Aubrey Beardsley (1894)
UNDER THE HILL
OR THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHÄUSER,
IN WHICH IS SET FORTH AN EXACT ACCOUNT
OF THE MANNER OF STATE HELD BY
MADAME VENUS, GODDESS AND MERETRIX,
UNDER THE FAMOUS HORSELBERG,
AND CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF
TANNHÄUSER IN THAT PLACE,
HIS JOURNEYING TO ROME,
AND RETURN TO THE LOVING MOUNTAIN,
BY
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
TO
THE MOST EMINENT AND REVERED PRINCE
GIULIO POLDO PEZZOLI
CARDINAL OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH
TITULAR BISHOP OF S. MARIA IN TRASTEVERE
ARCHBISHOP OF OSTIA AND VELLETRI
NUNCIO TO THE HOLY SEE
IN NICARAGUA AND PATAGONIA
A FATHER TO THE POOR
A REFORMER OF ECCLESIASTICAL DISCIPLINE
A PATTERN OF LEARNING
WISDOM AND HOLINESS OF LIFE
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH DUE REVERENCE
BY HIS HUMBLE SERVITOR
A SCRIVENER AND LIMNER OF WORDLY THINGS
WHO MADE THIS BOOK
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
MOST EMINENT PRINCE,
I KNOW NOT BY WHAT MISCHANCE THE WRITING OF EPISTLES DEDICATORY HAS FALLEN INTO DISUSE, WHETHER THROUGH THE VANITY OF AUTHORS OR THE HUMILITY OF PATRONS. BUT THE PRACTICE SEEMS TO ME SO VERY BEAUTIFUL AND BECOMING THAT I HAVE VENTURED TO MAKE AN ESSAY IN THE MODEST ART, AND LAY WITH FORMALITIES MY FIRST BOOK AT YOUR FEET. I HAVE, IT MUST BE CONFESSED, MANY FEARS LEST I SHALL BE ARRAIGNED OF PRESUMPTION IN CHOOSING SO EXALTED A NAME AS YOUR OWN TO PLACE AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY; BUT I HOPE THAT SUCH A CENSURE WILL NOT BE TOO LIGHTLY PASSED UPON ME, FOR IF I AM GUILTY IT IS BUT OF A MOST NATURAL PRIDE THAT THE ACCIDENTS OF MY LIFE SHOULD ALLOW ME TO SAIL THE LITTLE PINNACE OF MY WIT UNDER YOUR PROTECTION.
BUT THOUGH I CAN CLEAR MYSELF OF SUCH A CHARGE, I AM STILL MINDED TO USE THE TONGUE OF APOLOGY, FOR WITH WHAT FACE CAN I OFFER YOU A BOOK TREATING OF SO VAIN AND FANTASTICAL A THING AS LOVE? I KNOW THAT IN THE JUDGMENT OF MANY THE AMOROUS PASSION IS ACCOUNTED A SHAMEFUL THING AND RIDICULOUS; INDEED IT MUST BE CONFESSED THAT MORE BLUSHES HAVE RISEN FOR LOVE’S SAKE THAN FOR ANY OTHER CAUSE, AND THAT LOVERS ARE AN ETERNAL LAUGHING-STOCK. STILL, AS THE BOOK WILL BE FOUND TO CONTAIN MATTER OF DEEPER IMPORT THAN MERE VENERY, INASMUCH AS IT TREATS OF THE GREAT CONTRITION OF ITS CHIEFEST CHARACTER, AND OF CANONICAL THINGS IN CERTAIN PAGES, I AM NOT WITHOUT HOPES THAT YOUR EMINENCE WILL PARDON MY WRITING OF THE HILL OF VENUS, FOR WHICH EXTRAVAGANCE LET MY YOUTH EXCUSE ME.
THEN I MUST CRAVE YOUR FORGIVENESS FOR ADDRESSING YOU IN A LANGUAGE OTHER THAN THE ROMAN, BUT MY SMALL FREEDOM IN LATINITY FORBIDS ME TO WANDER BEYOND THE IDIOM OF MY VERNACULAR. I WOULD NOT FOR THE WORLD THAT YOUR DELICATE SOUTHERN EAR SHOULD BE OFFENDED BY A BARBAROUS ASSAULT OF RUDE AND GOTHIC WORDS; BUT METHINKS NO LANGUAGE IS RUDE THAT CAN BOAST POLITE WRITERS, AND NOT A FEW SUCH HAVE FLOURISHED IN THIS COUNTRY IN TIMES& PAST, BRINGING OUR COMMON SPEECH TO VERY GREAT PERFECTION. IN THE PRESENT AGE, ALAS! OUR PENS ARE RAVISHED BY UNLETTERED& AUTHORS AND UNMANNERED CRITICS, THAT MAKE A HAVOC RATHER THAN A BUILDING, A WILDERNESS RATHER THAN A GARDEN. BUT, ALACK! WHAT BOOTS IT TO DROP TEARS UPON THE PRETERIT?
IT IS NOT OF OUR OWN SHORTCOMINGS THOUGH, BUT OF YOUR NOW GREAT MERITS THAT I SHOULD SPEAK, ELSE I SHOULD BE FORGETFUL OF THE DUTIES I HAVE DRAWN UPON MYSELF IN ELECTING TO ADDRESS YOU IN A DEDICATION. IT IS OF YOUR NOBLE VIRTUES (THOUGH ALL THE WORLD KNOW OF ‘EM), YOUR TASTE AND WIT, YOUR CARE FOR LETTERS, AND VERY REAL REGARD FOR THE ARTS THAT I MUST BE THE PROCLAIMER.
THOUGH IT BE TRUE THAT ALL MEN HAVE SUFFICIENT WIT TO PASS A JUDGMENT ON THIS OR THAT, AND NOT A FEW SUFFICIENT IMPUDENCE TO PRINT THE SAME (THE LAST BEING COMMONLY ACCOUNTED CRITICS), I HAVE EVER HELD THAT THE CRITICAL FACULTY IS MORE RARE THAN THE INVENTIVE. IT IS A FACULTY YOUR EMINENCE POSSESSES IN SO GREAT A DEGREE THAT YOUR PRAISE OR BLAME IS SOMETHING ORACULAR, YOUR UTTERANCE INFALLIBLE AS GREAT GENIUS OR AS A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. YOUR MIND, I KNOW, REJOICING IN FINE DISTINCTIONS AND SUBTLE PROCEDURES OF THOUGHT, BEAUTIFULLY DISCURSIVE RATHER THAN HASTILY CONTRIBUTED, HAS FOUND IN CRITICISM ITS HAPPIEST EXERCISE. IT IS A PITY THAT SO PERFECT A MECENAS SHOULD HAVE NO HORACE TO BEFRIEND, NO GEORGICS TO ACCEPT; FOR THE OFFICES AND FUNCTION OF PATRON OR CRITIC MUST OF NECESSITY BE LESSENED IN AN AGE OF LITTLE MEN AND LITTLE WORK. IN TIMES PAST IT WAS NOTHING DEROGATORY FOR GREAT PRINCES AND MEN OF STATE TO EXTEND THEIR LOVES AND FAVOUR TO POETS, FOR THEREBY THEY RECEIVED AS MUCH HONOUR AS THEY CONFERRED. DID NOT PRINCE FESTUS WITH PRIDE TAKE THE MASTERWORK OF JULIAN INTO HIS PROTECTION, AND WAS NOT THE ÆNEIS A PRETTY THING TO OFFER CÆSAR?
LEARNING WITHOUT APPRECIATION IS A THING OF NAUGHT, BUT KNOW NOT WHICH IS GREATEST IN YOU — YOUR LOVE OF THE ARTS, OR YOUR KNOWLEDGE OF ‘EM. WHAT WONDER THEN THAT I AM STUDIOUS TO PLEASE YOU, AND DESIROUS OF YOUR PROTECTION? HOW DEEPLY THANKFUL I AM FOR YOUR PAST AFFECTIONS YOU KNOW WELL, YOUR GREAT KINDNESS AND LIBERALITY HAVING FAR OUTGONE MY SLIGHT MERITS AND SMALL ACCOMPLISHMENTS THAT SEEMED SCARCE TO WAR RANT ANY FAVOUR. ALAS! ‘TIS A SLIGHT OFFERING I MAKE YOU NOW, BUT IF AFTER GLANCING INTO ITS PACES (SAY OF AN EVENING UPON YOUR TERRACE) YOU SHOULD DEEM IT WORTHY OF THE REMOTEST PLACE IN YOUR PRINCELY LIBRARY, THE KNOWLEDGE THAT IT RESTED THERE WOULD BE REWARD SUFFICIENT FOR MY LABOURS, AND A CROWNING HAPPINESS TO MY PLEASURE IN THE WRITING OF THIS SLENDER BOOK.
THE HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT OF YOUR EMINENCE,
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
How the Chevalier Tannhäuser entered into the Hill of Venus
The Chevalier Tannhäuser, having lighted off his horse, stood doubt fully for a moment beneath the sombre gateway of the mysterious Hill, troubled with an exquisite fear lest a day’s travel should have too cruelly undone the laboured niceness of his dress. His hand, slim and gracious as La Marquise du Deffand’s in the drawing by Carmontelle, played nervously about the gold hair that fell upon his shoulders like a finely-curled peruke, and from point to point of a precise toilet the fingers wandered, quelling the little mutinies of cravat and ruffle.
It was taper-time; when the tired earth puts on its cloak of mists and shadows, when the enchanted woods are stirred with light foot falls and slender voices of the fairies, when all the air is full of delicate influences, and even the beaux, seated at their dressing-tables, dream a little.
A delicious moment, thought Tannhäuser, to slip into exile.
The place where he stood waved drowsily with strange flowers, heavy with perfume, dripping with odours.
Gloomy and nameless weeds not to be found in Mentzelius.
Huge moths, so richly winged they must have banqueted upon tapestries and royal stuffs, slept on the pillars that flanked either side of the gateway, and the eyes of all the moths remained open and were burning and bursting with a mesh of veins. The pillars were fashioned in some pale stone and rose up like hymns in the praise of pleasure, for from cap to base, each one was carved with loving sculptures, showing such a cunning invention and such a curious knowledge, that Tannhäuser lingered not a little in reviewing them. They surpassed all that Japan has ever pictured from her maisons vertes, all that was ever painted in the cool bath rooms of Cardinal La Motte, and even outdid the astonishing illus trations to Jones’s “Nursery Numbers”.
“A pretty portal,” murmured the Chevalier, correcting his sash.
As he spoke, a faint sound of singing was breathed out from the mountain, faint music as strange and distant as sea-legends that are heard in shells.
“The Vespers of Venus, I take it,” said Tannhäuser, and struck a few chords of accompaniment, ever so lightly, upon his little lute. Softly across the spell-bound threshold the song floated and wreathed itself about the subtle columns, till the moths were touched with passion and moved quaintly in their sleep. One of them was awakened by the intenser notes of the Chevalier’s lute-strings, and fluttered into the cave. Tannhäuser felt it was his cue for entry.
“Adieu,” he exclaimed with an inclusive gesture, “and goodbye, Madonna,” as the cold circle of the moon began to show, beautiful and full of enchantments. There was a shadow of sentiment in his voice as he spoke the words.
“Would to heaven,” he sighed, “I might receive the assurance of a looking-glass before I make my debut! However, as she is a goddess, I doubt not her eyes are a little sated with perfection, and may not be displeased to see it crowned with a tiny fault.”
A wild rose had caught upon the trimmings of his ruff, and in the first flush of displeasure he would have struck it brusquely away, and most severely punished the offending flower. But the ruffled mood lasted only a moment, for there was something so deliciously incongruous in the hardy petal’s invasion of so delicate a thing, that Tannhäuser withheld the finger of resentment and vowed that the wild rose should stay where it had clung — a passport, as it were, from the upper to the lower world.
“The very excess and violence of the fault,” he said, “will be its excuse;” and, undoing a tangle in the tassel of his stick, stepped into the shadowy corridor that ran into the bosom of the wan hill — stepped with the admirable aplomb and unwrinkled suavity of Don Juan.
Of the manner in which Venus was coiffed and prepared for supper
Before a toilet that shone like the altar of Notre Dame des Victoires, Venus was seated in a little dressing-gown of black and heliotrope. The coiffeur Cosmé was caring for her scented chevelure, and with tiny silver tongs, warm from the caresses of the flame, made delicious intelligent curls that fell as lightly as a breath about her forehead and over her eyebrows, and clustered like tendrils round her neck. Her three favourite girls, Pappelarde, Blanchemains and Loreyne, waited immediately upon her with perfume and powder in delicate flacons and frail cassolettes, and held in porcelain jars the ravishing paints prepared by Châteline for those cheeks and lips that had grown a little pale with anguish of exile. Her three favourite boys, Claude, Clair and Sarrasine, stood amorously about with salver, fan and napkin. Millamant held a slight tray of slippers, Minette some tender gloves, La Popelinière — mistress of the robes — was ready with a frock of yellow and white, La Zambinella bore the jewels, Florizel some flowers, Amadour a box of various pins, and Vadius a box of sweets.
Her doves, ever in attendance, walked about the room that was panelled with the gallant paintings of Jean Bapiste Dorat, and some dwarfs and doubtful creatures sat here and there lolling out their tongues, pinching each other, and behaving oddly enough. Sometimes Venus gave them little smiles.
As the toilet was in progress, Mrs. Marsuple, the fat manicure and fardeuse, strode in and seated herself by the side of the dressing-table, greeting Venus with an intimate nod. She wore a gown of white watered silk with gold lace trimmings, and a velvet necklet of false vermilion. Her hair hung in bandeaux over her ears, passing into a huge chignon at the back of her head, and the hat, wide-brimmed and hung with a valiance of pink muslin, was floral with red roses.
Mrs. Marsuple’s voice was full of salacious unction; she had terrible little gestures with the hands, strange movements with the shoulders, a short respiration that made surprising wrinkles in her bodice, a corrupt skin, large horny eyes, a parrot’s nose, a small loose mouth, great flaccid cheeks, and chin after chin. She was a wise per son, and Venus loved her more than any of her servants, and had a hundred pet names for her, such as Dear Toad, Pretty Poll, Cock Robin, Dearest Lip, Touchstone, Little Cough Drop, Bijou, Buttons, Dear Heart, Dick-Dock, Mrs. Manly, Little Nipper, Cochon-de-lait, Naughty-naughty, Blessed Thing, and Trump. The talk that passed between Mrs. Marsuple and her mistress was of that excellent kind that passes between old friends, a perfect understanding giving to scraps of phrases their full meaning, and to the merest reference a point. Naturally Tannhäuser the newcomer was discussed a little. Venus had not seen him yet, and asked a score of questions on his account that were delightfully to the point.
Mrs. Marsuple told the story of his arrival, his curious wandering in the gardens, and calm satisfaction with all he saw there, his impromptu affection for a slender girl upon the first terrace, of the crowd of frocks that gathered round and pelted him with roses, of the graceful way he defended himself with his mask, and of the queer reverence he made to the God of all gardens, kissing that deity with a pilgrim’s devotion. Just then Tannhäuser was at the baths, and was creating a favourable impression.
The report and the coiffing were completed at the same moment. “Cosmé,” said Venus, “you have been quite sweet and quite brilliant, you have surpassed yourself tonight.”
“Madam flatters me,” replied the antique old thing, with a girlish giggle under his black satin mask. “Gad, Madam; sometimes I believe I have no talent in the world, but tonight I must confess to a touch of the vain mood.” It would pain me horribly to tell you about the painting of her face; suffice it that the sorrowful work was accomplished; frankly, magnificently, and without a shadow of deception.
Venus slipped away the dressing-gown, and rose before the mirror in a flutter of frilled things. She was adorably tall and slender. Her neck and shoulders were wonderfully drawn, and the little malicious breasts were full of the irritation of loveliness that can never be entirely comprehended, or ever enjoyed to the utmost. Her arms and hands were loosely, but delicately articulated, and her legs were divinely long. From the hip to the knee, twenty-two inches; from the knee to the heel, twenty-two inches, as befitted a goddess.
I should like to speak more particularly about her, for generalities are not of the slightest service in a description. But I am afraid that an enforced silence here and there would leave such numerous gaps in the picture that it had better not be begun at all than left unfinished.
Those who have seen Venus only in the Vatican, in the Louvre, in the Uffizi, or in the British Museum, can have no idea of how very beautiful and sweet she looked. Not at all like the lady in “Lemprière”.
Mrs. Marsuple grew quite lyrical over the dear little person, and pecked at her arms with kisses.
“Dear Tongue, you must really behave yourself,” said Venus, and called Millamant to bring her the slippers.
The tray was freighted with the most exquisite and shapely pan toufles, sufficient to make Cluny a place of naught. There were shoes of grey and black and brown suède, of white silk and rose satin, and velvet and sarcenet; there were some of sea-green sewn with cherry blossoms, some of red with willow branches, and some of grey with bright-winged birds. There were heels of silver, of ivory, and of gilt; there were buckles of very precious stones set in most strange and esoteric devices; there were ribbons tied and twisted into cunning forms; there were buttons so beautiful that the buttonholes might have no pleasure till they closed upon them; there were soles of delicate leathers scented with maréchale, and linings of soft stuffs scented with the juice of July flowers. But Venus, finding none of them to her mind, called for a discarded pair of blood-red maroquin, diapered with pearls. They looked very distinguished over her white silk stockings. As the tray was being carried away, the capricious Florizel snatched as usual a slipper from it, and fitted the foot over his penis, and made the necessary movements. That was Florizel’s little caprice.
Meantime, La Popelinière stepped forward with the frock.
“I shan’t wear one tonight,” said Venus. Then she slipped on her gloves.
When the toilet was at an end all her doves clustered round her feet loving to frôler her ankles with their plumes, and the dwarfs clapped their hands, and put their fingers between their lips and whistled. Never before had Venus been so radiant and compelling. Spiridion, in the corner, looked up from his game of Spellicans and trembled. Claude and Clair, pale with pleasure, stroked and touched her with their delicate hands, and wrinkled her stockings with their nervous lips, and smoothed them with their thin fingers; and Sarra sine undid her garters and kissed them inside and put them on again, pressing her thighs with his mouth. The dwarfs grew very daring, I can tell you. There was almost a mêlée. They illustrated pages 72 and 73 of Delvau’s Dictionary.
In the middle of it all, Pranzmungel announced that supper was ready upon the fifth terrace. “Ah!” cried Venus, “I’m famished!”
How Venus supped; and thereafter was mightily amused by the curious pranks of her entourage
She was quite delighted with Tannhäuser, and, of course, he sat next her at supper.
The terrace, made beautiful with a thousand vain and fantastical things, and set with a hundred tables and four hundred couches, presented a truly splendid appearance. In the middle was a huge bronze fountain with three basins.
From the first rose a many -breasted dragon and four little loves mounted upon swans, and each love was furnished with a bow and arrow. Two of them that faced the monster seemed to recoil in fear, two that were behind made bold enough to aim their shafts at him. From the verge of the second sprang a circle of slim golden columns that supported silver doves with tails and wings spread out. The third, held by a group of grotesquely attenuated satyrs, was centred with a thin pipe hung with masks and roses and capped with children’s heads.
From the mouths of the dragon and the loves, from the swans’ eyes, from the breasts of the doves, from the satyrs’ horns and lips, from the masks at many points, and from the children’s curls, the water played profusely, cutting strange arabesques and subtle figures.
The terrace was lit entirely by candles. There were four thousand of them, not numbering those upon the tables.
The candlesticks were of a countless variety, and smiled with moulded cochonneries. Some were twenty feet high, and bore single candles that flared like fragrant torches over the feast, and guttered till the wax stood round the tops in tall lances. Some, hung with dainty petticoats of shining lustres, had a whole bevy of tapers upon them devised in circles, in pyra mids, in squares, in cuneiforms, in single lines regimentally and in crescents.
Then on quaint pedestals and Terminal Gods and gracious pilasters of every sort, were shell-like vases of excessive fruits and flowers that hung about and burst over the edges and could never be res trained. The orange-trees and myrtles, looped with vermilion sashes, stood in frail porcelain pots, and the rose-trees were wound and twisted with superb invention over trellis and standard. Upon one side of the terrace a long gilded stage for the comedians was cur tained off with Pagonian tapestries, and in front of it the music-stands were placed.
The tables arranged between the fountain and the flight of steps to the sixth terrace were all circular, covered with white damask, and strewn with irises, roses, kingcups, colombines, daffodils, carnations and lilies; and the couches, high with soft cushions and spread with more stuffs than could be named, had fans thrown upon them, and little amorous surprise packets.
Beyond the escalier stretched the gardens, which were designed so elaborately and with so much splendour that the architect of the Fètes d’Armailhacq could have found in them no matter for cavil, and the still lakes strewn with profuse barges full of gay flowers and wax marionettes, the alleys of tall trees, the arcades and cascades, the pavilions, the grottoes and the garden-gods — all took a strange tinge of revelry from the glare of the light that fell upon them from the feast.
The frockless Venus and Tannhäuser, with Mrs. Marsuple and Claude and Clair, and Farcy, the chief comedian, sat at the same table. Tannhäuser, who had doffed his travelling suit, wore long black silk stockings, a pair of pretty garters, a very elegant ruffled shirt, slippers and a wonderful dressing-gown; Claude and Clair wore nothing at all, delicious privilege of immaturity; and Farey was in ordinary evening clothes. As for the rest of the company, it boasted some very noticeable dresses, and whole tables of quite delightful coiffures. There were spotted veils that seemed to stain the skin with some exquisite and august disease, fans with eye-slits in them, through which the bearers peeped and peered; fans painted with figures and covered with the sonnets of Sporion and the short stories of Scaramouch; and fans of big, living moths stuck upon mounts of silver sticks. There were masks of green velvet that make the face look trebly powdered; masks of the heads of birds, of apes, of serpents, of dolphins, of men and women, of little embryons and of cats; masks like the faces of gods; masks of coloured glass, and masks of thin talc and of india-rubber. There were wigs of black and scarlet wools, of peacocks’ feathers, of gold and silver threads, of swansdown, of the tendrils of the vine, and of human hair; huge collars of stiff muslin rising high above the head; whole dresses of ostrich feathers curling inwards; tunics of panthers’ skins that looked beautiful over pink tights; capotes of crimson satin trimmed with the wings of owls; sleeves cut into the shapes of apocryphal animals; drawers flounced down to the ankles, and flecked with tiny, red roses; stockings clocked with fètes galantes, and curious designs; and petticoats cut like artificial flowers. Some of the women had put on delightful little moustaches dyed in purples and bright greens, twisted and waxed with absolute skill; and some wore great white beards, after the manner of Saint Wilgeforte. Then Dorat had painted extraordinary grotesques and vignettes over their bodies, here and there.
Upon a cheek, an old man scratching his horned head; upon a forehead, an old woman teased by an impudent amour; upon a shoulder, an amorous singerie; round a breast, a circlet of satyrs; about a wrist, a wreath of pale, unconscious babes; upon an elbow a bouquet of spring flowers; across a back, some surprising scenes of adventure; at the corners of a mouth, tiny, red spots; and upon a neck, a flight of birds, a caged parrot, a branch of fruit, a butterfly, a spider, a drunken dwarf, or, simply, some initials. But most wonderful of all were the black silhouettes painted upon the legs, and which showed through a white silk stocking like a sumptuous bruise.
The supper provided by the ingenious Rambouillet was quite beyond parallel. Never had he created a more exquisite menu. The consommé impromptu alone would have been sufficient to establish the immortal reputation of any chef. What, then, can I say of the Dorade bouillie sauce maréchale, the ragoût aux langues de carpes, the ramereaux à la charnière, the ciboulette de gibier à l’espagnole, the paté de cuisses d’oie aux pois de Monsalvie, the queues d’agneau au clair de lune, the artichauts à la grecque, the charlotte de pommes à la Lucy Waters, the bombes à la marée, and the glaces aux rayons d’or? A veritable tour de cuisine that surpassed even the famous little suppers given by the Marquis de Réchale at Passy, and which the Abbé Mirliton pronounced “impeccable, and too good to be eaten.”
Ah! Pierre Antoine Berquin de Rambouillet; you are worthy of your divine mistress!
Mere hunger quickly gave place to those finer instincts of the pure gourmet, and the strange wines, cooled in buckets of snow, unloosed all the décolleté spirits of astonishing conversation and atrocious laughter.
How the court of Venus behaved strangely at her supper
As the courses advanced, the conversation grew bustling and more personal. Pulex and Cyril, and Marisca and Cathelin, opened a fire of raillery. The infidelities of Cerise, the difficulties of Brancas, Sarmean’s caprices that morning in the lily garden, Thorillière’s declining strength, Astarte’s affection for Roseola, Felix’s impossible member, Cathelin’s passion for Sulpilia’s poodle, Sola’s passion for herself, the nasty bite that Marisca gave Chloe, the epilatière of Pulex, Cyril’s diseases, Butor’s illness, Maryx’s tiny cemetery, Lesbia’s profound fourth letter, and a thousand amatory follies of the day were discussed.
From harsh and shrill and clamant, the voices grew blurred and inarticulate. Bad sentences were helped out by worse gestures, and at one table Scabius expressed himself like the famous old knight in the first part of the “Soldier’s Fortune” of Otway. Bassalissa and Lysistrata tried to pronounce each other’s names, and became very affectionate in the attempt; and Tala, the tragedian, robed in roomy purple, and wearing plume and buskin, rose to his feet, and, with swaying gestures, began to recite one of his favourite parts. He got no further than the first line, but repeated it again and again, with fresh accents and intonations each time, and was only silenced by the approach of the asparagus that was being served by satyrs dressed in white. Clitor and Sodon had a violent struggle over the beautiful Pella, and nearly upset a chandelier.
Sophie became very intimate with an empty champagne bottle, swore it had made her enceinte, and ended by having a mock accouchement on the top of the table; and Belamour pretended to be a dog, and pranced from couch to couch on all fours, biting and barking and licking. Mellefont crept about dropping love philtres into glasses. Juventus and Ruelia stripped and put on each other’s things, Spelto offered a prize for whoever should come first, and Spelto won it! Tannhäuser, just a little grisé, lay down on the cushions and let Julia do whatever she liked.
I wish I could be allowed to tell you what occurred round table fifteen, just at this moment. It would amuse you very much, and would give you a capital idea of the habits of Venus’ retinue. Indeed, for deplorable reasons, by far the greater part of what was said and done at this supper must remain unrecorded and even un suggested.
Venus allowed most of the dishes to pass untasted, she was so engaged with the beauty of Tannhäuser. She laid her head many times on his robe, kissing him passionately; and his skin at once firm and yielding, seemed to those exquisite little teeth of hers, the most incomparable pasture.
Her upper lip curled and trembled with excitement, showing the gums. Tannhäuser, on his side, was no less devoted. He adored her all over and all the things she had on, and buried his face in the folds and flounces of her linen, and ravished away a score of frills in his excess. He found her exasperating, and crushed her in his arms, and slaked his parched lips at her mouth. He caressed her eyelids softly with his finger tips, and pushed aside the curls from her forehead, and did a thousand gracious things, tuning her body as a violinist tunes his instrument before playing upon it.
Mrs. Marsuple snorted like an old warhorse at the sniff of pow der, and tickled Tannhäuser and Venus by turns, and slipped her tongue down their throats, and refused to be quiet at all until she had had a mouthful of the Chevalier.
Claude, seizing his chance, dived under the table and came up on the other side just under Venus’ couch, and before she could say “One!” he was taking his coffee “aux deux colonnes” . Clair was furious at his friend’s success, and sulked for the rest of the evening.
Of the ballet danced by the servants of Venus
I
After the fruits and fresh wines had been brought in by a troop of woodland creatures, decked with green leaves and all sorts of spring flowers, the candles in the orchestra were lit, and in another moment the musicians bustled into their places. The wonderful Titurel de Schentefleur was the chef d’orchestre, and the most insidious of con ductors. His baton dived into a phrase and brought out the most magical and magnificent things, and seemed rather to play every instrument than to lead it. He could add grace even to Scarlatti and a wonder to Beethoven. A delicate, thin, little man with thick lips and a nez retroussé, with long black hair and curled moustache, in the manner of Molière. What were his amatory tastes, no one in the Venusberg could tell. He generally passed for a virgin, and Cathos had nicknamed him “The Solitaire”.
Tonight he appeared in a court suit of white silk, brilliant with decorations. His hair was curled in resplendent ringlets that trem bled like springs at the merest gesture of his arm, and in his ears swung the diamonds given him by Venus.
The orchestra was, as usual, in its uniform of red vest and breeches trimmed with gold lace, white stockings and red shoes. Titurel had written a ballet for the evening divertissement, founded upon De Bergerac’s comedy of “Les Bacchanales de Sporion”, in which the action and dances were designed by him as well as the music.
The curtain rose upon a scene of rare beauty, a remote Arcadian valley, a delicious scrap of Tempe, gracious with cool woods and watered with a little river. It was early morning and the re-arisen sun, like the prince in the Sleeping Beauty, woke all the earth with his lips.
In that golden embrace the night dews were caught up and made splendid, the trees were awakened from their obscure dreams, the slumber of the birds was broken, and all the flowers of the valley rejoiced, forgetting their fear of the darkness.
Suddenly to the music of pipe and horn a troop of satyrs stepped out from the recesses of the woods bearing in their hands nuts and green boughs and flowers and roots, and whatsoever the forest yielded, to heap upon the altar of the mysterious Pan that stood in the middle of the stage; and from the hills came down the shepherds and shepherdesses leading their flocks and carrying garlands upon their crooks.
Then a rustic priest, white robed and venerable, came slowly across the valley followed by a choir of radiant children.
The scene was admirably stage-managed and nothing could have been more varied yet harmonious than this Arcadian group. The service was quaint and simple, but with sufficient ritual to give the corps de ballet an opportunity of showing its dainty skill. The dancing of the satyrs was received with huge favour, and when the priest raised his hand in final blessing, the whole troop of worshippers made such an intricate and elegant exit, that it was generally agreed that Titurel had never before shown so fine an invention.
Scarcely had the stage been empty for a moment, when Sporion entered, followed by a brilliant rout of dandies and smart women. Sporion was a tall, slim, depraved young man with a slight stoop, a troubled walk, an oval impassible face with its olive skin drawn tightly over the bone, strong, scarlet lips, long Japanese eyes, and a great gilt toupet. Round his shoulders hung a high-collared satin cape of salmon pink with long black ribands untied and floating about his body. His coat of sea-green spotted muslin was caught in at the waist by a scarlet sash with scalloped edges and frilled out over the hips for about six inches. His trousers, loose and wrinkled, reached to the end of the calf, and were brocaded down the sides and ruched magnificently at the ankles. The stockings were of white kid with stalls for the toes, and had delicate red sandals strapped over them.
But his little hands, peeping out from their frills, seemed quite the most insinuating things, such supple fingers tapering to the point with tiny nails stained pink, such unquenchable palms lined and mounted like Lord Fanny’s in “Love At All Hazards”, and such blue veined hairless backs! In his left hand he carried a small lace hand kerchief broidered with a coronet.
As for his friends and followers, they made the most superb and insolent crowd imaginable, but to catalogue the clothes they had on would require a chapter as long as the famous tenth in Pénillière’s “History Of Underlinen”. On the whole they looked a very distin guished chorus.
Sporion stepped forward and explained with swift and various gesture that he and his friends were tired of the amusements, wearied with the poor pleasure offered by the civil world, and had invaded the Arcadian valley hoping to experience a new frisson in the destruc tion of some shepherd’s or some satyr’s naïveté, and the infusion of their venom among the dwellers of the woods.
The chorus assented with languid but expressive movements.
Curious and not a little frightened at the arrival of the worldly company, the sylvans began to peep nervously at those subtle souls through the branches of the trees, and one or two fauns and a shepherd or so crept out warily.
Sporion and all the ladies and gentlemen made enticing sounds and invited the rustic creatures with all the grace in the world to come and join them. By little batches they came, lured by the strange looks, by the scents and the drugs, and by the brilliant clothes, and some ventured quite near, timorously fingering the delicious textures of the stuffs. Then Sporion and each of his friends took a satyr or a shepherdess or something by the hand and made the preliminary steps of a courtly measure, for which the most admirable combinations had been invented and the most charming music written. The pastoral folk were entirely bewildered when they saw such restrained and graceful movements, and made the most grotesque and futile efforts to imitate them. Dio mio, a pretty sight! A charming effect, too, was obtained by the inter mixture of stockinged calf and hairy leg, of rich brocaded bodice and plain blouse, of tortured head-dress and loose untutored locks.
When the dance was ended the servants of Sporion brought on champagne, and with many pirouettes poured it magnificently into slender glasses, and tripped about plying those Arcadian mouths that had never before tasted such a royal drink.
II
‘Twas not long before the invaders began to enjoy the first fruits of their expedition, plucking them in the most seductive manner with their smooth fingers, and feasting lip and tongue and tooth, whilst the shepherds and satyrs and shepherdesses fairly gasped under the new joys, for the pleasure they experienced was almost too keen for their simple and untilled natures. Sporion and the rest of the rips and ladies tingled with excitement and frolicked like young lambs in a fresh meadow. Again and again the wine was danced round, and the valley grew as busy as a market day.
Attracted by the noise and the merrymaking, all those sweet infants I told you of, skipped suddenly on to the stage, and began clapping their hands and laughing immoderately at the passion and disorder and com motion, and mimicking the nervous staccato movements they saw in their pretty childish way.
In a flash Sporion disentangled himself and sprang to his feet, gesticulating as if he would say, “Ah, the little dears!” “Ah, the rorty little things!” “Ah, the little ducks!” for he was so fond of children. Scarcely had he caught one by the thigh than a quick rush was made by everybody for the succulent limbs; and how they tousled them and mousled them! The children cried out, I can tell you. Of course there were not enough for everybody, so some had to share, and some had simply to go on with what they were doing before.
I must not, by the way, forget to mention the independent attitude taken by six or seven of the party, who sat and stood about with half-closed eyes, inflated nostrils, clenched teeth, and painful, parted lips, behaving like the Due de Broglie when he watched the amours of the Régent d’Orléans.
Now as Sporion and his friends began to grow tired and exhausted with the new debauch, they cared no longer to take the initiative, but, relaxing every muscle, abandoned themselves to passive joys, yielding utterly to the ardent embraces of the intoxicated satyrs, who waxed fast and furious, and seemed as if they would never come to the end of their strength. Full of the new tricks they had learnt that morning, they played them passionately and roughly, making havoc of the cul tured flesh, and tearing the splendid frocks and dresses into ribands. Duchesses and Maréchales, Marquises and Princesses, Dukes and Marshals, Marquesses and Princes, were ravished and stretched and rumpled and crushed beneath the interminable vigour and hairy breasts of the inflamed woodlanders. They bit at the white thighs and nozzled wildly in the crevices. They sat astride the women’s chests and consummated frantically with their bosoms; they caught their prey by the hips and held it over their heads, irrumating with prodigious gusto. It was the triumph of the valley.
High up in the heavens the sun had mounted and filled all the air with generous warmth, whilst shadows grew shorter and sharper. Little light-winged papillons flitted across the stage, the bees made music on their flowery way, the birds were gay and kept up a jar goning and refraining, the lambs were bleating upon the hillside, and the orchestra kept playing, playing the uncanny tunes of Titurel.
Of the amourous encounter which took place between Venus and Tannhäuser
Venus and Tannhäuser had retired to the exquisite little boudoir or pavilion Le Con had designed for the queen on the first terrace, and which commanded the most delicious view of the parks and gardens. It was a sweet little place, all silk curtains and soft cushions. There were eight sides to it, bright with mirrors and candelabra, and rich with pictured panels, and the ceiling, dome-shaped and some thirty feet above the head, shone obscurely with gilt mouldings through the warm haze of candle-light below. Tiny wax statuettes dressed theatrically and smiling with plump cheeks, quaint magots that looked as cruel as foreign gods, gilded monticules, pale celadon vases, clocks that said nothing, ivory boxes full of secrets, china figurines playing whole scenes of plays, and a world of strange preciousness crowded the curious cabinets that stood against the walls.
On one side of the room there were six perfect little card tables, with quite the daintiest and most elegant chairs set primly round them; so, after all, there may be some truth in that line of Mr. Theodore Watts—“I played at picquet with the Queen of Love.” Nothing in the pavilion was more beautiful than the folding screens painted by De La Pine, with Claudian landscapes — the sort of things that fairly make one melt, things one can lie and look at for hours together, and forget the country can ever be dull and tiresome. There were four of them, delicate walls that hem in an amour so cosily, and make room within room.
The place was scented with huge branches of red roses, and with a faint amatory perfume breathed out from the couches and cushions — a perfume Châteline distilled in secret and called L’Eau Lavante.
Cosmé’s precise curls and artful waves had been finally disarranged at supper, and strayed ringlets of the black hair fell loosely over Venus’ soft, delicious, tired, swollen eyelids. Her frail chemise and dear little drawers were torn and moist, and clung transparently about her, and all her body was nervous and responsive. Her closed thighs seemed like a vast replica of the little bijou she had between them; the beautiful tétons du derrière were firm as a plump virgin’s cheek, and promised a joy as profound as the mystery of the Rue Vendôme, and the minor chevelure, just profuse enough, curled as prettily as the hair upon a cherub’s head.
Tannhäuser, pale and speechless with excitement, passed his gem-girt fingers brutally over the divine limbs, tearing away smock and pantalon and stocking, and then, stripping himself of his own few things, fell upon the splendid lady with a deep-drawn breath!
It is, I know, the custom of all romancers to paint heroes who can give a lady proof of their valiance at least twenty times a night. Now Tannhäuser had no such Gargantuan felicity, and was rather relieved when, an hour later, Mrs. Marsuple and Doricourt and some others burst drunkenly into the room and claimed Venus for themselves.
The pavilion soon filled with a noisy crowd that could scarcely keep its feet. Several of the actors were there, and Lesfesses, who had played Sporion so brilliantly, and was still in his make-up, paid tremendous attention to Tannhäuser. But the Chevalier found him quite uninteresting off the stage, and rose and crossed the room to where Venus and the manicure were seated.
“How tired the poor baby looks,” said Mrs. Marsuple. “Shall I put him in his little cot?”
“Well, if he’s as sleepy as I am,” yawned Venus, “you can’t do better.”
Mrs. Marsuple lifted her mistress off the pillows, and carried her in her arms in a nice, motherly way.
“Come along, children,” said the fat old thing, “come along; it’s time you were both in bed.”
How Tannhäuser awakened and took his morning ablutions in the Venusberg
It is always delightful to wake up in a new bedroom. The fresh wall paper, the strange pictures, the positions of doors and windows, imperfectly grasped the night before, are revealed with all the charm of surprise when we open our eyes the next morning.
It was about eight o’clock when Tannhäuser awoke, stretched himself deliciously in his great plumed four-post bed, murmured “What a pretty room!” and freshened the frilled silk pillows behind him. Through the slim parting of the long flowered window curtains, he caught a peep of the sun-lit lawns outside, the silver fountains, the bright flowers, the gardeners at work, and beneath the shady trees some early breakfasters, dressed for a day’s hunting in the distant wooded valleys.
“How sweet it all is,” exclaimed the Chevalier, yawning with infinite content. Then he lay back in his bed, stared at the curious patterned canopy above him and nursed his waking thoughts.
He thought of the “Romaunt de la Rose”, beautiful, but all too brief.
Of the Claude in Lady Delaware’s collection.[1]
Of a wonderful pair of blonde trousers he would get Madame Belleville to make for him.
Of Saint Rose, the well known Peruvian virgin; how she vowed herself to perpetual virginity when she was four years old;[2] how she was beloved by Mary, who from the pale fresco in the Church of Saint Dominic, would stretch out her arms to embrace her; how she built a little oratory at the end of the garden and prayed and sang hymns in it till all the beetles, spiders, snails and creeping things came round to listen; how she promised to marry Ferdinand de Flores, and on the bridal morning perfumed herself and painted her lips, and put on her wedding frock, and decked her hair with roses, and went up to a little hill not far without the walls of Lima; how she knelt there some moments calling tenderly upon Our Lady’s name, and how Saint Mary descended and kissed Rose upon the forehead and carried her swiftly into heaven.
He thought of the splendid opening of Racine’s “Britannicus”.
Of a strange pamphlet he had found in Venus’ library, called “A Plea For The Domestication Of The Unicorn”.
Of the “Bacchanals of Sporion”.
Of love, and of a hundred other things.
Then his half-closed eyes wandered among the prints that hung upon the rose-striped walls. Within the delicate curved frames lived the corrupt and gracious creatures of Dorat and his school, slender children in masque and domino smiling horribly, exquisite lechers leaning over the shoulders of smooth doll-like girls and doing nothing in particular, terrible little Pierrots posing as lady lovers and pointing at something outside the picture, and unearthly fops and huge bird like women mingling in some rococo room, lighted mysteriously by the flicker of a dying fire that throws great shadows upon wall and ceiling.
One of the prints showing how an old Marquis practised the five-finger exercise, while in front of him his mistress offered her warm fesses to a panting poodle, made the Chevalier stroke himself a little.
Tannhäuser had taken some books to bed with him. One was the witty, extravagant “Tuesday And Josephine,” another was the score of “Das Rheingold.” Making a pulpit of his knees he propped up the opera before him and turned over the pages with a loving hand, and found it delicious to attack Wagner’s brilliant comedy with the cool head of the morning. Once more he was ravished with the beauty and wit of the opening scene; the mystery of its prelude that seems to come up from the very mud of the Rhine, and to be as ancient, the abominable primitive wantonness of the music that follows the talk and movements of the Rhine-maidens, the black, hateful sounds in Alberich’s love-making, and the flowing melody of the river of legends.[3]
But it was the third tableau that he applauded most that morning, the scene where Loge, like some flamboyant primeaval Scapin, prac tises his cunning upon Alberich. The feverish insistent ringing of the hammers at the forge, the dry staccato restlessness of Mime, the ceaseless coming and going of the troup of Nibelungs, drawn hither and thither like a flock of terror-stricken and infernal sheep, Alberich’s savage activity and metamorphoses, and Loge’s rapid, flaming, tonguelike movements, make the tableau the least reposeful, most troubled and confusing thing in the whole range of opera. How the Chevalier rejoiced in the extravagant monstrous poetry, the heated melodrama, and splendid agitation of it all!
At eleven o’clock Tannhäuser got up and slipped off his dainty night-dress, and postured elegantly before a long mirror, making much of himself. Now he would bend forward, now lie upon the floor, now stand upright, and now rest upon one leg and let the other hang loosely till he looked as if he might have been drawn by some early Italian master.
Anon he would lie upon the floor with his back to the glass, and glance amorously over his shoulder. Then with a white silk sash he draped himself in a hundred charming ways. So engrossed was he with his mirrored shape that he had not noticed the entrance of a troop of serving boys, who stood admiringly but respectfully at a distance, ready to receive his waking orders. As soon as the Chevalier observed them he smiled sweetly, and bade them prepare his bath.
The bathroom was the largest and perhaps the most beautiful apartment in his splendid suite. The well-known engraving by Lorette that forms the frontispiece to Millevoye’s “Architecture Du XVIIIe Siècle” will give you a better idea than any words of mine of the construction and decoration of the room. Only in Lorette’s engraving the bath sunk into the middle of the floor is a little too small.
Tannhäuser stood for a moment like Narcissus gazing at his reflection in the still scented water, and then just ruffling its smooth surface with one foot, stepped elegantly into the cool basin and swam round it twice very gracefully.
“Won’t you join me?” he said, turning to those beautiful boys who stood ready with warm towels and perfume. In a moment they were free of their light morning dress, and jumped into the water and joined hands, and surrounded the Chevalier with a laughing chain.
“Splash me a little,” he cried, and the boys teased him with water and quite excited him. He chased the prettiest of them and bit his fesses, and kissed him upon the perineum till the dear fellow banded like a carmelite, and its little bald top-knot looked like a great pink pearl under the water. As the boy seemed anxious to take up the active attitude, Tannhäuser graciously descended to the passive — a generous trait that won him the complete affections of his valets de bain, or pretty fish, as he liked to call them, because they loved to swim between his legs.
However, it is not so much at the very bath itself as in the drying and delicious frictions that a bather finds his chiefest joys, and Venus had appointed her most tried attendants to wait upon Tannhäuser. He was more than satisfied with their skill, and the delicate attention they paid his loving parts aroused feelings within him almost amounting to gratitude, and when the rites were ended any touch of home sickness he might have felt was utterly dispelled. After he had rested a little, and sipped his chocolate, he wandered into the dressing-room. Daucourt, his valet de chambre, Chenille, the perruquier and barber, and two charming young dressers, were awaiting him and ready with suggestions for the morning toilet. The shaving over, Daucourt commanded his underlings to step forward with the suite of suits from which he proposed Tannhäuser should make a choice. The final selection was a happy one. A dear little coat of pigeon rose silk that hung loosely about his hips, and showed off the jut of his behind to perfection; trousers of black lace in flounces, falling — almost like a petticoat — as far as the knee; and a delicate chemise of white muslin, spangled with gold and profusely pleated.
The two dressers, under Daucourt’s direction, did their work superbly, beautifully, leisurely, with an exquisite deference for the nude, and a really sensitive appreciation of the Chevalier’s scrump tious torso.
[1] The chef d’oeuvre, it seems to me, of an adorable and impeccable master, who more than any other landscape-painter puts us out of conceit with our cities, and makes us forget the country can be graceless and dull and tiresome.
That he should ever have been compared unfavourably with Turner — the Wiertz of landscape-painting — seems almost incredible. Corot is Claude’s only worthy rival, but he does not eclipse or supplant the earlier master. A painting of Corot’s is like an exquisite lyric poem, full of love and truth; whilst one of Claude’s recalls some noble eclogue glowing with rich concentrated thought.
[2] “At an age,” writes Dubonnet, “when girls are for the most part well confirmed in all the hateful practices of coquetry, and attend with gusto, rather than with distaste, the hideous desires and terrible satisfactions of men.” All who would respire the perfumes of Saint Rose’s sanctity, and enjoy the story of the adorable intimacy that subsisted between her and Our Lady, should read Mother Ursula’s “Ineffable And Miraculous Life Of The Flower Of Lima”, published shortly after the canonisation of Rose by Pope Clement X in 1671. “Truly,” exclaims the famous nun, “to chronicle the girlhood of this holy virgin makes as delicate a task as to trace the forms of some slim, sensitive plant, whose lightness, sweetness, and simplicity defy and trouble the most cunning pencil.” Mother Ursula certainly acquits herself of the task with wonderful delicacy and taste. A cheap reprint of the biography has lately been brought out by Chaillot and Son.
[3] It is a thousand pities that concerts should only be given either in the after noon, when you are torpid, or in the evening, when you are nervous. Surely you should assist at fine music as you assist at the Mass — before noon — when your brain and heart are not too troubled and tired with the secular influences of the growing day.
Of the ecstasy of Adolphe, and the remarkable manifestation thereof
As pleased as Lord Foppington with his appearance, the Chevalier tripped off to bid good-morning to Venus. He found her in a sweet muslin frock, wandering upon the lawn, and plucking flowers to deck her breakfast table. He kissed her lightly upon the neck.
“I’m just going to feed Adolphe,” she said, pointing to a little reticule of buns that hung from her arm. Adolphe was her pet uni corn. “He is such a dear,” she continued; “milk white all over excepting his nose, mouth, nostrils and John. This way.” The unicorn had a very pretty palace of its own, made of green foliage and golden bars, a fitting home for such a delicate and dainty beast. Ah, it was a splendid thing to watch the white creature roaming in its artful cage, proud and beautiful, knowing no mate, and coming to no hand except the Queen’s itself. As Tannhäuser and Venus approached, Adolphe began prancing and curveting, pawing the soft turf with his ivory hoofs and flaunting his tail like a gonfalon. Venus raised the latch and entered.
“You mustn’t come in with me, Adolphe is so jealous,” she said, turning to the Chevalier, who was following her, “but you can stand outside and look on, Adolphe likes an audience.” Then in her delicious fingers she broke the spicy buns and with affectionate niceness breakfasted her snowy pet. When the last crumbs had been scattered, Venus brushed her hands together and pretended to leave the cage without taking any further notice of Adolphe. Every morning she went through this piece of play, and every morning the amorous unicorn was cheated into a distressing agony lest that day should have proved the last of Venus’ love. Not for long, though, would she leave him in that doubtful, piteous state, but running back passionately to where he stood, made adorable amends for her unkindness.
Poor Adolphe! How happy he was, touching the Queen’s breasts with his quick tongue-tip. I have no doubt that the keener scent of animals must make women much more attractive to them than to men; for the gorgeous odour that but faintly fills our nostrils must be revealed to the brute creation in divine fullness.
Anyhow, Adolphe sniffed as never a man did around the skirts of Venus. After the first charming interchange of affectionate delicacies was over, the unicorn lay down upon his side, and, closing his eyes, beat his stomach wildly with the mark of manhood.
Venus caught that stunning member in her hands and laid her cheek along it; but few touches were wanted to consummate the creature’s pleasure. The Queen bared her left arm to the elbow, and with the soft underneath of it made amazing movements upon the tightly-strung instrument. When the melody began to flow, the unicorn offered up an astonishing vocal accompaniment.
Tannhäuser was amused to learn that the etiquette of the Venusberg compelled every body to await the outburst of these venereal sounds before they could sit down to déjeuner.
Adolphe had been quite profuse that morning.
Venus knelt where it had fallen, and lapped her little apéritif.
How Venus and Tannhäuser breakfasted and then drove through the palace gardens
The breakfasters were scattered over the gardens in tête-à-têtes and tiny parties. Venus and Tannhäuser sat together upon the lawn that lay in front of the Casino, and made havoc of a ravishing déjeuner. The Chevalier was feeling very happy. Everything around him seemed so white and light and matinal; the floating frocks of the ladies, the scarce-robed boys and satyrs stepping hither and thither elegantly, with meats and wines and fruits; the damask tablecloths, the delicate talk and laughter that rose everywhere; the flowers’ colour and the flowers’ scent; the shady trees, the wind’s cool voice, and the sky above that was as fresh and pastoral as a perfect sixth. And Venus looked so beautiful.
“You’re such a dear!” murmured Tannhäuser, holding her hand.
At the further end of the lawn, and a little hidden by a rose-tree, a young man was breakfasting alone. He toyed nervously with his food now and then, but for the most part leant back in his chair with unemployed hands, and gazed stupidly at Venus.
“That’s Felix,” said the Goddess, in answer to an enquiry from the Chevalier; and she went on to explain his attitude. Felix always attended Venus upon her little latrinal excursions, holding her, serving her, and making much of all she did. To undo her things, lift her skirts, to wait and watch the coming, to dip a lip or finger in the royal output, to stain himself deliciously with it, to lie beneath her as the favours fell, to carry off the crumpled, crotted paper — these were the pleasures of that young man’s life.
Truly there never was a queen so beloved by her subjects as Venus. Everything she wore had its lover.
Heavens! how her handkerchiefs were filched, her stockings stolen! Daily, what intrigues, what countless ruses to possess her merest frippery? Every scrap of her body was adored. Never, for Savaral, could her ear yield suff cient wax! Never, for Pradon, could she spit prodigally enough!
And Saphius found a month an intolerable time.
After breakfast was over, and Felix’s fears lest Tannhäuser should have robbed him of his capricious rights had been dispelled, Venus invited the Chevalier to take a more extensive view of the gardens, parks, pavilions, and ornamental waters. The carriage was ordered. It was a delicate, shell-like affair, with billowy cushions and a light canopy, and was drawn by ten satyrs, dressed as finely as the coachmen of the Empress Pauline the First.
The drive proved interesting and various, and Tannhäuser was quite delighted with almost everything he saw.
And who is not pleased when on either side of him rich lawns are spread with lovely frocks and white limbs — and upon flower-beds the dearest ladies are implicated in a glory of underclothing — when he can see in the deep cool shadow of the trees warm boys entwined, here at the base, there at the branch — when in the fountain’s wave Love holds his court, and the insistent water burrows in every delicious crease and crevice?
A pretty sight, too, was little Rosalie, perched like a postilion upon the painted phallus god of all gardens. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling as the carriage passed.
Round her neck and slender girlish shoulders there was a cloud of complex dress, over which bulged her wig-like flaxen tresses. Her legs and feet were bare, and the toes twisted in an amorous style. At the foot of the statue lay her shoes and stockings and a few other things.
Tannhäuser was singularly moved at this spectacle, and rose out of all proportion. Venus slipped the fingers of comfort under the lace flounces of his trousers, saying, “Is it all mine? Is it all mine?” and doing fascinating things. In the end, the carriage was only prevented from being overturned by the happy intervention of Mrs. Marsuple, who stepped out from somewhere or other just in time to preserve its balance.
How the old lady’s eye glistened as Tannhäuser withdrew his panting blade! In her sincere admiration for fine things, she quite forgot and forgave the shock she had received from the falling of the gay equipage. Venus and Tannhäuser were profuse with apology and thanks, and quite a crowd of loving courtiers gathered round, consoling and congratulating in a breath.
The Chevalier vowed he would never go in the carriage again, and was really quite upset about it. However, after he had had a little support from the smelling-salts, he recovered his self-possession, and consented to drive on further.
The landscape grew rather mysterious. The park, no longer troubled and adorned with figures, was full of grey echoes and mysterious sounds; the leaves whispered a little sadly, and there was a grotto that murmured like a voice haunting the silence of a deserted oracle. Tannhäuser became a little triste. In the distance, through the trees, gleamed a still argent lake — a reticent, romantic water that must have held the subtlest fish that ever were. Around its marge the trees and flags and fleurs de luce were unbreakably asleep.
The Chevalier fell into a strange mood, as he looked at the lake. It seemed to him that the thing would speak, reveal some curious secret, say some beautiful word, if he should dare wrinkle its pale face with a pebble.
“I should be frightened to do that, though,” he said to himself. Then he wondered what might be upon the other side; other gardens, other gods? A thousand drowsy fancies passed through his brain. Sometimes the lake took fantastic shapes, or grew to twenty times its size, or shrunk into a miniature of itself, without ever once losing its unruffled calm, its deathly reserve. When the water increased, the Chevalier was very frightened, for he thought how huge the frogs must have become. He thought of their big eyes and monstrous wet feet, but when the water lessened, he laughed to himself, whilst thinking how tiny the frogs must have grown. He thought of their legs that must look thinner than spiders’, and of their dwindled croaking that never could be heard. Perhaps the lake was only painted, after all. He had seen things like it at the theatre. Anyway, it was a wonderful lake, a beautiful lake, and he would love to bathe in it, but he was sure he would be drowned if he did.
Of the “Stabat Mater”, Spiridion and De La Pine
When he woke up from his day-dreams, he noticed that the carriage was on its way back to the palace. They stopped at the Casino first, and stepped out to join the players at petits chevaux. Tannhäuser preferred to watch the game rather than play himself, and stood behind Venus, who slipped into a vacant chair and cast gold pieces upon lucky numbers. The first thing that Tannhäuser noticed was the grace and charm, the gaiety and beauty of the croupiers. They were quite adorable even when they raked in one’s little losings.
Dressed in black silk, and wearing white kid gloves, loose yellow wigs and feathered toques, with faces oval and young, bodies lithe and quick, voices silvery and affectionate, they made amends for all the hateful arrogance, disgusting aplomb, and shameful ugliness of the rest of their kind.
The dear fellow who proclaimed the winner was really quite delightful. He took a passionate interest in the horses, and had licked all the paint off their petits couillons!
You will ask me no doubt, “Is that all he did?” I will answer, “Not quite,” as the merest glance at their jolis derrières would prove.
In the afternoon light that came through the great silken-blinded windows of the Casino, all the gilded decorations, all the chandeliers, the mirrors, the polished floor, the painted ceiling, the horses gallop ing round their green meadow, the fat rouleaux of gold and silver, the ivory rakes, the fanned and strange-frocked crowd of dandy gamesters looked magnificently rich and warm. Tea was being served. It was so pretty to see some plush little lady sipping nervously, and keeping her eyes over the cup’s edge intently upon the slackening horses. The more indifferent left the tables and took their tea in parties here and there.
Tannhäuser found a great deal to amuse him at the Casino. Ponchon was the manager, and a person of extraordinary invention. Never a day but he was ready for a new show — a novel attraction. A glance through the old Casino programmes would give you a very considerable idea of his talent. What countless ballets, comedies, comedy-ballets, concerts, masques, charades, proverbs, pantomimes, tableaux magiques, and peep-shows eccentriques; what troupes of marionettes, what burlesques!
Ponchon had an astonishing flair for new talent, and many of the principal comedians and singers at the Queen’s Theatre and Opera House had made their first appearance and reputation at the Casino.
This afternoon the pièce de resistance was a performance of Ros sini’s “Stabat Mater”, an adorable masterpiece. It was given in the beautiful Salle des Printemps Parfumés. Ah! what a stunning render ing of the delicious démodée pièce de décadence. There is a subtle quality about the music, like the unhealthy bloom upon wax fruit, that both orchestra and singer contrived to emphasise with con summate delicacy.
The Virgin was sung by Spiridion, that soft, incomparable alto. A miraculous virgin, too, he made of her.
To begin with, he dressed the role most effectively. His plump legs up to the feminine hips of him were in very white stockings clocked with a false pink. He wore brown kid boots, buttoned to mid-calf, and his whorish thighs had thin scarlet garters round them. His jacket was cut like a jockey’s, only the sleeves ended in manifold frills, and round the neck, and just upon the shoulders there was a black cape. His hair, dyed green, was curled into ringlets, such as the smooth Madonnas of Morales are made lovely with, and fell over his high egg-shaped creamy forehead, and about his ears and cheeks and back.
The alto’s face was fearful and wonderful — a dream face. The eyes were full and black, with puffy blue-rimmed hemispheres beneath them, the cheeks, inclining to fatness, were powdered and dimpled, the mouth was purple and curved painfully, the chin tiny, and exqui sitely modelled, the expression cruel and womanish. Heavens! how splendid he looked and sounded.
An exquisite piece of phrasing was accompanied with some curly gesture of the hand, some delightful undulation of the stomach, some nervous movement of the thigh, or glorious rising of the bosom.
The performance provoked enthusiasm — thunders of applause. Claude and Clair pelted the thing with roses, and carried him off in triumph to the tables. His costume was declared ravishing. The men almost pulled him to bits, and mouthed at his great quiver ing bottom! The little horses were quite forgotten for the moment.
Sup, the penetrating, burst through his silk fleshings, and thrust in bravely up to the hilt, whilst the alto’s legs were feasted upon by Pudex, Cyril, Anquetin, and some others. Ballice, Corvo, Quadra, Senillé, Mellefont, Théodore Le Vit, and Matta all of the egoistic cult, stood and crouched round, saturating the lovers with warm douches.
Later in the afternoon, Venus and Tannhäuser paid a little visit to De La Pine’s studio, as the Chevalier was very anxious to have his portrait painted. De La Pine’s glory as a painter was hugely in creased by his reputation as a fouteur, for ladies that had pleasant memories of him looked with a biased eye upon his fètes galantes merveilleuses, portraits and folies bergères.
Yes, he was a bawdy creature, and his workshop a regular brothel. However, his great talent stood in no need of such meretricious and phallic support, and he was every whit as strong and facile with his brush as with his tool.
When Venus and the Chevalier entered his studio, he was standing amid a group of friends and connoisseurs who were liking his latest picture. It was a small canvas, one of his delightful morning pieces. Upon an Italian balcony stood a lady in a white frock, reading a letter. She wore brown stockings, straw-coloured petticoats, white shoes and a Leghorn hat. Her hair was red and in a chignon. At her feet lay a tiny Japanese dog, painted from the Queen’s favourite “Fanny”, and upon the balustrade stood an open empty bird cage. The background was a stretch of Gallic country, clusters of trees cresting the ridges of low hills, a bit of river, a château, and the morning sky.
De La Pine hastened to kiss the moist and scented hand of Venus. Tannhäuser bowed profoundly and begged to have some pictures shown him. The gracious painter took him round his studio.
Cosmé was one of the party, for De La Pine just then was painting his portrait, by the way, which promised to be a veritable chef d’oeuvre. Cosmé was loved and admired by everybody. To begin with, he was past master in his art, that fine, relevant art of coiffing; then he was really modest and obliging, and was only seen and heard when he was wanted.
He was useful; he was decorative in his white apron, black mask and silver suit; he was discreet.
The painter was giving Venus and Tannhäuser a little dinner that evening, and he insisted on Cosmé joining them.
The barber vowed he would be de trop, and required a world of pressing before he would accept the invitation. Venus added her voice, and he consented.
Ah! what a delightful little partie carrée it turned out. The painter was in purple and full dress, all tassels and grand folds. His hair magnificently curled, his heavy eyelids painted, his gestures large and romantic, he reminded one a little of Maurel playing Wolfram in the second act of the Opera of Wagner.
Venus was in a ravishing toilet and confection of Camille’s, and looked like K——. Tannhäuser was dressed as a woman and looked like a Goddess. Cosmé sparkled with gold, bristled with ruffs, glittered with bright buttons, was painted, powdered, gorgeously bewigged, and looked like a Marquis in a comic opera. The salle à manger at De La Pine’s was quite the prettiest that ever was.