Spirite: and Coffee Pot (Dedalus European Classics) Read online

  The clock struck eleven. The vibration of the last chime resounded for a long time and when it had completely died away…

  No, I dare not say what happened. No one would believe me; people would think I was mad.

  The candles lit themselves; unaided by any visible force, the bellows began to fan the fire, rattling like an asthmatic old man; the tongs poked about in the embers and the shovel gathered up the cinders. Then a coffee pot threw itself down from a table on which it had been standing and hobbled over to the hearth, where it settled itself amongst the embers. A few moments later the armchairs set off and with their cork-screw feet flitting around in an astonishing way they came and gathered around the fireplace.

  II

  I did not know what to think of what I was seeing; but much more extraordinary things were yet to happen.

  One of the portraits, the oldest of the lot, was of a big round-faced man with a grey beard, who looked just as I had imagined Sir John Falstaff to look. Grimacing, this man’s head freed itself from its frame. Then with a great deal of effort he squeezed his shoulders and pot-belly between the narrow strips of the border before jumping heavily on to the floor.

  He had no sooner caught his breath than he pulled a peculiarly small key from his waistcoat pocket, blew on it to make sure the bit was cleanly cut and then unlocked each of the frames one after another. Whereupon all the frames expanded to let out the pictures they contained.

  Chubby little priests, dry sallow dowagers, serious-looking magistrates shrouded in great black robes, dandies in silk stockings and dark woollen breeches, holding the points of their swords up high: all these characters created such a strange spectacle that despite my fear, I could not help laughing. And these worthy characters seated themselves; and the coffee pot jumped lightly up on to the table. They drank their coffee from blue and white Japanese cups, which came running along spontaneously from on top of a writing desk, each one accompanied by a lump of sugar and a small silver spoon.

  When the coffee was finished, coffee pot, cups and spoons all disappeared together and a conversation started up that was certainly the most curious I have ever witnessed: none of these strange characters looked at one another as they conversed but instead kept staring at the clock. I too was unable to take my eyes off it or stop following the hands as they marched imperceptibly on to midnight.

  Finally midnight struck and a voice with exactly the same tone as the clock could be heard saying:

  ‘The time has come; you must dance.’

  The company rose. The chairs moved back of their own accord and each knight took a lady by the hand. Then the same voice said:

  ‘Members of the orchestra, let the music commence!’

  I have omitted to mention that one half of the tapestry portrayed an Italian orchestra and the other half, a stag hunt with some whips blowing hunting horns. The whips and the musicians, who had not moved a muscle until now, inclined their heads as a sign of mutual understanding.

  The maestro raised his baton and a lively, dancing melody started up on either side of the room. The first dance was a minuet. But the quick notes of the score the musicians were playing clashed with the sober bows and curtsies of the dance, so after a few minutes all the couples began to pirouette like German spinning tops. The women’s silk dresses, ruffled by this dancing whirlwind, made peculiar sounds just like the flapping wings of a flock of pigeons. And the wind surging beneath the dresses puffed them out prodigously, making them look like swinging bells.

  The virtuosos’ bows moved so fast on the strings that electric sparks flew. The flautists’ fingers rose and fell like quicksilver; the hornblowers’ cheeks were inflated like balloons. And all this created such a hurried deluge of notes and trills, such an incredible torrent of ascending and descending scales that all hell would not have been able to keep up such a speed for even two minutes.

  It was pitiful too to see the efforts of those dancers, as they tried to keep pace. They jumped, cavorted, twirled and bounded and leapt three feet into the air; so energetic were they that the sweat ran down their brows and into their eyes and washed off their beauty spots and their make-up. Try as they might, however, the orchestra was always three or four notes ahead of them.

  The clock struck one. They stopped. And I saw something which had escaped my notice: a woman who had not been dancing.

  She was sitting in a Queen Anne armchair in a corner by the fireplace and seemed to be totally isolated from what was going on around her.

  Never, even in my dreams, have my eyes been presented with anything so perfect: her skin was a dazzling white, her hair was ash blond; she had long eyelashes and blue eyes, so clear and transparent that I could see through to her soul as distinctly as one might see a pebble on the bed of a stream. And I felt that if ever I should love anyone, it would be her. I leapt out of bed, where I had been rooted until now and I moved towards her, unconsciously driven by something controlling me from within. Then I found myself at her knees, with one of her hands in mine, chatting away as though I had known her for twenty years.

  But as I was talking to her, my head was rocking in time to the continuing music, in a strange and wonderful way; and although I was overjoyed to be in conversation with such a beautiful person, my feet were burning to dance with her.

  However, I did not dare ask her. She seemed to understand what I wanted for she raised the hand I was not holding towards the clock face and said:

  ‘When the hand gets to there we shall see, my dear Théodore.’

  I do not know how she knew my name but I was not in the least surprised to hear her call me by it, and we continued our chat. Finally, when the clock struck the time she had said, the voice with the silvery tone resonated again throughout the room, with the words:

  ‘Angéla, you can dance with the gentleman if it will make you happy, but you know what will happen.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Angéla replied sulkily, and passed her ivory arm around my neck.

  ‘Prestissimo,’ cried the voice. And we began to waltz. The girl’s breast was against my chest, her velvet cheek brushed my own and her sweet breath hung on my lips.

  Never in my life have I experienced an emotion like it: my nerves were on tenterhooks, blood was flowing through my arteries like torrents of lava and I could hear my heart beat as though it were strapped to my ears. Not that it was an unpleasant state to be in. I was flooded with a feeling of ineffable joy and I wanted it to stay that way for ever. The orchestra was playing at triple speed now but remarkably we did not need to make any effort to keep pace.

  Everyone present, amazed by our agility, was shouting bravo and clapping with all their might, though their hands made no sound.

  Until now Angéla had waltzed with astonishing energy and precision but suddenly she seemed to tire; she leant on my shoulder as though she had no legs of her own; her tiny feet which had been skimming over the floor just moments earlier, could now only drag themselves from its surface, as if they were weighed down with lead.

  ‘Angéla,’ I said to her, ‘you’re weary. Let’s rest.’

  ‘I’d like to,’ she replied, wiping her brow with her handkerchief, ‘but while we’ve been waltzing everyone else has sat down: there’s only one chair left and there are two of us.’

  ‘What does that matter, my beautiful angel? You can sit on my knee.’

  III

  Without the slightest objection, Angéla sat down, wrapping her arms around me like a white scarf and burying her head in my breast to warm herself a little: she had gone as cold as marble.

  I do not know how long we stayed in this position because all my senses were absorbed in the contemplation of this mysterious and fantastic creature. I no longer had any concept of time or space; the real world no longer existed for me and all links with it were broken; my soul was released from its prison of mud to float in ethereal infinity. I understood what no mortal can understand: Angéla did not have to say a word for her thoughts to be clear to me; her soul shone inside her body like an alabaster lamp and the rays emitted from her heart passed right through my own.

  The lark sang. A pale light played on the curtains. And as soon as Angéla saw this, she got hurriedly to her feet and gestured farewell to me. After a few steps she cried out and fell headlong. Seized with fright, I rushed over to help her to her feet… My blood runs cold just thinking about it. All I found was the coffee pot shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Seeing this, and being convinced that I had been the plaything of some diabolical illusion, I was overcome by such a sense of fear that I fainted.

  IV

  When I regained consciousness, I was in my bed with Arrigo Cohic and Pedrino Borgnioli at my side.

  As soon as I had opened my eyes, Arrigo cried out:

  ‘And about time too. I’ve been rubbing your temples with eau-de-Cologne for nearly an hour. What the devil were you doing last night? I noticed that you hadn’t come down this morning so I came into your room and there you were, stretched right out on the floor, wearing some old-fashioned French clothes and clutching a piece of broken porcelain in your arms as though it were some pretty girl.’

  ‘Good Lord, it’s my grandfather’s wedding suit,’ said my other friend, lifting up one of the pink silk coat tails, with its green leaf patterning. ‘And there are the paste buttons with their tracery decoration which he told us so much about. Théodore must have found it all tucked away in a corner and put it on for the fun of it. What was it that made you faint, though?’ Borgnioli added. ‘Fainting is fine when it happens to a white-shouldered little wench: you unlace her bodice, take off her necklaces and her scarf and it’s a wonderful opportunity to start seducing her.’

  ‘I was just overcome by weakness: I’m prone to that sort of thing,’ I
replied dryly.

  I stood up and got rid of my ridiculous outfit. And then we had lunch. My friends ate a lot and drank even more. I, however, ate almost nothing, being strangely preoccupied with the memory of what had happened.

  When lunch was over, we could not go out because of the heavy rain, so we occupied ourselves as best we could. Borgnioli drummed his fingers in warlike marches on the window panes and Arrigo and our host played draughts. I, meanwhile, took a square of vellum from my pad and began to draw.

  Though I would never have dreamt it, the almost imperceptible outlines traced by my pencil actually represented, with the most amazing accuracy, the coffee pot which had played such an important role in the scenes of the night.

  ‘It’s astonishing how much that head looks like my sister Angéla,’ said our host, who, having finished his game, was watching over my shoulder as I worked.

  And in fact what had seemed to me a moment earlier to be a coffee pot, was really and truly Angéla’s sweet and melancholic profile.

  ‘In heaven’s name, is she dead or alive?’ I cried out, my voice trembling as though my life depended on his reply.

  ‘She died two years ago after catching pneumonia at a ball.’

  ‘God, no!’ I replied in anguish.

  Holding back a tear which was on the verge of falling, I replaced the sheet of paper in the pad.

  I realised then that there was no happiness left for me on earth.

  SPIRITE

  CHAPTER 1

  Guy de Malivert was stretched out, virtually sitting on his shoulders, in a superb armchair near his hearth, where a good fire was burning. He seemed to have settled down for a quiet evening at home; one of those evenings which become both a delight and a necessity for today’s fashionable young people who from time to time find themselves exhausted by society’s pleasures. He wore a black velvet jacket embellished with black silk patches, a cotton shirt, trousers with red flannel bottoms and big Moroccan slippers in which his arched feet twitched: his outfit was comfortable but elegant. His body felt free of all constricting pressure and at ease in this soft and supple clothing. Guy de Malivert had stayed at home to enjoy a meal of studied simplicity, enlivened by two or three glasses of excellent Bordeaux that had been to India and back, and now he was experiencing the kind of physical bliss which comes about when the various parts of the body are in perfect accord. He was happy without anything wonderful having happened to him.

  Near him, a lamp, fitted inside a cornet-shape of old crackled celadon, cast a milky glow from its frosted glass cover that was like moonbeams seen through a mist. The light fell on to a copy of Longfellow’s Evangeline, which Guy was holding loosely in one hand.

  Guy no doubt admired the work of the greatest poet that the young land of America has ever produced, but his soul was in that lazy state when an absence of thought is preferable to the most beautiful idea, however sublime the terms in which it may be expressed. He had read several lines when, without releasing the book, he had leant his head on the soft guipure-covered padding of the chair and begun quite contentedly letting his mind empty itself of thought. The warm air of the room enveloped him in its sweet caress. Around him all was tranquillity, well-being, discreet silence and intimate quiet. The only perceptible sound was the whistle of a jet of gas coming from a log and the tick-tock of the clock as the pendulum recorded the passing of time in a hushed voice.

  It was winter. The freshly fallen snow dulled the distant drone of carriages, which were quite rare in this deserted neighbourhood, as Guy lived in one of the least busy streets of the district of Saint-Germain. Ten o’clock had just struck and our lazy hero was congratulating himself on not being at some embassy ball or other, standing in a window recess, wearing a black suit and a white tie, and having nothing else to look at but the boney shoulder-blades of an old dowager in a ridiculously low-cut dress. Although the prevailing temperature in the room was reminiscent of a greenhouse, the ardour of the burning fire and the profound silence of the streets were enough to make one realise it was cold outside. The magnificent angora cat, Malivert’s companion on this idle evening, had moved closer to the hearth to tan its white fur and it was only the gilt fire-guard which prevented it actually lying amongst the embers.

  The room in which Guy de Malivert was sampling these peaceful delights was midway between the study and the studio. It was a vast high-ceilinged room on the top floor of the house in which Guy lived; it ran from front to back, overlooking on one side a great courtyard, and on the other a garden planted with the kind of age-old trees that are worthy of a royal forest, the type of garden which only the suburban aristocracy possess nowadays: it takes time to produce a tree and today’s nouveau riche are unable to use trees to shade their mansions because they build them in such a hurry and with a fortune that is threatened by bankruptcy.

  The walls were covered with beige leather and the ceiling was made up of intersecting beams of mature oak, framing coffers of Norwegian pine, whose natural colour had been left unstained. The sober brown tones of the decor enhanced the effect of the paintings, sketches and watercolours which hung on the walls of this makeshift gallery where Malivert had gathered his collection of artistic curiosities and fantasies. Oak bookcases, not so tall as to spoil the pictures, gave the impression of a sort of lower storey around the room, interrupted by just one door. The books displayed on these shelves would have surprised the observer, so varied was their subject matter. In fact, one might easily have assumed this room to be the shared library of an artist and a scholar. Alongside the classical poets of every age and every country – Homer, Hesiod, Virgil, Dante, Ariosto, Ronsard, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, Schiller, Lord Byron, Victor Hugo, Sainte-Beuve, Alfred de Musset and Edgar Allan Poe – there resided Creuzer’s Symbolik, Laplace’s Mécanique Céleste, Arago’s Astronomie, Burdach’s Physiologie and Humboldt’s Kosmos, as well as the works of Claude Bernard and Berthelot and other studies of the pure sciences. Yet Guy de Malivert was not an academic. He had barely learnt what one is taught at school but, after educating himself in literature, he had thought it shameful to know nothing of the fine scientific discoveries which glorified his own century. He had done his best to keep abreast of things and felt quite at home listening to someone talk about astronomy, cosmogony, electricity, gases, photography, chemistry, micrography, or spontaneous generation: he understood what was being said and would sometimes astonish his company by making an ingenious and original remark himself.

  This was Guy de Malivert at 28 or 29 years of age. His full-lipped mouth, shaded by a moustache of reddish gold, suggested a kind heart; his nose, although not of the classical Greek variety, was certainly not lacking in nobility; it separated two stern brown eyes. His hair, thinning a little on the top of his head, gave him a frank, open and pleasant expression; it was a warm shade of brown and such a mass of tiny kinks and curls that it had always resisted the barber’s hair iron. Basically, Malivert was what people call a good-looking chap, and when he entered society, he met with considerable success without actively seeking it out. Mothers with daughters to marry off fussed over him, for he had an income of 40,000 francs a year from the land he owned, and a doddering, multi-millionaire for an uncle, from whom he would inherit. An admirable position indeed! Yet Guy had not married. When a young lady performed a sonata before him, he would just nod his approval. At a ball, he would accompany his partner politely back to her seat after the contra-dance, but during the breaks between dances his conversation was restricted to such phrases as, ‘It really is warm in this room’ an aphorism from which it is impossible to deduce the slightest matrimonial intention. Not that Guy de Malivert lacked wit; he could easily have found something less banal to say if he had not been worried about getting caught up in the kind of web woven of a thread more subtle than a spider’s web; the kind of web that surrounds every nubile virgin of the world with a small dowry.

  Whenever he realised that he was abnormally welcome in a home, he stopped going there; or he went away on a journey and when he came back he had the satisfaction of seeing himself totally forgotten. You might think that Guy, like many young people today, indulged in brief morganatic relationships with the demi-monde which made actual marriage unnecessary. That, however, was far from true. While he avoided being more austere than befitted his years, Malivert was not drawn to these beauties who plaster themselves with make-up, have hairstyles like poodles and puff out their frocks with excessive crinoline underskirts. That was just not his style. Like everyone else, he had had his fair share of good fortune. Two or three frustrated women, who had more or less separated from their husbands, had declared him their ideal, to which he had replied, ‘You are very kind’, not daring to tell them that they were far from being his ideal: Malivert was a well brought-up fellow, after all. An unsuccessful actress from the Délassements-Comiques, to whom he had given money and a velvet cape, had claimed he had betrayed her and had tried to suffocate herself because of it; but despite these wonderful adventures, Guy de Malivert was true to himself and realised that having reached the solemn age of 29, when a youth is on the verge of becoming a young man, he still knew nothing of love, as it is portrayed in the poems, plays and novels he read or even as it was described to him by friends who confided in him or others who boasted to him. He consoled himself quite easily in his misfortune, by imagining the worries, the troubles and the disaster to which this passion could lead; he awaited the day with patience, when some decisive object of desire would appear by chance and make him settle down.