Monsieur de Phocas E-Book

Jean Lorrain

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Modelled on The Portrait of Dorian Gray it is the summation of french decadence. Monsieur de Phocas ranks with A Rebours as the summation of the French Decadent Movement. It will appeal strongly to readers of Oscar Wilde and fin-de-siecle fiction

Leseprobe

INTRODUCTION

The life and Career of Jean Lorrain

Paul Alexandre Martin Duval was born on 9 August 1855 at Fécamp, a small seaside town in Normandy. He considered that he came from a good family, but it was not a noble one. His father, Amable Duval, was a ship-owner whose vessels were involved in trans-Atlantic trade; his paternal grandfather and great-grandfather had captained similar vessels. Like them he was fair-haired, a trait which he attributed to Viking blood.

In later life, when he had become Jean Lorrain because his father did not want the good name of Duval to be trailed through the mud of a literary career, his feelings about his ancestry were mixed – as, indeed, were his feelings about everything else. On the one hand he was prepared to be proud of the blond taint of ‘barbarism’, which set him apart from the effete snobs of Paris and made him – seen from one oblique angle – a better kind of man than they. On the other hand, like the scion of any family of parvenus, he was very conscious of the fact that he was not an aristocrat, and would never be fully accepted into the high social circles whose lifestyle and pretensions he desperately coveted. The fascinated loathing which he cultivated for the decadence of fin de siècle Paris has a good deal of envy and ardent desire in it; in the words of Hubert Juin, he ‘loved his epoch to the point of detestation.’

Fécamp only came to life in the summer months, when the ships from America regularly entered and left the harbour. Young Paul enjoyed this time of year, and fully appreciated the romance of ships and faraway places, but the attractions of the shipping business itself were not obvious to him. He was, in any case, primarily his mother’s child, and although his possessive, ever-anxious mother was the daughter of an engineer, she was far more interested in aesthetic matters. She also had literary connections; her elder sister had married one Eugène Mouton, a published author. She was Amable Duval’s second wife – the first had died childless – and was eighteen years his junior; she does not appear to have been close to her husband, but she was very close to Paul, who was her only child.

Paul’s love of fiction was fostered at an early age and fervently encouraged. He was exceptionally fond of fairy tales, fables and fantasies, particularly fascinated by the idealised princesses who were so often their central characters. In later life he was to write many such contes himself, the vast majority of them featuring exotic princesses; his most important collection of them was issued under the title Princesses d’ivoire et d’iuresse (1902). He was also very fond of charades, and loved dressing up in silks and velvets; he was fascinated, too, by the glamour of circuses.

The Maupassant family were neighbours of the Duvals – a cut above them socially although not obviously richer – and Paul was once allowed to visit when Hervé de Maupassant, who was two years older than he, was staying with his grandmother. Hervé’s older brother, Guy, was also present, and consented to join in their games, although he took a certain delight in tormenting and frightening the two smaller boys.

Paul attended the Lycée du Prince-Impérial at Vanves 1864—9, and then spent an unhappy time with the Dominicans at Arcueil, which mainly served to confirm a contemptuous hatred for the clergy which was to last a lifetime. By this time he was something of an enfant terrible, who had discovered the perverse rewards of shocking people, and he had already become notorious in and around Fécamp. It was easy enough to violate the ultra-conventional expectations of the local provincial gentry, but Paul must have been acutely aware of the fact that no mere novice in the art of notoriety could possibly compete with the English exiles who had crossed the channel to avoid the fiercer strictures of Victorianism. The most famous of these was Algernon Swinburne, who had lived nearby for some years and still remained the perfect model of notoriety so far as Fécamp was concerned.

Paul was too young to have encountered Swinburne personally, but Guy de Maupassant had, and Edmond Goncourt – who was later to become Jean Lorrain’s fast friend and father-figure – had also visited him. The exotically lurid decor of Swinburne’s house, and the scandalous things which were rumoured to go on there were, however, common knowledge, and what Paul heard about them at second-hand had a strong influence on his notion of what true decadence was. He did encounter Lord Arthur Somerset, a colourful character in his own right, who was a great admirer of Oscar Wilde. Lord Arthur took an interest in young Paul and maintained a correspondence with him, sending him pictures by Walter Crane and Edward Burne-Jones by way of assisting his artistic education. One of Jean Lorrain’s most striking early stories – the title-story of the collection Sonyeuse (1891) – is a fantasy somewhat reminiscent of Edgar Allan Poe, in which a young man from Fécamp encounters an exotic English exile, Lady Mordaunt, with bizarre consequences.

By far the most significant of Paul’s adventures in and around Fécamp was, however, his brief liaison with Judith Gautier, who was the daughter of one of the central figures in the French Romantic movement, Théophile Gautier. He met her while she was on a seaside holiday in 1873. She was ten years older than he, still married to – but separated from – the writer Catulle Mendès. Mendès was then a leading light among the ‘Parnassian’ poets but was later to become a central figure in the Decadent movement, as much for his lifestyle as for his rather cynical prose fictions in that vein. Judith was not short of admirers – she had already met and enchanted Wagner – but she was at a loose end and took Paul temporarily in hand. To her the encounter was trivial – she made no mention of Paul Duval or Jean Lorrain in her autobiography, although (the significance of this will become clear in due course) she gave accounts of her friendships with Robert de Montesquiou and Pierre Loti – but he was profoundly affected by it. It changed his life to such an extent that Edmond Goncourt was later to lament that it had been the ruination of him, and that everything which happened to him after Judith Gautier’s intervention was a long-drawn-out process of moral and physical suicide. Goncourt seems, in fact, to have believed that Jean Lorrain’s homosexuality was some kind of traumatic response to his doomed infatuation with Judith.

Lorrain always declared that Judith Gautier was the only woman, save for his mother, he ever loved – but he had a long series of close Platonic friendships with various women and became one of the many ardent worshippers of the actress Sarah Bernhardt. Paul’s literary tastes were decisively shifted by Judith. She poured scorn on his admiration for the sentimental verses of Alfred de Musset – a taste which he associated thereafter with childish innocence – and offered him the gaudy exoticism of Charles Leconte de Lisle instead. She was herself a lover of the exotic, especially the Oriental; her most notable work was a lush novel of the East, Le Dragon imperial (1868; tr. as The Imperial Dragon) Paul had already written some poetry, but the love-poems which he dedicated to Judith, written in the mid-1870s and later included in La Forêt bleue (1883), were his first serious literary adventures.

Paul’s military service was undertaken on a ‘volontariat’ basis, by which it was cut to one year in consideration of a payment. He spent his time in barracks at Saint-Germainen-Laye & Rocquencourt. His father, deciding that he must be prepared for life in the real world, then sent him to study law. In the course of these studies, which extended from 1876 to 1878, he frequently travelled back and forth between Paris and Fécamp. The project was probably doomed from the start, but Paul’s situation was complicated by health problems. He began to suffer from burning fevers and chest-pains, probably caused by tuberculosis. He would suffer recurrent bouts of this trouble for the rest of his life, but he was sufficiently robust to enjoy good health in between the bouts until the problems were compounded by other factors. The fevers themselves were both fierce and debilitating, sometimes bad enough to require injections of morphine, but he never became a habitual user of the drug. Morphine was then regarded as primarily a female indulgence – men were supposed to smoke their opium raw – and his characterization of ‘morphinées’ in his later fiction is savagely scornful. His feelings regarding his illness were typically mixed; he knew well enough that Swinburne had been a career invalid, and he insisted that his sickroom at Fécamp – to which he continually returned so that his mother could nurse him – was appropriately decorated.

It cannot have come as a surprise to Amable Duval when his son finally announced that he was giving up the law in favour of a literary career; he agreed readily enough to provide a modest allowance, on condition that Paul used a pseudonym. Paul and his mother leafed through a directory in search of something suitable, and were delighted with their choice. In 1880 Jean Lorrain set himself up in Montmartre, eager to launch imself into the Bohemian life.

This was the Montmartre of Toulouse-Lautrec, a world of cheap furnished rooms in which impoverished members of the literary avant-garde rubbed shoulders with cheap prostitutes and formed enthusiastic cliques in cafes. The café in which Jean Lorrain elected to spend most of his days was the Chat Noir. Paul Verlaine was known to drop in occasionally – and was later to launch the fad for ‘Decadence’ with a poem in Le Chat Noir, the periodical founded by the regulars – but the hard core of the group were then in the habit of describing themselves as ‘Hydropathes’ and ‘Zutistes’. They included Jean Moréas and Jean Richepin. The Hydropathes were literary Satanists, great admirers of the historian Jean Michelet, whose curiously rhapsodic book La Sorcière (1862; tr. as Satanism and Witchcraft) had hailed the witches burned in days of yore as heroic and virtuous antagonists of a tyrannical church. They were enthusiastic apologists for the Devil, and conscientiously re-worked the mythology of witches’ sabbats and black masses. Many of the poems Lorrain wrote under this influence are reprinted in Sang des dieux (1882) and La Forêt bleue.

Sang des dieux, Lorrain’s first book, had a frontispiece by Gustave Moreau. Lorrain met Moreau in 1880, and immediately became a devout admirer of his work. The two did not become friends – Moreau became a virtual recluse in his later years – but Lorrain visited the artist’s studio in the Rue La Rochefoucauld, which was left to the state as a museum when Moreau died in 1898. Moreau’s work revealed to Lorrain a whole world-view: a gorgeous symbolically-transfigured vision of a world dominated by lust and luxury (concepts which seem to be more closely related in French than in English, in the words luxure and luxe), where eroticism is inextricably linked with cruelty and death, placed in fabulously gaudy settings: a ‘Sublime Sodom’, as Lorrain’s biographer Philippe Jullian put it. The hallucinatory world of Moreau’s art is dominated by femmes fatales — Salomé, Helen of Troy, the Sirens – who are all, in some sense, incarnations of the same eternal person. In Flaubert’s La Tentation de Saint Antoine (1874; tr. as The Temptations of St Anthony) — another favourite of the Hydropathes – the archetype of which all these other females are avatars is called Ennoïa; she features in person, of course, in Moreau’s own versions of the saint’s torments. In many different guises – including Astarté, the name of one of the many pagan deities demonised by the monotheistic followers of Jehovah – Ennoïa was to play a central role in Jean Lorrain’s personal mythos, although ‘she’ had an understandable tendency to become androgynous or frankly masculine.

In 1883 Lorrain began to frequent the salon of Charles Buet, where he made three more highly significant acquaintances. The first of these was the novelist Jules-Amédée Barbey d’Aurevilly, then in his seventies, whose most famous book was Les Diaboliques (1874; tr. as The She-Devils), a collection of misogynistic stories about women whose beautiful faces and manners conceal appalling depths of depravity. Barbey d’Aurevilly was the leading exponent of the philosophy of ‘dandyism’, which he had considerably tranformed after borrowing the initial inspiration from Beau Brummell, promoting it not merely as a dress-code or even a lifestyle, but as a whole way of being-in-the-world. The most significant partial convert to this creed had been Baudelaire – now long-dead – but the incarnate image of dandyism, who seemed to have come by the heritage naturally, was Comte Robert de Montesquiou, the ‘man of the world’.

Lorrain became such a wholehearted convert to dandyism that Remy de Gourmont was later to describe him as ‘the sole disciple of Barbey d’Aurevilly’, but he was always working from a position of irreparable disadvantage. Many of those who were already dandies were of the opinion that one had to be born to the vocation, and that no matter how hard one tried to adopt the philosophy and the manners of a dandy, one could never really become one. Several of Lorrain’s contemporaries were inclined to refer to him as ‘the poor man’s Montesquiou’ and it is hardly surprising that Lorrain cultivated a deep loathing for the man. Throughout his career as a chronicler of the fin de siècle Lorrain sniped at Montesquiou, often viciously, but he could never win the undeclared war because Montesquiou automatically adopted the perfect defence: he ignored Lorrain completely, refusing even to concede him the dignity of being noticed.

The second important acquaintance Lorrain made chez Charles Buet in 1883 was Joris-Karl Huysmans. Seven years older than Lorrain, Huysmans had made his name as a naturalist of the school of Zola, but his career was about to undergo a decisive sea-change. He was working on a highly original novel called À reborns (tr. as Against the Grain and Against Nature), which would be published the following year and would become one of the foundation-stones of the Decadent movement. Lorrain’s fourth collection of poetry, Les Griseries (1887), consists of material explicitly inspired by À reborns. Lorrain and Huysmans had a good deal in common, including their interest in Satanism, and they became good friends – a friendship which endured rather better than most of Lorrain’s associations, although it was weakened when Huysmans got religion shortly after publishing his classic novel of Satanism Là-Bas (1891; tr. under the same title). Long after that, Huysmans wrote to Lorrain in order to heap praise upon Monsieur de Phocas (1901), recognising both its close kinship with and its significant variations from À reborns.

The third, and by no means the least, of the friends Lorrain made through Buet was Marguerite Eymery, who called herself Rachilde. Her literary career was yet to begin in earnest, although she had already begun to cultivate the notoriety which shaped her reputation. Rachilde shared Lorrain’s passionate fascination for masked balls, which were then in their last period of great fashionability, and he became her regular escort, enthusiastically competing with her in the outrageousness of his costumes. The fact that he was openly homosexual made the liaison all the more useful in terms of her self-publicity. Lorrain was also making a name for himself with the vicious reviews which he wrote for the Courrier français, a successor to Le Chat Noir, where he first cultivated the scathing rhetoric for which he became famous. He attacked Zola, Maupassant and – perhaps most vitriolically of all – Catulle Mendès, but he could be correspondingly enthusiastic about the things he liked, which included Elémir Bourges’ pioneering Decadent novel Le Crépuscule des dieux (1883 and, Huysmans’ À rebours. His article advertising Rachilde, ‘Madame Salamandre’ (1884), became her launching-pad, well in advance of the succès de scandale she was to achieve with La Marquise de Sade (1887) and Monsieur Venus (1889). Lorrain and Rachilde drifted apart in the years following her marriage to Alfred Vallette, the somewhat staid founder and editor of the Mercure de France (of whose work Lorrain was scornful) but they remained on good terms and she treated him far better than some of his other female friends.

The firmest friend Lorrain made in Paris, however, was Edmond Goncourt, whom he met in 1885. Goncourt was thirty-three years older than Lorrain, but this did not inhibit their friendship; they remained close until Goncourt’s death in 1896. Goncourt always wrote about Lorrain in warm but sad terms, lamenting the tragedy of his having somehow gone wrong in life. He took the younger man under his wing, perhaps seeing something in him that reminded him of his younger brother and collaborator Jules, who had died in 1870.

In 1886 Lorrain met Sarah Bernhardt for the first time, and became one of the most fervent of her many admirers. She was the central figure of the Parisian monde, and she held the key to social acceptance in the circles in which Lorrain desperately desired to move. Her attitude to him was, however, amused tolerance. She accepted his adoration, but like Judith Gautier before her she preferred the company of Pierre Loti and Robert de Montesquiou, his two bêtes noires. They were both as flamboyantly homosexual as Lorrain, but in the eyes of the world – or those people in it who really mattered – Lorrain could never match Loti for style or Montesquiou for breeding. Lorrain wrote several plays whose main parts were tailor-made for Sarah, but she refused to appear in any of them. He continued to be extremely enthusiatic about her work – especially when she played male roles, like de Musset’s Lorenzaccio, the would-be saviour of Renaissance Florence, who dons a mask in order to charm and ultimately to murder the tyrant who threatens it – but his patience finally broke. In 1900, when she had one of her greatest triumphs in Edmond Rostand’s L’Aiglon, Lorrain attacked it with all the fury he could muster. Later, though, he was to use her as a model for characters in two of his more sentimental novels: Nora Lerys in Ellen (1906) and Linda in Le Tréteau (1906).

Amable Duval died in 1886, leaving his heirs to discover that his financial affairs were, to say the least, not in good order. The estate had to be liquidated in order to pay off his debts – a process which soured Normandy in Lorrain’s eyes, and increased the cynical hatred which he already had for all things bourgeois, epecially commerce and the law. Mercifully, his mother had kept complete control of her dowry, and was not impoverished – but the necessity for Lorrain to earn his own living was now acute. He threw himself into journalism with considerable determination, and increased his output of prose fiction considerably. He had published his first novel, Les Lépillier (1885), a year earlier, and followed it up with Très Russe (1886).

His fiction was destined to make him at least as many enemies as his journalism, and Guy de Maupassant was sufficiently incensed by resemblances between himself and one of the characters in Très Russe to send his seconds round to seek reparation from the author. No one knows what passed between them, but no duel actually took place. This was the first of several such incidents. In 1887 Lorrain did go to meet the journalist René Maizeroy, but both came away unscathed. In 1888 Paul Verlaine sent his seconds round after Lorrain had erroneously reported that he had been committed, but the matter went no further. The most famous of his duels was, however, still some way off.

In the short fiction which he now began to write so prolifically Lorrain frequently introduced homosexual themes. Lesbianism had long been fashionable as a literary theme thanks to Baudelaire – who intended at one point to attach the title Les Lesbiennes to the collection which became Les Fleurs du Mal (1857) – and Théophile Gautier’s Mademoiselle de Maupin (1855) but male homosexuality was still hedged about with taboos. Lorrain was not entirely displeased by the shock-wave generated by his stories of this kind, and was happy to cash in on it, ultimately compiling a rich catalogue of brief stories detailing all manner of exotic fetishisms and perversions, but the reputation he cultivated left something to be desired. He would never be regarded as a writer of the first rank in his own country, and there was no possibility of his being translated into English. The work of making male homosexuality acceptable as a literary theme was left for Proust and Gide to do.

In 1887 Lorrain left Montmartre to install himself in an apartment in the Rue de Courty, which he was able to furnish according to his own calculatedly bizarre taste. The phantasmagorical aspects of this private world were considerably exaggerated by the fact that he had begun drinking ether. His motive for doing this was undoubtedly medicinal, and he was initially impressed by the sudden surge of vitality which a dose of the drug gave him when he was ill or exhausted; it was one of several ‘cures’ with which he attempted to combat his increasing periods of debilitation. Under the hallucinogenic influence of ether, though, his apartments soon came to seem literally and figuratively haunted. Those of his short stories which did not deal with sexual perversity were mostly supernatural, and his works in this vein became increasingly strange and horrific, more akin to the works of E. T. A. Hoffman than Poe; much of his best work is in this vein, and he wrote some very striking stories of bizarre apparitions and peculiar obsessions. He was later to write a self-conscious cycle of ‘contes d’un buveur d’éther’, which were included in Sensations et souvenirs (1895), but the effects of the drug can clearly be seen in the stories in his other collections, particularly Buveurs d’âmes (1893) and Histoires de masques (1900).

In 1888 Lorrain left the Courtier for L’Evénement, where he was given a regular column in which to extend his mordant literary criticism into a more general critique of contemporary Parisian society. He called his essays along these lines ‘Pall-Malls’, after the English weekly Pall Mall Gazette, which had been edited since 1883 by W. T. Stead. Stead was an odd combination of muck-raker and crusader, who became a role-model for many later journalists. Stead’s exposés of the London brothels which specialised in flagellation and child prostitution caused a great sensation, which was magnified still further when he was condemned to a period of hard labour after buying a child from her mother in order to demonstrate how readily children were sold into prostitution. Lorrain’s image of the English gentry seems to have been largely formed by Stead’s lurid articles, and he set out to do similar disservice to his own countrymen. His political stance was a curious kind of ‘right-wing anarchism’ based on a scornful hatred of both capitalism and socialism. He was a nationalist through and through, despising the revolutionaries of 1789 for their bourgeois tendencies, but the fact that he became a diehard opponent of the Dreyfusards probably had far more to do with his long-standing dislike for Zola than any judgment of Dreyfus’ culpability. (Lorrain was also outspokenly anti-Semitic, but that too might have been a by-product of his personal detestation of Judith Gautier’s Jewish ex-husband.) Problems with obtaining payment for his work led him to quit L’ Evénement in 1890 for the Écho de Paris, to which he was a prolific contributor – under various pseudonyms – until 1895, after which he worked mainly for Le Journal.

At the end of 1890 Lorrain left his haunted house in the Rue de Courty and moved to Auteuil. By this time his recurrent fevers were complicated by syphilis. Sarah Bernhardt, who did little else for him, at least referred him to a good physician: the celebrated chirurgeon Dr Pozzi, who was a colourful and well-known character in his own right. Pozzi told him to stop taking ether, advising him that his gut had become so badly ulcerated due to the effects of the drug that surgical intervention was necessary. Pozzi carried out the operation, removing a section of the small intestine, in 1893.

Despite his health problems Lorrain travelled to Spain and Algeria in 1892, the first of several expeditions abroad. He was joined in Auteuil by his mother, who lived with him until his death – a somewhat mixed blessing, given her extreme disapproval of his lifestyle, but a blessing nevertheless. He was now earning good money and was able to support her in style; he sent her to the very best couturiers and had her painted by the noted portraitist Antonio de La Gandara (who also did the most striking portrait of Lorrain himself).

He formed several new friendships with women around this time. The first – and the one of which his mother most fervently disapproved, especially when rumours began to circulate about a possible marriage – was with the exotic Liane de Pougy, a performing artiste of sorts whose great ambition was to be the most fashionable and most expensive whore in Paris: a perfect femme fatale. Lorrain wrote ‘pantomimes’ for her, just as he composed songs for the more respectable pianist Yvette Guilbert, whom he met the following year. Between 1892 and 1896 Lorrain was also frequently in the company of Jeanne Jacquemin, an artist in pastels, who shared his intense fascination with the occult. Together they ventured into the ‘Occult Underworld’ recently made fashionable by Là-Bas 1891 and made highly visible by the self-styled Rosicrucian mage Josephin Péladan – also a prolific author of books railing against the Decadence of modern Paris. Jeanne Jacquemin’s husband was a friend of Verlaine, and did not seem to mind the wayward lifestyle she adopted. She liked to pose as a notable figure in Decadent Paris – she claimed intimate acquaintance with Rodenbach and Remy de Gourmont – but tended to be jealously possessive, and Lorrain fell out with her before setting off on his second trip to Algiers. He did not see her again for some years, and she faded from the Paris scene; unfortunately, she neither forgot nor forgave him.

In 1896 Lorrain was probably the best-paid journalist in Paris, and he had reached the summit of his brief celebrity. It is rather ironic that he is best-remembered today for an incident which attracted little attention at the time but which now figures as an episode in the many biographies of Marcel Proust. Lorrain twice attacked Proust’s first book, Les Plaisirs et les jours (1896; tr. as Pleasures and Regrets), the second time in an article published in January 1897. The slanders were no worse than Lorrain’s customary stock-in-trade, but Proust sent his seconds to demand satisfaction and the two men met on 6 February, armed with pistols. Two shots were discharged harmlessly, and the two then shook hands.

Lorrain continued to make friends as well as enemies, particularly among the people he met in the home of Jean de Tinan, where Rachilde was a frequent fellow-guest. It was there that he made the acquaintance of Pierre Louÿs, whose lush erotic fantasy set in ancient Alexandria, Aphrodite, took Paris by storm in 1896. He also met the poet Henri de Régnier, who remained grateful for the help which Lorrain lent his career, the pioneering surrealist Alfred Jarry, and Colette, who seemed to like him far better than many of the women with whom he kept closer company. The circle dissipated when Tinan died, not long before Lorrain decided that he had to leave Paris for the sake of his health and remove his household to the balmier climes of Nice.

It is significant that Lorrain abandoned Paris at end of 1900. For ten years he had been the self-appointed chronicler of the fin de siècle and the scourge of Decadent Paris; a great deal of his rhetoric had drawn on the fact that the nineteenth century was winding down, approaching an end that was devoutly to be desired. He was very conscious of the extent to which that rhetoric would lose its force once the new century was born, and this consciousness was reinforced by the spectacular Exposition Universelle held in Paris in 1900. It was as if he had fallen out of fashion instantly, by prior appointment. He continued to write for Le Journal, but he now gave priority to a new endeavour: the writing of two novels which would provide a kind of retrospective summary of the Decadent Movement and the world which had given birth to it. Huysmans had begun the movement with À reborns and Lorrain set out to provide it with a fitting conclusion. The two novels in question were Monsieur de Phocas (1901) and Le Vice errant (1902). They were recognised as his masterpieces, but were not greeted with any great popular acclaim.

Things began to go badly wrong for Lorrain immediately after the two novels appeared in print. Jeanne Jacquemin, seemingly repentant of her colourful past, recognized herself in Mme de Charmaille, one of the characters in a nouvelle called ‘Les Pelléastres’, serialised in Le Journal. Lorrain had grafted attributes of his friends on to his fictional characters many times before – often unflatteringly, as in Monsieur de Bougrelon (1897), whose central character is a sharp caricature of Barbey d’Aurevilly – without any significant comeback, but Jeanne Jacquemin sued him for defamation of character. The case generated a great deal of bad publicity, and Lorrain was attacked from all sides by those who had once walked in fear of his sarcasm. The court – perhaps desirous of making an example of him, although it is unclear whose benefit they had in mind – required him to pay astonishingly high damages of 80,000 francs.

The settlement of this suit left Lorrain broke and vulnerable; he was soon to face a second lawsuit and – perhaps more seriously, in terms of his reputation – a formal charge of corrupting public morals by literary means, brought by a certain M. Greuling against Monsieur de Phocas. A similar charge had once been the making of Baudelaire’s reputation, but in Lorrain’s case it only served to illustrate how dramatically the tide had turned, and how ardently the people of twentieth century Paris desired to advertise that the nineteenth century was dead and gone. He was disappointed that hardly anyone came forward to speak in his defence (Colette was one exception), and particularly hurt by the fact that Huysmans remained silent.

Lorrain threw himself into his writing in order to pay the damages, and continued to produce work at a furious pace, but much of it was pure hackwork. La Maison Philibert (1904), a calculatedly scabrous novel about a brothel, is of some interest as a Decadent work, but the other novels of this period were much weaker. His health continued to deteriorate, and his tuberculosis returned in full force in 1905; he took various ‘cures’ in the spas of the Riviera, but they left him sicker than before. With typically grim irony he began signing his articles in Le Journal and La Vie parisienne ‘Le Cadavre’. He was grateful to find, though, that he still had some admirers. In 1906 he met for the first time the Italian Decadent Gabriele D’Annunzio, who readily acknowledged him as a great influence, and he received a heart-warming letter of appreciation from the sculptor Rodin, whose work he had always admired and complimented.

On 12 June 1906 Lorrain returned to Paris to help organise an art exhibition and to involve himself in an adaptation for the opera of one of his contes, La Princesse sous verre (1896). He took the opportunity to see Pozzi, who called in several colleagues to second his opinion that Lorain’s gut was so badly ulcerated that an operation could not help. Pozzi could only prescribe palliative measures, and it was in the course of following this prescription that Lorrain died. He was found unconscious in his bathroom on 28 June, having perforated his colon while giving himself an enema. He was removed to hospital and his mother hastened from Nice to sit with him, but he died without regaining consciousness two days later. A funeral was held in Paris at Saint-Ferdinand-des-Ternes before his body was taken to Fécamp for burial. Régnier was there, and La Gandara, and Paul Adam, and Colette, but Sarah Bernhardt did not come, and nor did Yvette Guilbert; Liane de Pougy sent a wreath.

CONTENTS

Title

Introduction

Monsieur de Phocas

The Legacy

The Manuscript

Oppression

The Eyes

Izé Kranile

Enchantment

The Terror of the Masquerade

The Healer

Under the Spell

A Series of Etchings

The Doll Collector

The Eye of Eboli

The Thought Reader

Some Monsters

The Larvae

Towards the Sabbat

Opium

Smara

The Sphinx

Sir Thomas Welcome

Another Track

The Spectre of IZ

Cloaca Maxima

Sir Thomas’s Millions

The Abyss

A Glimmer of Hope

The Refuge

Lasciate Ogni Speranza

A Consignment of Flowers

The City of Gold

The Trap

Thou Shalt Go no Further

The Lilies

The Murder

The Goddess

Afterword

Appendix

Copyright

MONSIEUR DE PHOCAS

THE LEGACY

Monsieur de Phocas. With a flick of my fingers I turned the card over and then back again; the name inscribed upon it was completely unknown to me.

In the absence of my manservant, who was at Versailles for a twenty-eight day stint in barracks, the cook had introduced the visitor. Monsieur de Phocas was in my study.

Grumbling, I rose from the armchair where I had been dozing – the day was so warm! – and went into my study, determined to send the unwelcome visitor away.

Monsieur de Phocas! Having opened the door unobtrusively, I paused on the threshold.

Monsieur de Phocas was a tall but frail young man of twenty-eight or thereabouts, whose crimped and short-cut brown hair surmounted an extraordinarily old and bloodless face. He was neatly dressed in a myrtle-green suit, and he sported a pale green silk cravat speckled with gold,

That finely-chiselled profile, the deliberate stiffness of the slim, elongated body, the arabesque quality – one might almost say the tormented arabesque quality – of that elegant figure … I was certain that I had seen it all before somewhere.

It seemed that Monsieur de Phocas was not yet aware of my presence – or was it that he did not deign to notice me? He stood lightly at ease beside my desk in a graceful pose. With the tip of his walking-stick – it was a malacca cane worth at least two hundred francs, with a head bizarrely carved from raw ivory, which immediately attracted my attention – he was turning the pages of a manuscript set down among the books and papers, scanning them negligently from on high.

The sheer impertinence of it was intolerably odious.

This manuscript – the pages of prose or verse which the tip of the cane was stirring – had been set down among my own notes and letters, in the privacy of my own home, by a curious and indifferent visitor! I was both indignant at the act and entranced by its audacity – for I like and admire audacity in all things, and in those persons who exhibit it. Already, though, my attention had been distracted. My eyes were caught by the greenish fire suddenly lit within the folds of his cravat by an enormous emerald, whose proud facets sparkled strangely. The gem itself was strange enough, made all the more so by virtue of the fact that its fine, polished facets seemed almost as if they had been modelled in pale wax. It was similar to those which can be seen, bearing the signature of Clouet or Porbus, in the gallery of the Louvre dedicated to the Valois.

It seemed that Monsieur de Phocas did not even suspect my presence. Relaxed and aristocratic, he continued rummaging among my papers from a distance. The sleeve of his jacket had ridden up a little, and I saw that he wore a thin platinum bracelet studded with opals around his right wrist.

That bracelet! I remembered now.

I had seen that frail, white, thoroughbred wrist before, and that narrow circlet of jewelled platinum. Yes, I had seen them, but on that occasion they had been working through the select jewel-cases of a prestigious artist, a master goldsmith and engraver. I had seen them chez Barruchini, in the shop of the metalworker who was believed to have run away from Florence and whose establishment, known only to lovers of his art, was hidden in the depths of the Rue Visconti – a curious and ancient courtyard in what is perhaps the narrowest of the streets of old Paris, where Balzac was once a printer.

Delicately pale and clear, like the hand of a princess or a courtesan, the hand which had been stripped of its glove by the Duc de Fréneuse – for I also knew his real name now – had glided that day with infinite slowness above a veritable heap of lapis-lazulis, sardonyxes, onyxes and cornelians, pierced here and there by topazes, amethysts and rubicelles. That hand, ungloved by the Duc de Fréneuse, had sometimes settled like a waxen bird, designating with a finger the selected gem …

The selected gem …

My memories of that day were so precise that I could even recall the sound of his voice, and the manner in which the Duc took leave of Barruchini, saying in a curt tone to the goldsmith: ‘The item must be delivered to me within six days. You have only the inlaying to do now. I am counting on you, Barruchini, as you may count on me.’

It was a peacock of enamelled metal which he had come to order from the master engraver. He had come to select for himself the jewels to be displayed on the piece, which would be one more original to add to a vast collection. The fancies of the Duc de Fréneuse could no longer be enumerated; they had become the stuff of legend.

More than that, the gentleman himself had become a legend in his own right: a legend unconsciously created at first, but which he had undertaken to cherish and maintain. Such fabulous tales were whispered concerning this young man – a millionaire five times over, scion of a great and well-connected family – who played no part in society, had no friends, showed off no mistresses, and routinely left Paris at the end of November in order to spend his winters in the Orient!

A profound mystery, thickened according to one’s taste, enshrouded his life. Outside of two or three theatrical premières which mobilised all Paris in the spring, the pale and tall young man whose figure was so straight and whose face was so world-weary was never encountered. At one time he had kept a racing stable, and had enjoyed considerable success as a breeder, but he had abruptly ceased to attend the meetings; he had sold his horses and his stud-farm. After deserting the boudoirs of young women he had for a short time defected to the salons of the suburbs, but these had only briefly retained his interest before he made a clean break and disappeared completely.

Nowadays, Fréneuse was a virtual stranger in his own land. In the spring, however, when some sensational acrobat, male or female, was advertised to appear at the Olympia, the circus or the Folies Bergère, it sometimes happened that one would encounter Fréneuse every evening of the week – and that strange insistence would became a new pretext for stories, a new source of hypotheses, and of such copious gossip that everyone would know about it. Then Fréneuse would suddenly immerse himself again, retreating into silence. One would hear that he had set out once more for London or Smyrna, for the Balearics or Naples, perhaps for Palermo or Corfu – no one would be any the wiser, until the day came when someone at the club might report having met him on the quay, at the home of an antiquary, at the establishment of some dealer in precious stones in the Rue de Lille or some numismatist in the Rue Bonaparte, seated most attentively at a table, magnifying glass in hand, before some twelfth-century intaglio or some collectible cameo.

Fréneuse kept in his apartment in the Rue de Varenne an entire private museum of precious stones, celebrated among collectors and merchants alike. He had also, it was said, brought back from the Orient – from the souks of Tunis and the bazaars of Smyrna – a veritable treasure-trove of antique jewellery, precious tapestries, rare weapons and deadly poisons; but Fréneuse had no friends, and few visitors were ever admitted to the family apartment-house. His only intercourse was with merchants or other collectors like himself; among these, the master engraver Barruchini was perhaps the only one who was ever allowed to cross his threshold in the Rue de Varenne. The rest of the world was politely shown the door.

‘One would be deranged by the opium fumes,’ said the world, by way of revenge – and that was the most anodyne of the stories which were put about regarding the Comte de Fréneuse, so vindictively was the handsome young man despised by the great society of idlers and good-for-nothings. This man, it was said, had brought back with him all the vices of the Orient.

And it was the Duc de Fréneuse that I now had in my home, negligently rifling through my papers with the tip of his cane! It was Fréneuse and his legends – his mysterious past, his equivocal present and his even darker future – who had entered into my house under a false name.

He lifted his eyes, perceiving me at last. After a polite inclination of his head, he made a gesture as though to reassemble the pages scattered on my table.

‘Firstly,’ he said, as if he had read my thoughts, ‘I must ask you to excuse me, monsieur, for introducing myself into your home under a false name, but that name is now my own. The Duc de Fréneuse is dead; there is no longer anyone but Monsieur de Phocas. Besides, I am on the brink of departing for a long absence. I am exiling myself from France, perhaps forever. This journey is the last one remaining to me; I have come to an important decision. All this undoubtedly matters little to you – and yet, given that I have taken the trouble to come to see you, perhaps it does matter a little.’

He gestured his refusal of the seat which I offered him, and likewise demanded that I let him continue.

‘You know Barruchini. You have written an unforgettable tribute to the engraver and his artistry – unforgettable for me at least, since it is their author that I chose to visit today. It was in the Revue de Lutèce. You have understood, and described in poetic terms, the multitudinous and turbid glimmers which constitute the prismatic art of that goldsmith-magician. Oh, what a mute and ever-changing fire sleeps within his jewels, what minute details of animals or flowers are set by him in the depths of gems! You have elegantly sung the praises of that golden flora, which is at once Byzantine, Egyptian and Renaissance! You have grasped the coralline quality of those submarine jewels – yes, submarine, for it is as if the almost-cerulean bloom of beryls, peridots, opals and pale sapphires, the colour of seaweeds and waves, has rested for a long time at the bottom of the sea. Like the rings of Solomon or the cups of the king of Thule, they belong to the caskets of cities engulfed by the sea; the daughter of the king of Ys must have worn such jewels when she delivered the keys of the lock-gates to the Demon …

‘Oh, the Barruchini necklaces, those rills of blue and green stones, those over-weighty bracelets encrusted wih opals! Gustave Moreau has decked the nude bodies of his damned princesses with them. They are the jewellery of Cleopatra and Salomé. They are also the jewellery of legend, the jewellery of moonlight and evening:

‘And that which took place in times most ancient.’

‘That is the formula, as you have written, which springs to the lips when one confronts these glazed fruits, these flowers of polished stone set in gold. It is of Egypt and of the divided Roman Empire especially that these jewels of Memphis and Byzantium make one dream, but perhaps they remind one even more of the city of the king of Ys and its submerged lock-gates.

‘You see that I know my authors. Now, no one has suffered more than myself from the morbid attraction of these jewels; and, sick unto death – seeing that I am being carried away by their translucent glaucous poison – it is you in whom I now wish to confide, monsieur: you, who have understood their sumptuous and dangerous magic well enough to communicate to others its thrill and its malaise.

‘You alone can understand me. You alone can indulgently recognise the affinity which attracted me to you. The Duc de Fréneuse was merely an eccentric, monsieur; for all others save yourself, Monsieur de Phocas would be a madman. I mentioned just now the name of the city of Ys and the Demon which caused that city to be engulfed: the Demon of Lust, which seduced the daughter of the king. Such curses have the power to extend across the centuries. I tell you that this Demon is within me. A veritable Demon tortures and haunts me, and has done ever since my adolescence. Who knows – perhaps it was already in me when I was merely a child? Even though I may seem to you to be deluded, monsieur, I have suffered for many years the effects of a certain blue and green something.

‘Whether it is the gleam of a gem or a gaze that I lust after – worse, that I am bewitched by – I am possessed by a certain glaucous transparence. It is like a hunger in me. I search for this gleam – in vain! – in the irises of eyes and the transparency of gemstones, but no human eye possesses it. Occasionally, I have detected it in the empty orbit of a statue’s eye or beneath the painted eyelids of a portrait, but it has only been a decoy: the brightness is always extinguished, having scarcely been glimpsed.