes cause you to smile, that smile will never be accompanied by a blush. Being the nephew of a Pasha, it struck me as a capital idea to lay the scene of a Turkish romance in Provence, and to found upon it a study in psychology. Every romance must be based upon love. Am I to be blamed, therefore, because oriental customs prescribe for lovers different modes of love? Confess, if you please, that my heroines are more poetic than the young women à la mode, into whose company I had as much right as any other author to conduct my hero if I had so chosen. I will excuse myself by saying, like the simpleton De Chamfort, "Is it my fault if I love the women I do love better than those I don't?"

P.S. Above all things, not a word to Louis about the mystification of which I am making him a victim.

You wretch! Here's a fine pickle you've got me into! What, after I confided to you the extraordinary adventures which I have passed through, relying upon your absolute secrecy and discretion, you go straight off and read my letter to your wife, at the risk of bringing upon me by your recklessness the most cruel gibes on the subject of my pasha-ship! Can't you see that if this story gets wind, Paris will be too hot a place for me? I shall become the butt of the Society journals and the halfpenny press, who will treat me as a most eccentric and romantic personage. Never more shall I be able to set foot in club, theatre, or private drawing-room, without being followed by the stares of the inquisitive and the quiet chaff of the ribald! I can picture myself already in the Bois, with all the loafers in my train pointing out "the man with the harem." Have you lost your senses, that you have betrayed me in this abominable fashion?

In all seriousness I now rely upon you to repair this blunder, by accepting, in the eyes of your wife, the part of one mystified, which I have made you assume. I wrote to her that not one word of this story is true, and that it is a romance I have been composing in order to occupy the leisure hours which I am forced to pass in the solitude of Férouzat, while the business connected with my inheritance is being wound up. In short, as I am positive that the first thing she will do will be to show you her letter, I expect you, if your friendship is good for anything, to pretend to believe it. Upon this condition only will I continue my confidences; and I suspend them until you have given me your word of honour to observe discretion.

Having received your promise, Louis, I now resume my narrative at the point where I broke off. Now you will see what you might have lost.

Just one word by way of preface.

I am relating to you, my dear friend, a story which is more especially remarkable for the multitude of unaccustomed sensations with which it abounds, and which I experience at every step—for my amourous adventures, as you will agree, bear no resemblance to the ready-made class of amours. It would really have been a great loss for the future of psychology, if the hero of such adventures had not happened to be, as I am, a philosopher capable of bringing to bear upon them powers of correct analysis.

First of all, if you wish really to understand the peculiarities of my situation, you must banish from your mind all that you have ever known of such amours as come within the reach of the poor Lovelaces of our everyday world. Those uncertain, ephemeral connections of lovers and mistresses whose only law is their caprice, and which mere caprice can dissolve; those immoral and dubious ties whose permanence nothing can guarantee, and in which one jostles one's rival of yesterday and of the morrow—in all amours of this sort there is something precarious and humiliating. With our habits and customs no secret, no mystery, is possible; for however loving or beloved a woman may be, her beauty is exposed to every eye. It is like the enjoyment of communal property. In my harem, on the contrary, the charms of Zouhra, Nazli, and Kondjé-Gul, concealed from all other eyes, have never excited any passions but mine; my tranquil possession is undisturbed by the anxious jealousies which recollections of a former rival always awaken. Nor is the future less assured than the present, for their lives are my property; they are my slaves, and I their master, in charge of their souls. So much for my preface; now I will proceed.

I will not disparage your powers of memory by reminding you that my interesting narrative was broken off au premier lendemain—at the first glimmer of our honeymoon. The complete bliss, the enchantment of such moments, is certainly the most exquisite thing I have experienced. First the timid blushes, then the growing boldness and the fresh impression of first sensations—all this and more, mingled with the contentment of entire possession. One gives oneself up entirely; all barriers are broken down by love—participation in one tender secret has already united the lovers' souls, which seek each other and mingle together in a common existence.

I had returned to the château before my people were up; after a bath I slept again, and did not wake before noon. I breakfasted, and then waited till two o'clock before returning to El-Nouzha. Too great a haste would have seemed to indicate a want of delicacy, and I wished to show that I was discreet as well as passionate; this time of day seemed appropriate from both points of view.

To describe to you the condition of my feelings would be about as easy, you may imagine, as to describe a display of fireworks. There are certain perturbations of the heart which defy analysis. The enchantment which held me spell-bound, intoxicated my mind like fumes of haschisch, and I could hardly recognise myself in this fairy-world character; it required an effort on my part to assure myself of my own identity, and that I was not misled by a dream. No, it was myself sure enough! Then I remembered that I was going to see them again. My darlings were waiting for me. No doubt they had already exchanged confidences. What kind of reception should I have? My duties as Sultan were so new to me that I trembled lest I should commit some mistake which would lower me in their eyes; I was walking blindfold in this paradise of Mahomet, of whose laws I was ignorant. Ought I to maintain the dignified bearing of a vizir, or abandon myself to the tender attitudes of a lover? In my perplexities I was almost tempted to send for Mohammed-Azis, to request of him a few lessons in deportment as practised by the Perfect Pasha of the Bosphorus; but perhaps he would disturb my happiness? As to introducing a hierarchy into my harem, I would not hear of such a thing; for to tell the truth, the choice of a favourite would be an impossibility for me. I loved them all four with an equal devotion, and could not even bear the thought of their being reduced to three without feeling the misery of an unsatisfied love.

At last the hour having arrived without my mind being decided, I wisely determined to act as circumstances might dictate, and started off in the direction of my harem. I think I have already told you that a small door of which I alone possess the key, communicates between my park and El-Nouzha. From this door a sort of labyrinth leads to the Kasre by a single narrow alley, which one might take for a disused path. When I reached the last turn in this alley which terminates in the open gardens, I perceived under the verandah Mohammed-Azis, who seemed to be watching me—he ran towards me with an eager and delighted appearance, and salem aleks without end.

By his first words I gathered that he knew all.

When I asked after them, he told me that I was expected; then all at once I heard merry voices, followed by the noise of hurrying footsteps mingled with rustlings of silk dresses. Soon I saw coming out under the verandah, struggling together to be the first to reach me, Hadidjé, Nazli, Kondjé-Gul and Zouhra; they threw themselves into my arms all four at once, laughing like children, hugging me, and holding up their rosy lips, each vying with the other for my first kiss. What laughter, what merry, bird-like warbling of voices! And all this with the natural abandonment of youth and simplicity—I was about to say innocence—so much so that I was quite taken aback. But all of a sudden, at a word from Mohammed, who was looking at us affectionately, and more and more delighted every minute, they stopped quite confused. He had, no doubt, reprimanded them for some breach of decorum, for they, slipping gently aside, held their hands up to their foreheads. You may guess I soon cut short these respectful formalities, by drawing them back into my arms. … Whereupon renewed laughter and merriment ensued, accompanied with little glances of triumph at poor Mohammed, who assumed a scandalised expression, lifting up his hands as if to make Heaven a witness that he was not responsible for this neglect of all Oriental etiquette! After this scene, you will easily understand that I did not trouble my head any more about the difficulties which I had anticipated in my family duties. I had apprehended a very delicate situation, aggravated by growing jealousies; by the susceptibilities of rivals, offended airs, perhaps even the reproaches and tears of betrayed love.

Five minutes later we were running about the gardens. Having only arrived two days before, they had not yet been outside the harem. The sight of their domain pleased them immensely, and their young voices prattled away with a musical volubility fit to gladden the hearts of the very birds. At each step they made some new discovery, some bed of flowers, or some shady path at the bottom of which the sound of a waterfall could be heard, carried off by sparkling brooks running on beds of moss over the whole length of the park until they lost themselves in the lake; over these brooks were placed at intervals little foot-bridges painted in bright colours. All these things gave rise to questions. Naturally Kondjé-Gul was always the interpreter; they all listened, opening their eyes wide; then they started off again, plucking flowers from the bushes, which they placed in their hair, in their bosoms, and round their necks. In order to attract my admiration for these adornments, each of them kept running up to me as if she wanted a kiss.

If you want to know the thoughts and feelings of a mortal under these circumstances, I must confess that it is quite beyond my power to explain them to you. I was bewildered, captivated, and surprised by such novel sensations that without reflection or conscious analysis, I simply abandoned myself to them. If you wish to understand them, my dear fellow, you must first acquire some æsthetic notions which, artist though you are, you do not yet possess; you must familiarise yourself with these entirely exotic charms of the daughters of the East, their youthful simplicity and ease combined with a certain voluptuous nonchalance, the undulating movements of their hips acquired by the habit of moving about in Oriental slippers, their lissom and feline graces, and the overwhelming fascination of their languishing eyes. You must see them in these strange picturesque costumes, so artistically revealing their graceful forms, in wide silk trousers, tied round at the ankles, and drawn in at the waist by a rich scarf of golden gauze: you must see them in their jackets embroidered with pearls, and open bodices of Broussan silk transparent as gauze; or in the long robe open in front, the train of which they hold up by fastening it to the waist when they want to walk about freely—all these things in soft well-toned colours, blending wonderfully together. It was a dazzling scene of fresh beauty and strange enchantment, such as I cannot attempt to describe.

Once we arrived at the end of a ravine, where we were obliged to cross the brook by stepping-stones set in its bed. Thereupon they cried out with fright. I prevailed upon Zouhra, who seemed to be the bravest, to cross holding my hand. Hadidjé followed her; but when it came to Nazli's turn, the timid creature hung to my neck as if terrified by some great danger; so I took her up in my arms and carried her across to the opposite side. Kondjé-Gul, like a coquette that she is, followed her example.

"Oh! carry me too," she cried.

As I was holding her over the brook, one of her slippers fell into the water. You may guess how they laughed; there was Kondjé-Gul hopping about on one foot while I was fishing out the little sandal, which I had to dry in order to avoid wetting her soft green-silk stocking.