I was seven or eight days hesitating before the enormous task which I had to accomplish; then, during that halting time, my courage returned to me and I bravely set to work, forgetting everything for the sake of the study of history. It was during this period that I wrote Térésa and the piece of which I am about to speak. Horace Vernet had sent a large picture from Rome depicting Édith aux longs cheveux cherchant le corps d'Harold sur le champ de bataille d'Hastings. It was a picture belonging to the category that Vernet laughingly styled his grand manner. It was singularly fascinating to me on account of the heroine's name, not because of the subject. I was seized with the whim to write a drama with the title Édith aux longs cheveux. One could only write in verse a drama with so poetical a title. Charles VII. had somewhat familiarised me with what is still called at the Academy the language of the gods. How was all this which I saw but imperfectly, and which it was an absolute necessity I should study, to remain in my poor brain without its bursting? And be careful to notice that I was as yet only brooding over the earliest races. How was I to disentangle the surroundings of Charlemagne and his son and to represent the interests and types of the Frankish race? How was I to pick out the Eudes and Roberts, the National Kings who sprang up and reigned over the conquered land which was to produce its Camilles and Pélages? It was staggering to know nothing at thirty of what other men knew when they were twelve. I had studied the theatre; I knew enough about it to be satisfied on that head. I must, then, study history as I had studied the theatre, and I believed that history was a barrier put in my path. Who was there to tell me that there would be a fresh course of study to make, longer, drier and more arduous than the preceding one? The study of the theatre had taken me five or six years. How much time was the study of history going to take me? Alas! I should have to study it for the rest of my life! If I had studied at the age of other people, I should have had nothing else to do but produce! I had as yet only the title to my drama. It need hardly be said that all I knew about the battle of Hastings was that which I had read in Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe. So I purposed to compose something after the style of Shakespeare's Cymbeline and not a historical drama. Accordingly, I read by chance a romance by Auguste Lafontaine—I would indeed like to tell you which but I have forgotten—all I remember is that the heroine's name was Jacobine. However, if you wish to remove all doubts about the matter, my friend Madame Cardinal, rue des Canettes, will tell you. She knows her Auguste Lafontaine by heart. Anyhow, Jacobine is made to take a narcotic and is put to sleep so that she may pass for dead, and, thanks to this supposed death, which releases her from the trammels of the earth, she can marry her lover. It is a little like Romeo and Juliet; but what is there on this earth here below which does not resemble some other idea, more or less? You will notice that I had already had this tiresome drama in my head for a very long time; for I had suggested it to Harel in the month of August 1830, instead of Napoléon, which I strongly disliked doing. We have seen how Harel fought and overcame my resistance. As for Édith aux longs cheveux, he had refused it outright, and you will see directly that he was not ill advised in doing so.
[CHAPTER VI]
Édith aux longs cheveux—Catherine Howard
Here is the story of Édith aux longs cheveux; you will meet her again under another name, clad in another garb and, instead of moving along in five acts, dragging behind her a tail of eight scenes.
A young girl who has been deserted lives in a sort of Eden surrounded by green shade, singing birds and flowers; a river flows, encroaching on one corner of her garden, as on the Arno or the Canal de la Brenta, and beautiful young people pass by on it who make her dream of love, and beautiful noblemen who make her dream ambitious dreams.
One of these noblemen notices her, and stops before the graceful apparition, penetrates into what he believes is a fairy palace and finds a young maiden, who looks as though she were the sister of the birds and the flowers which surround her; like them, she sings; like them, she is white and rosy and sweet scented. He falls in love with Edith. But Edith cares for nothing but the court and balls and fêtes and royal pomp. Ethelwood is the king's favourite; and, meantime, she allows herself to be loved by Ethelwood. Edith is one of those women who are as white as marble and as cold at heart as marble; she is like the statue of an ancient courtesan, dug up from the ruins of Pompeii, which is touched to life by the daylight and sunshine. She is alive, but that is all; it is useless to expect love from her. It is very seldom I created such characters in my books or dramas as this, but I had an example before me at the time. That example lured me on; there is always a little of the outside material world in the ideal inner world of the artist. She tells Ethelwood that she loves him, but she does not; for, behind Ethelwood, she looks towards the king. The king has also seen her; it is fated that certain women cannot be seen without being loved. The king sees Edith and loves her. But who is she and how is she to be approached? The king knows nothing about it; he needs ministers to help him to his love, as he needs them in his kingdom; and if Ethelwood helps him to support half his power, Ethelwood will also help him to carry the weight of his love. That which Ethelwood dreaded happens: the king falls in love with the same woman that he does. This woman is his very life; he wishes to keep her from the king at no matter what price. On the following day he has to visit Edith with the king. He has the night before him and on his side—night, the faithful ally of lovers, we must also add the capricious friend, for she betrays almost as often as she serves! He sets off; in two hours' time he is with Edith. He presses into her hand a flask filled with the potent drug which only exists on the stage and is only to be found among Shakespeare's alchemists. When the lover sees her, beautiful and young and almost loving for the first time—for she is thinking of the king, whilst fondling Ethelwood—he hesitates even to put this masterpiece of creation to sleep. Sleep, said the ancients, is brother to Death. But suppose the sister be jealous of the brother and pluck the soul of that beautiful child, like a flower from a tomb, during her sleep! A ballad Edith sings about a vassal espoused by a king decides him; the narcotic is poured into the maiden's glass; she has hardly drunk it before a deadly stupor spreads over her; she feels herself growing numb; she cries out, calls, instinctively pushes Ethelwood from her and falls asleep in despair thinking she is dying. He returns to the palace; next day, when he returned with the king they find Edith dead. She is laid in a vault; the king and Ethelwood go down into it and the king kneels. Ethelwood remains standing with his hand on the girl's heart, fearing that life has disappeared and is turned into death. He feels a slight throbbing in her veins and thinks the icy marble is gradually becoming warmer. What will happen if Edith wakes? He makes a pretext of the king's grief and drags him away, just as Edith's heart is beginning to flutter beneath his hand. Edith is left alone and wakes like Juliet; but, when Juliet awakens, she finds Romeo waiting for her. Edith is alone with the dead, with all the terrors and superstitions of the young girl: she cries and calls and shakes the door of the vault; it opens and Ethelwood appears. For the first time she flings herself into his arms with the effusion of gratitude. It is not a king bringing her a crown, but something much greater and more precious, a far more providential gift: a saviour who brings her life. For some moments she loves him with the whole strength of the life which she thought she had lost. Her expression is so open and true and spontaneous that she deceives the poor lover. He thinks he is beloved and tells her everything. The king has seen her and is in love with her. Then, for the benefit of the audience only, under the guise of the loving girl, one of the characteristics of the ambitious woman begins to reveal itself. Ethelwood confesses his ruse to Edith: he tells her how he made her take a drug to put her to sleep; he discloses to her what he had hidden from her until now, that he is one of the highest nobles in the State; but this no longer satisfies Edith! He tells her that, during her sleep, the king came down into her vault, and prayed on his knees by the side of the adored body which he took for a corpse; and that he, Ethelwood, a prey to the anguish of despair, awaited, dagger in hand, for the first movement of Edith and the first sigh from the king to stab the latter.
In the midst of the poor fool's story, Edith follows her own train of thought only. The king loves her! Why not be the king's wife rather than that of the king's favourite?... Did not the king put his ring of betrothal on her finger?... A ring—it is a crown in miniature! Meantime, Edith must be got out of the tomb, which weighs heavily on her, and take advantage of the night to reach Ethelwood's château. Ethelwood will go and explore the surroundings and then, if the road be deserted, he will return and fetch Edith. Edith is left alone for a moment and makes use of the time to search for traces of the king's footsteps on the damp flagstones, and the marks of his hand on the cold marble. In that brief moment she discloses her heart and the abyss of ambition which has swallowed up all her love.