El Ideal · I

And then, an ivory tower, a mystical flower, a star to woo... She passed by; I beheld her as one might behold a dawn: fleeing, swift, implacable.

She was an ancient statue endowed with a soul that peeped through her eyes—angelic eyes, all tenderness, all azure sky, all enigma.

She felt that I kissed her with my gaze and chastened me with the majesty of her beauty, regarding me like a queen and like a dove. Yet she swept past, ravishing, triumphant, like a dazzling vision. And I—the poor painter of Nature and of Psyche, fashioner of rhythms and of castles in the air—beheld the fairy’s luminous vesture, the star of her diadem, and pondered the longed-for promise of fair love. Yet of that supreme and fatal ray there lingered in the depths of my brain only a woman’s face, an azure dream.

THE DEATH OF THE EMPRESS OF CHINA

Delicate and slender as a human jewel, that girl of rosy flesh dwelt in the little house that had a miniature salon draped in fading blue tapestries. It was her jewel-case.

Who was the master of that delightful, merry bird of black eyes and red mouth? For whom did she sing her divine song, when Lady Spring displayed in the triumph of the sun her lovely smiling countenance, opened the wildflowers, and set the nestlings astir? Suzette was the name of that little bird whom a dreaming artist-hunter had placed in a cage of silk, plush, and lace, having captured her one May morning when there was lavish light in the air and many roses in bloom.

Recaredo—a father’s whim! He was not to blame for being named Recaredo!—had been married a year and a half. “Dost thou love me?” “I love thee. And thou?” “With all my soul.”

Golden and fair was the day, after the priest’s blessing. They had departed directly for the countryside, to rejoice freely in the joy of love. Yonder at their casements of green leaves, wild bluebells and violets that smelled sweet near the brooklet murmured as the two lovers passed: his arm about her waist, her arm about his waist, their red blossoming lips letting kisses escape. Thereafter came the return to the great city, to the nest filled with perfume, youth, and blissful warmth.

Did I mention already that Recaredo was a sculptor? Well, if I have not said so, know it now.

He was a sculptor. In the little house he kept his studio, stocked with a profusion of marbles, plasters, bronzes, and terracottas. At times passers-by heard through grilles and shutters a singing voice and a vibrant, metallic hammering: Suzette and Recaredo—the mouth pouring forth song and the stroke of the chisel.

Then the unceasing bridal idyll. On tiptoe, coming to where he worked, and showering the nape of his neck with hair, kissing him swiftly. Softly, very softly, stealing to where she slept upon her chaise-longue—her shod feet in black stockings, one crossed over the other, the open book upon her lap, half-asleep; and there the kiss fell upon the lips, a kiss that drinks the breath and makes her eyes open, ineffably luminous. And amidst all this, the bursts of laughter of the blackbird—a caged blackbird that whenever Suzette played Chopin grew sad and would not sing. The laughter of the blackbird! It was no small matter. “Dost thou care for me?” “Knowest thou not?” “Dost thou love me?” “I adore thee!” At once the little creature was pouring all its laughter from its beak. It would be taken from the cage, flutter about the bluish parlor, alight upon the head of a plaster Apollo, or upon the spear of an ancient warrior of dark bronze. Tiiiiiirit... rrrrrrtch fiii... Truly at times it was ill-mannered and insolent in its chattering! Yet it looked charming upon Suzette’s hand as she petted it, squeezed its beak between her teeth until it grew desperate, and chided it in a stern voice that trembled with fondness: “Mister Blackbird, you are a rogue!”

When the two lovers were together, they dressed each other’s hair. “Sing,” he would say. And she sang slowly; and though they were nought but poor enamored youths, they appeared to each other handsome, glorious, and royal: he looked upon her like an Elsa, and she looked upon him like a Lohengrin. For Love—oh youths filled with blood and dreams!—places a crystal azure before the eyes and bestows infinite joys.

How they loved each other! He contemplated her above the stars of God; his love traversed the whole gamut of passion, now restrained, now tempestuous in its affection, at times almost mystical. On occasion that artist might have been deemed a theosophist who beheld in the beloved woman something supreme and superhuman, like Rider Haggard’s Ayesha; he inhaled her like a flower, smiled upon her like a star, and felt proudly triumphant as he clasped to his breast that adorable head which, when pensive and still, was comparable to the hieratic profile of a Byzantine empress’s medallion.

Recaredo loved his art. He possessed the passion for form; from the marble he brought forth shapely naked goddesses with white, serene, pupil-less eyes; his studio was peopled by a silent nation of statues, metal beasts, terrifying gargoyles, griffins with long vegetal tails—Gothic creations inspired perhaps by occultism. And above all, his grand passion: japoneries and chinoiseries. In this Recaredo was an original. I know not what he would have given to speak Chinese or Japanese. He was acquainted with the finest albums; he had read good exoticists, adored Pierre Loti and Judith Gautier, and made sacrifices to acquire authentic wares from Yokohama, Nagasaki, Kyoto, Nanking, or Peking: knives, pipes, masks ugly and mysterious as faces in hypnotic dreams, dwarf mandarins with gourd-like bellies and circumflex eyes, monsters with wide, gaping batrachian jaws studded with teeth, and diminutive Tartar soldiers with grim visages.

“Oh,” Suzette would say to him, “I abhor thy sorcerer’s den, that terrible studio, that strange ark that robs thee from my caresses!” He would smile, quit his workplace, his shrine of rare knick-knacks, and hasten to the little blue salon to behold and fondle his graceful living jewel, and hear the merry, wild blackbird sing and laugh.

That morning, when he entered, he found his sweet Suzette drowsy and reclining near a bowl of roses supported by a tripod. Was she the Sleeping Beauty of the wood? Half-asleep, her delicate body outlined beneath a white robe, her chestnut tresses gathered in a loose coil upon one shoulder, her whole being exhaling a soft feminine fragrance, she was like a delightful figure from those charming tales that begin: “Once upon a time there was a king...”

He awakened her:

“Suzette! My beauty!”

His face was cheerful; his dark eyes shone beneath his red work-fez; he held a letter in his hand.

“A letter from Robert, Suzette. The scamp is in China! ‘Hong Kong, January 18th...’”

Suzette, somewhat drowsy, had sat up and taken the paper from him. So that wanderer had reached so far! ‘Hong Kong, January 18th...’ It was amusing. An excellent fellow, that Robert, with his mania for traveling! He would reach the end of the world. Robert, a great friend! They regarded him as one of the family. He had departed two years before for San Francisco, California. Had anyone ever seen such a madcap!

She began to read.

“Hong Kong, January 18, 1888.

“My good Recaredo:

“I came, I saw. I have not yet conquered.

“In San Francisco I learned of your marriage and rejoiced. I took a leap and landed in China. I have come as agent for a California firm importing silks, lacquers, ivories, and other oriental wares. Together with this letter you should receive a gift from me which, given your fondness for the things of this yellow country, will suit you to perfection. Lay me at the feet of Suzette, and keep the present in remembrance of your

“Robert.”

Neither more nor less. Both burst out laughing. The blackbird in its turn made the cage ring with an explosion of musical cries.

The crate had arrived—a crate of fair size, covered with customs seals, numbers, and black lettering that declared and signified that the contents were exceedingly fragile. When the crate was opened, the mystery appeared. It was a fine porcelain bust, an admirable bust of a smiling woman, pale and enchanting. On the pedestal were three inscriptions: one in Chinese characters, one in English, and one in French: The Empress of China. The Empress of China! What Asian artist’s hands had modeled those alluring, mysterious contours? It featured hair gathered and drawn tight, an enigmatic visage, downcast and strange eyes of a celestial princess, a sphinx-like smile, and a neck rising erect above columbine shoulders draped in a swathe of silk embroidered with dragons—all lending magic to the white porcelain, with waxy, immaculate, and candid tones. The Empress of China! Suzette passed her rosy fingers over the eyes of that graceful sovereign, slightly slanted, with their curved epicanthic folds beneath the pure and noble arches of her brows. She was delighted. And Recaredo felt pride in possessing his porcelain. He would fashion a special cabinet for her, so that she might dwell and reign alone, like the Venus de Milo in the Louvre, triumphant, imperially sheltered beneath the ceiling of her sacred precinct.

Thus he did. At one end of the studio he fashioned a tiny cabinet with screens painted with rice paddies and cranes. The yellow note predominated: the entire spectrum—gold, flame, oriental ochre, autumn leaf, down to the pale tint that dies merged into whiteness. In the center, upon a pedestal of black and gold, the exotic empress rose smiling. Around her Recaredo had arranged all his japoneries and Chinese curios. Over her spread a large Japanese parasol painted with camellias and broad, bloody roses. It was a laughing matter when the dreaming artist, laying aside pipe and chisels, would stand before the empress with hands crossed upon his breast to make his salaams. Once, twice, ten, twenty times he visited her. It was a passion. In a dish of Yokohama lacquer he placed fresh blossoms every day. At moments he experienced true raptures before the Asian bust that stirred him in its delightful, motionless majesty. He studied its minutest details: the conch of the ear, the bow of the lip, the polished nose, the fold of the eyelid. An idol, that famous empress! Suzette would call to him from afar: “Recaredo!”

“Coming!” And he remained contemplating his work of art. Until Suzette came to drag him away with caresses and kisses.

One day the flowers in the lacquer dish vanished as if by enchantment.

“Who has removed the flowers?” shouted the artist from his studio.

“I did,” replied a vibrant voice.

It was Suzette, parting a curtain, all flushed and with her dark eyes flashing.