Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

defects instead of humanities of his fellow-creatures, and made the individual answer for the whole mass.

THE SCENE represents a Sculptor's work-shop, in which are several blocks of marble, sculptured groups, and sketches of statues. In the midst of these is another statue, concealed under a drapery of a light and shining stuff, ornamented with fringes and garlands.

Pygmalion is sitting, supporting his head with his hand, in the attitude of a man who is uneasy and melancholy. On a sudden he rises ; and taking one of his tools from a table, gives some strokes of the chisel to several of the sketches; then turns from them, and looks about him with an air of discontent.

Pygmalion. There is neither life nor soul in it; it is but a mere stone. I shall never do any thing with all this.

Oh, my genius, where art thou?

What is become of thee? All my fire is extinguished, my imagination is frozen; the marble comes cold from my hands.

Make no more gods, Pygmalion: you are but a common artistYe vile instruments, no longer instruments of my glory, ye shall dishonour my hands no more.

(He throws away his tools with disdain, and walks about with his arms crossed, as in meditation.)

What am I become? What strange revolution has taken place in me?-Tyre, proud and opulent city, your illustrious monuments of art, no longer attract me. I have lost my taste for them. All inter course with artists and philosophers has become insipid to me: the society of painters and poets, has no attraction for me; praise and renown have ceased to elevate me; the approbation of posterity has no Interest for me; even friendship has to me lost all her charms.

And you, young masterpieces of nature, whom my art has presumed to imitate, you, in whose train the pleasures ever led me, you, my charming models, who consumed me at once with the flames of love and genius, since I have surpassed you, you are all become indif ferent to me..

(He seats himself, and contemplates the figures around him.)

Detained in this room by an inconceivable charm, I know not what to do here, and yet I cannot leave it. I wander from group to group, from figure to figure, my weak and uncertain chisel no longer acknow ledging it's master. These rude sketches are left untouched by the hand which should have given them life and beauty→→→

(He rises impetuously.)

It is over, it is over: I have lost my genius! So young and yet I have survived it!

[ocr errors]

1

And what then is this internal ardour which consumes me? What is this fire which devours me? Why in the languor of extinguished genius, should I feel these emotions, these bursts of impetuous passion, this insurmountable restlessness, this secret agitation which torments me? I know not: I fear the admiration of my own work has been the cause of this distraction: I have concealed it under this veil my pro fane hands have ventured to cover this monument of their glory. Since I have ceased to behold it, I have become more melancholy and absent.

How dear, how precious, this immortal work will be to me! If my exhausted mind. shall never more produce any thing grand, beautiful, worthy of me, I will point to my Galatea, and say, "There is my work." Oh my Galatea! when I shall have lost all else, do thou alone remain to me, and I shall be consoled,

(He approaches the veiled statue; draws back; goes, comes; stops sometimes to look at it, and sighs.)

But why conceal it? What do I gain by that? Reduced to idleness, why refuse myself the pleasure of contemplating the finest of my works? -Perhaps there may yet be some defect which I have not perceived; perhaps I might yet add some ornament to the drapery : no imaginable grace should be wanting to so charming an object. Per haps the contemplation of this figure may re-animate my languishing imagination. I must see her again; I must examine my work. What do I say? Yes; I have never yet examined it; hitherto I have only admired her.

(He goes to raise the veil, and lets it fall, as if alarmed.)

I know not what emotion seizes me when I touch this veil : I feel a tremor, as though I were touching the sanctuary of some divinity. Pygmalion, it is but a stone; it is thine own work-What can it mean? In our temples, they serve gods made of the same material, and formed by the same hand as this.

(He raises the veil trembling, and prostrates himself before the statue of Galatea, which is seen placed on a pedestal, raised by semicircular steps of marble.)

Oh, Galatea! receive my homage. I have deceived myself; I thought to make you a nymph, and I have made you a goddess. Even Venus herself is less beautiful.

[ocr errors]

O vanity, human weakness! I am never weary of admiring my own work; I am intoxicated with self-love; I adore myself in that which I have made- No, never was there any thing in nature so beautiful; I have surpassed the work of the GodsWhat! so many beauties formed by my hands; my hands then have touched them; my mouth has I see a defect. This drapery too much conceals it. I must slope it away more; the charms which it shades should be more displayed.

(He takes his mallet and chisel, and, advancing slowly, begins with much hesitation to ascend the steps towards the statue, which it seems he dares not touch. He raises the chisel, he stops.)

What is this trouble-this trembling? I hold the chisel with a feeble hand-I cannot-I dare not-I shall spoil every thing.

(He endeavours to conquer his trouble, and at last raising the chisel again, makes one stroke and lets it fall, with a loud cry.)

Gods! I feel the quivering flesh repel the chisel!

(He descends, trembling and confused.)

-Vain terror, blind folly !-No-I will not touch her-the Gods affright me. Doubtless she is already deified.

(He contemplates her again.)

What would you change, Pygmalion? Look! what new charms can you give her? Alas! her only fault is her perfection.-Divine Galatea! less perfect, nothing would be wanting to thee.

[ocr errors]

(Tenderly.)

Yet a soul is wanting. That figure should not be without a soul. (With still encreasing tenderness.)

How fine should be the soul to animate that body!

(He stops a long time: then returns to his seat, and speaks with a slow and changed voice.)

What desires have I dared to form? What senseless wishes! What is this I feel-Oh heaven! the illusion vanishes, and I dare not look into my heart. I should have too much to reproach myself with. (He pauses a long time, in profound melancholy.) This then is the noble passion which distracts me! 'It is on account of this inanimate figure, that I dare not go out of this spot!— A figure of marble!A stone! A hard and unformed mass, until worked with this iron-Madman, recover thyself, see thine error, groan for thy folly- But no

(Impetuously.)

No, I have not lost my reason; no, I am not wandering; I reproach myself with nothing. It is not of this marble that I am enamoured; it is of a living being whom it resembles; the figure which it presents to my eyes. Wherever this adorable form may be, whatever body may bear it, whatever hand may have made it, she will have all the vows of my heart. Yes, my only folly is in the power of, discerning beauty; my only crime is being sensible to it. There is nothing in this I ought to blush for.

(Less lively, but always with passion.)

[ocr errors]

What arrows of fire seem to issue from this object to burn my senses, and to carry away my soul unto their source! Alas! she remains immoveable and cold, while my heart, consumed by her charms, longs to quit my own body to give warmth to her's. I imagine in my delirium that I could spring from myself, that I could give to her my life, that I could animate her with my soul. Ah, let Pygmalion die, to live in Galatea!-What do I say, O heaven? If I were she, I should no longer see her; I should not be he that loves her! No, let my Galatea live; but let not me become Galatea. Oh! let me always be another, always wish her to be herself, to love her, to be beloved (Transported.)

Torments, vows, desires, impotent rage, terrible, fatal love-Oh! all hell is in my agitated heart-Powerful, beneficent Gods!-Gods of the people, who know the passions of men, ah, how many miracles have you done for small causes! Behold this object, look into my heart, be just, and deserve your altars!

(With a more pathetic enthusiasm.)

And thou, sublime essence, who concealing thyself from the senses, art felt in the heart of men, soul of the universe, principle of all existence, thou who by love givest harmony to the elements, life to matter, feeling to bodies, and form to all beings; sacred fire, celestial Venus, by whom every thing is preserved, and unceasingly re-produced! Ah, where is thy equalizing justice? Where is thy expansive power ? Where is the law of nature in the sentiment I experience? Where is thy vivifying warmth in the inanity of my vain desires? All thy flames are concentrated in my heart, and the coldness of death remains upon

[ocr errors]

this marble; I perish by the excess of life which this figure wants. Alas! I expect no prodigy; already one exists, and ought to cease; order is disturbed, nature is outraged; restore to her laws their empire, re-establish her beneficent course, and equally shed thy divine influence. Yes, two beings are left out of the plenitude of things. Divide between them that devouring ardour which consumes the one without animating the other. It is thou who hast formed by my hand these charms, and these features, which want but life and feeling. Give to her the half of mine. Give all, if it be necessary. It shall suffice me to live in her. Oh thou! who deignest to smile upon the homage of mortals, this being who feels nothing, honours thee not. Extend thy glory with thy works. Goddess of beauty, spare this affront to nature, that a form so perfect should be an image of which there is no living model!

(He gradually re-approaches the statue with an air of confidence and joy.)

I resume my senses. What an unexpected calm! What unhoped courage re-animates me! A mortal fever burned my blood, a balm of confidence and hope flows in my veins, and I feel a new life. Thus the sense of our dependence sometimes becomes our consolation. However unhappy mortals may be, when they have invoked the Gods, they are more tranquilAnd yet this unjust confidence deceives those who form senseless wishes.Alas! in the condition I am in, we call upon every one, and no one hears us; the hope which deceives is more senseless than the desire.

1

Ashamed of so many follies, I dare no more to contemplate the cause of them. When I wish to raise my eyes towards this fatal object, I feel a new trouble, a sudden palpitation takes my breath, a secret tremor stops me→→→

(With bitter irony.)

Oh, look, poor soul! summon courage enough to dare behold a

statue.

(He sees it become animated, and turns away with alarm; his heart oppressed with grief.)

What have I seen? Gods! what have I imagined that I saw ? A colour on the flesh, a fire in the eyes, even movement -It was not enough to hope for a miracle; to complete my misery, at last I have

seen

(With expressive melancholy.)

Unhappy creature, all is over with thee-thy delirium is at it's heightthy reason as well as thy genius abandons thee. Regret it not, Pygmalion, for the loss will conceal thy shame.

(With indignation.)

The lover of a stone is too happy in becoming a visionary.

(He turns again, and sees the statue move and descend the steps in front of the pedestal. He falls on his knees, and raises his hands and eyes towards heaven.)

Immortal Gods! Venus, Galatea! Oh, illusion of a furious love! (Galatea touches herself, and says)-Me!

(Pygmalion transported)-Me!

(Galatea touching herself again)-It is myself.

[ocr errors]

(Pygmalion) Ravishing illusion, which even reaches my ears! Oh, never, never abandon me.

(Galatea moves towards another figure and touches it)-Not myself. (Pygmalion in an agitation, in transports which he can with difficulty restrain, follows all her movements, listens to her, observes her with a covetous attention, which scarely allows him to breathe. Galatea advances and looks at him; he rises hastily, extends his arms, and looks at her with delight. She lays her hand on his arm; he trembles, takes the hand, presses it to his heart, and covers it with ardent kisses.) (Galatea, with a sigh)-Ah! it is I again.

(Pygmalion)-Yes, dear and charming object-thou worthy masterpiece of my hands, of my heart, and of the Gods! It is thou, it is thou alone-I have given thee all my being-henceforth I will live but for thee.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY.

Among the pieces printed at the end of Chaucer's works, and attributed to him, is a translation, under this title, of a poem of the cele brated Alain Chartier, Secretary to Charles the Sixth and Seventh. It was the title which suggested to a friend the verses at the end of our present number. We wish Alain could have seen them. He would have found a Troubadour air for them, and sung them to La Belle Dame Agnes Sorel, who was however not Sans Mercy. The union of the imaginative and the real is very striking throughout, particularly in the dream. The wild gentleness of the rest of the thoughts and of the music are alike old; and they are also alike young; for love and imagination are always young, let them bring with them what times and accompaniments they may. If we take real flesh and blood with us, we may throw ourselves, on the facile wings of our sympathy, into what age we please. It is only by trying to feel, as well as to fancy, through the medium of a costume, that writers become mere fleshless masks and cloaks,-things like the trophies of the ancients, when they hung up the empty armour of an enemy. A hopeless lover would still feel these verses, in spite of the introduction of something unearthly. Indeed any lover, truly touched, or any body capable of being so, will feel them; because love itself resembles a visitation'; and the kindest looks, which bring with them an inevitable portion of happiness because they seem happy themselves, haunt us with a spell-like power, which makes us shudder to guess at the sufferings of those who can be fascinated by unkind ones.

People however need not be much alarmed at the thought of such sufferings now-a-days; not at least in some countries. Since the time when ladies, and cavaliers, and poets, and the lovers of nature, felt that humanity was a high and not a mean thing, love in general has become either a grossness or a formality. The modern systems of morals would ostensibly divide women into two classes, those who have no charity, and those who have no restraint; while men,

« ElőzőTovább »