Teleny or the Reverse of the Medal

Tell me your story from its very beginning, Des Grieux, said he, interrupting me; and how you got to be acquainted with him.

—It was at a grand charity concert where he was playing; for though amateur performances are one of the many plagues of modern civilization, still, my mother being one of the lady patronesses, I felt it incumbent to be present.

—But he was not an amateur, was he?

—Oh, no! Still, at that time he was only just beginning to make a name.

—Well, go on.

—He had already seated himself at the piano when I got to my
stalle d'orchestre.
The first thing he played was a favorite
gavotte
of mine —one of those slight, graceful and easy melodies that seem to smell of
lavande ambrie,
and in some way or other put you in mind of Lulli and Watteau, of powdered ladies dressed in yellow satin gowns, flirting with their fans.

—And then?

—As he reached the end of the piece, he cast several sidelong glances towards—as I thought —the lady patroness. When he was about to rise, my mother—who was seated behind me— tapped me on my shoulder with her fan, only to make one of the many unseasonable remarks women are forever pestering you with, so that, by the time I had turned round to applaud, he had disappeared.

—And what happened afterwards?

—Let me see. I think there was some singing.

—But did he not play any more?

—Oh, yes! He came out again towards the middle of the concert. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit. It was then—as I thought—that our glances met for the first time.

—What kind of a man was he?

—He was a rather tall and slight young man of twenty-four. His hair, short and curled— after the fashion Bressan, the actor, had brought into vogue—was of a peculiar ashy hue; but this—as I knew afterwards—was due to its being always imperceptibly powdered. Anyhow, the fairness of his hair contrasted with his dark eyebrows and his short moustache. His complexion was of that warm, healthy paleness which, I believe, artists often have in their youth. His eyes—though generally taken for black—were of a deep blue color; and although they appeared so quiet and serene, still, a close observer would every now and then have seen in them a scared and wistful look, as if he were gazing at some dreadful dim and distant vision. An expression of the deepest sorrow invariably succeeded this painful glamour.

—And what was the reason of his sadness?

—At first, whenever I asked him, he always shrugged his shoulders, and answered laughingly, 'Do you never see ghosts?' When I got to be on more intimate terms with him, his invariable reply was—'My fate; that horrible, horrible fate of mine!' But then, smiling and arching his eyebrows, he always hummed,
'Non ci pensiam.'

—He was not of a gloomy or brooding disposition, was he?

—No, not at all; he was only very superstitious.

—As are all artists, I believe.

—Or rather, all persons like—well, like ourselves; for nothing renders people so superstitious as vice—

—Or ignorance.

—Oh! that is quite a different kind of superstition.

—Was there any peculiar dynamic quality in his eyes?

—For myself of course there was: yet he had not what you would call hypnotizing eyes; his glances were far more dreamy than piercing, or staring; and still they had such penetrating power that, from the very first time I saw him, I felt that he could dive deep into my heart; and although his expression was anything but sensual, still, every time he looked at me, I felt all the blood within my veins was set aglow.

—I have often been told that he was very handsome; is it true?

—Yes, he was remarkably good looking, and still, even more peculiar, than strikingly handsome. His dress, moreover, though always faultless, was a trifle eccentric. That evening, for instance, he wore at his buttonhole a bunch of white heliotrope, although camellias and gardenias were then in fashion. His bearing was most gentlemanly, but on the stage—as well as with strangers—slightly supercilious.

—Well, after your glances met?

—He sat down and began to play. I looked at the program; it was a wild Hungarian rhapsody by an unknown composer with a crack-jaw name; its effect, however, was perfectly entrancing. In fact, in no music is the sensuous element so powerful as in that of the Tsiganes. You see, from a minor scale—

—Oh! please no technical terms, for I hardly know one note from another.

—Anyhow, if you have ever heard a tsardas, you must have felt that, although the Hungarian music is replete with rare rhythmical effects, still, as it quite differs from our set rules of harmony, it jars upon our ears. These melodies begin by shocking us, then by degrees subdue, until at last they enthrall us. The gorgeous fioriture, for instance, with which they abound are of decided luxurious Arabic character, and—

—Well, never mind about the fioriture of the Hungarian music, and do go on with your story.

—That is just the difficult point, for you cannot disconnect him from the music of his country; nay, to understand him you must begin by feeling the latent spell which pervades every song of Tsigane. A nervous organization —having once been impressed by the charm of a tsardas—ever thrills in response to those magic numbers. Those strains usually begin with a soft and low andante, something like the plaintive wail of forlorn hope, then the ever changing rhythm—increasing in swiftness—becomes 'wild as the accents of lovers' farewell,' and without losing any of its sweetness, but always acquiring new vigor and solemnity, the prestissimo—syncopated by sighs—reaches a paroxysm of mysterious passion, now melting into a mournful dirge, then bursting out into the brazen blast of a fiery and warlike anthem.

He, in beauty, as well as in character, was the very personification of this entrancing music.

As I listened to his playing I was spellbound; yet I could hardly tell whether it was with the composition, the execution, or the player himself. At the same time the strangest visions began to float before my eyes. First I saw the Alhambra in all the luxuriant loveliness of its Moorish masonry—those sumptuous symphonies of stones and bricks—so like the flourishes of those quaint gipsy melodies. Then a smouldering unknown fire began to kindle itself within my breast. I longed to feel that mighty love which maddens one to crime, to feel the blasting lust of men who live beneath the scorching sun, to drink down deep from the cup of some satyrion philter.

The vision changed; instead of Spain, I saw a barren land, the sun-lit sands of Egypt, wet by the sluggish Nile; where Adrian stood wailing, forlorn, disconsolate for he had lost forever the lad he loved so well. Spellbound by that soft music, which sharpened every sense, I now began to understand things hitherto so strange, the love the mighty monarch felt for his fair Grecian slave, Antinous, who—like unto Christ —died for his master's sake. And thereupon my blood all rushed from my heart into my head, then it coursed down, through every vein, like waves of molten lead.

The scene then changed, and shifted into the gorgeous towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, weird, beautiful and grand; to me the pianist's notes just then seemed murmuring in my ear with the panting of an eager lust, the sound of thrilling kisses.

Then—in the very midst of my vision—the pianist turned his head and cast one long, lingering, slumberous look at me, and our glances met again. But was he the pianist, was he Antinous, or rather, was he not one of those two angels which God sent to Lot? Anyhow, the irresistible charm of his beauty was such that I was quite overcome by it; and the music just then seemed to whisper:

Could you not drink his gaze like wine,

Yet though its splendour swoon

In the silence languidly

As a tune into a tune?

That thrilling longing I had felt grew more and more intense, the craving so insatiable that it was changed to pain; the burning fire had now been fanned into a mighty flame, and my whole body was convulsed and wracked with mad desire. My lips were parched, I gasped for breath; my joints were stiff, my veins were swollen, yet I sat still, like all the crowd around me. But suddenly a heavy hand seemed to be laid upon my lap, something was bent and clasped and grasped, which made me faint with lust. The hand moved up and down, slowly at first, then fast and faster it went in rhythm with the song. My brain began to reel as throughout every vein a burning lava coursed, and then, some drops even gushed out — I panted —

All at once the pianist finished his piece with a crash amidst the thundering applause of the whole theatre. I myself heard nothing but the din of thunder, I saw a fiery hail, a rain of rubies and emeralds that was consuming the cities of the plain, and he, the pianist, standing naked in the lurid light, exposing himself to the thunderbolts of heaven and to the flames of hell. As he stood there, I saw him—in my madness— change all at once into Anubis, the dog-headed God of Egypt, then by degrees into a loathsome poodle. I started, I shivered, felt sick, but speedily he changed to his own form again.

I was powerless to applaud; I sat there dumb, motionless, nerveless, exhausted. My eyes were fixed upon the artist who stood there bowing listlessly, scornfully; while his own glances full of 'eager and impassioned tenderness,' seemed to be seeking mine and mine alone. What a feeling of exultation awakened within me! But could he love me, and me only? For a moment the exultation gave way to bitter jealousy. Was I growing mad, I asked myself?

As I looked at him, his features seemed to be overshadowed by a deep melancholy, and—horrible to behold—I saw a small dagger plunged in his breast, with the blood flowing fast from the wound. I not only shuddered, but almost shrieked with fear, the vision was so real. My head was spinning round, I was growing faint and sick, I fell back exhausted in my chair, covering my eyes with my hands.

—What a strange hallucination, I wonder what brought it about?

—It was, indeed, something more than an hallucination, as you will see hereafter. When I lifted up my head again, the pianist was gone. I then turned round, and my mother— seeing how pale I was—asked me if I felt ill. I muttered something about the heat being very oppressive.

'Go into the green room,' said she, 'and have a glass of water.'

'No, I think I had better go home.'

I felt, in fact, that I could not listen to any more music that evening. My nerves were so utterly unstrung that a maudlin song would just then have exasperated me, while another intoxicating melody might have made me lose my senses.

As I got up I felt so weak and exhausted that it seemed as if I were walking in a trance, so, without exactly knowing whither I wended my steps, I mechanically followed some persons in front of me, and, a few moments afterwards, I unexpectedly found myself in the green room.

The salon was almost empty. At the further end a few dandies were grouped around a young man in evening dress, whose back was turned towards me. I recognized one of them as Briancourt.

—What, the General's son?

—Precisely.

—I remember him. He always dressed in such a conspicuous way.

—Quite so. That evening, for instance, when every gentleman was in black, he, on the contrary, wore a white flannel suit, as usual, a very open Byron-like collar, and a red Lavalliere cravat tied in a huge bow.

—Yes, for he had a most lovely neck and throat.

—He was very handsome, although I, for myself, had always tried to avoid him. He had a way of ogling which made me feel quite uncomfortable. You laugh, but it is quite true. There are some men who, when staring at a woman, seem all the while to be undressing her. Briancourt had that indecent way of looking at everybody. I vaguely felt his eyes all over me, and that made me shudder.

—But you were acquainted with him, were you not?

—Yes, we had been at some Kindergarten or other together, but, being three years younger than he, I was always in a lower class. Anyhow, that evening, upon perceiving him, I was about to leave the room, when the gentleman in the evening suit turned round. It was the pianist. As our eyes met again, I felt a strange flutter within me, and the fascination of his looks was so powerful that I was hardly able to move. Then, attracted onwards as I was, instead of quitting the green room, I walked on slowly, almost reluctantly, toward the group. The musician, without staring, did not, however, turn his eyes away from me. I was quivering from head to foot. He seemed to be slowly drawing me to him, and I must confess the feeling was such a pleasant one that I yielded entirely to it.