May that true friend, and that illustrious and beloved Master,* who have added the poetry of his music and the music of his incomparable poetry respectively, and may M. Darlu* too, that great philosopher whose inspired spoken words, more assured of lasting life than anything written, have in me as in so many others engendered thought, forgive me for having reserved for you this last token of my affection, bearing in mind that no one living, however great he may be or however dear, must be honoured before one who is dead.
The Death of Baldassare Silvande
Viscount of Sylvania
1
The poets say that Apollo tended the flocks of Admetus; so too, each man is a God in disguise who plays the fool.
– Emerson*
“Monsieur Alexis, don’t cry like that; maybe the Viscount of Sylvania will give you a horse.”
“A big horse, Beppo, or a pony?”
“A big horse, perhaps, like Monsieur Cardenio’s. But please don’t cry like that… on your thirteenth birthday!”
The hope that he might be getting a horse, and the reminder that he was thirteen years old today, made Alexis’s eyes shine through their tears. But he was not entirely consoled, since it would mean having to go and see his uncle, Baldassare Silvande, Viscount of Sylvania. Admittedly, since the day he had heard that his uncle’s illness was incurable, Alexis had seen him several times. But since then, everything had completely changed. Baldassare had realized how ill he was and now knew that he had at most three years to live.
Alexis could not understand how this certainty had not already killed his uncle with grief, or driven him mad, and for his own part felt quite unable to bear the pain of seeing him. Convinced as he was that his uncle would start talking to him about his imminent demise, he did not think he had the strength to hold back his own sobs, let alone console him. He had always adored his uncle, the tallest, most handsome, youngest, liveliest, most gentle of all his relatives. He loved his grey eyes, his blond moustache and his knees – a deep and welcoming place of pleasure and refuge when he had been smaller, seemingly as inaccessible as a citadel, affording him as much enjoyment as any wooden horse, and more inviolable than a temple.
Alexis, who openly disapproved of his father’s sombre and severe way of dressing, and dreamt of a future in which, always on horseback, he would be as elegant as a fine lady and as splendid as a king, recognized in Baldassare the most ideal man imaginable; he knew that his uncle was handsome, and that he himself resembled him, and he knew too that his uncle was intelligent and noble-hearted, and wielded as much power as a bishop or a general.
It was true that his parents’ criticisms had taught him that the Viscount had his failings. He could even remember the violence of his anger on the day when his cousin Jean Galéas had made fun of him, how much the gleam in his eyes had betrayed the extreme pleasure of his vanity when the Duke of Parma had offered his sister’s hand in marriage to him (on that occasion he had clenched his jaws in an attempt to disguise his pleasure and pulled a face, an expression habitual to him – one that Alexis disliked), and he remembered too the tone of contempt with which his uncle spoke to Lucretia, who professed not to like his music.
Often his parents would allude to other things his uncle had done, things which Alexis did not know about, but which he heard being severely censured.
But all of Baldassare’s failings, including the vulgar face he pulled, had certainly disappeared. When his uncle had learnt that in two years, perhaps, he would be dead, how much the mockeries of Jean Galéas, the friendship of the Duke of Parma and his own music must have become a matter of indifference to him!… Alexis imagined him to be just as handsome, but solemn and even more perfect than he had been before. Yes, solemn, and already no longer altogether of this world. Thus his despair was mingled with a certain disquiet and alarm.
The horses had long been harnessed, and it was time to go; he climbed into the carriage, then stepped back out, as he wanted to go over and ask his tutor for one last piece of advice. At the moment he spoke, he turned very red.
“Monsieur Legrand, is it better if my uncle thinks or does not think that I know that he is going to die?”
“Better that he does not think so, Alexis!”
“But what if he starts talking about it?”
“He won’t talk about it.”
“He won’t talk about it?” said Alexis in surprise, for this was the only possibility he had not foreseen: each time he had started imagining his visit to his uncle, he had heard him speaking of death to him with the gentleness of a priest.
“Yes but, what if he does talk about it?”
“You’ll tell him he’s wrong.”
“And what if I start crying?”
“You’ve cried enough this morning, you won’t cry when you’re at his place.”
“I won’t cry!” exclaimed Alexis in despair. “But he’ll think I’m not sorry about it, that I don’t love him… my dear old uncle!”
And he burst into tears. His mother, tired of waiting, came to fetch him; they set off.
When Alexis had given his little overcoat to a valet in white-and-green livery, with the Sylvanian coat of arms, who was standing in the entrance hall, he paused for a moment with his mother to listen to a violin melody coming from a nearby room. Then they were led into a huge round room, with windows extending all around it, where the Viscount was often to be found. As you went in, you saw the sea facing you and, as you looked round, lawns, pastures and woods were visible; at the far end of the room, there were two cats, roses, poppies and a great number of musical instruments. They waited for a while.
Alexis suddenly rushed over to his mother. She thought he wanted to kiss her, but he asked her in a low voice, his mouth glued to her ear, “How old is my uncle?”
“He’ll be thirty-six in June.”
He wanted to ask, “Do you think he’ll ever actually make thirty-six?” but he did not dare.
A door opened, Alexis trembled, and a servant said, “The Viscount will be here presently.”
Soon the servant returned, ushering in two peacocks and a kid goat that the Viscount took everywhere with him. Then they heard some more footsteps and the door opened again.
“It’s nothing,” Alexis told himself; his heart thumped every time he heard a noise. “It’s probably a servant, yes, most probably a servant.” But at the same time he heard a gentle voice saying, “Hello, young Alexis, many happy returns of the day!”
And his uncle came to kiss him, and made him feel afraid – and no doubt realized as much, since he turned away to give him time to pull himself together, and started to chat cheerfully to Alexis’s mother, his sister-in-law, who, ever since the death of his mother, had been the person he loved most in the world.
Alexis, now feeling reassured, felt only immense affection for this young man, still so charming, scarcely any paler and so heroic as to be able to adopt a tone of cheerfulness during these tragic minutes. He would like to have flung his arms around him, but did not dare, fearing that he might break his uncle’s composure and cause him to lose his self-possession.
It was the Viscount’s sad and gentle eyes that especially made him want to cry. Alexis knew that his eyes had always been sad and that, even at the happiest times, he seemed to be imploring you to console him for sorrows that apparently did not affect him. But just now, he felt that his uncle’s sadness, bravely banished from his conversation, had taken refuge in his eyes, the only sincere thing about his whole appearance, together with his hollowed cheeks.
“I know you’d like to drive a two-horse carriage, young Alexis,” said Baldassare. “Tomorrow they’ll bring you a horse. Next year I’ll make up the complete pair, and in two years I’ll give you the carriage. But perhaps this year you’ll already be able to ride the horse – we’ll try it out when I get back. I’m leaving tomorrow, you see,” he added, “but not for long. I’ll be back within a month and we can go off together and, you know, see a matinee of that comedy I promised to take you to.”
Alexis knew that his uncle was going to spend a few weeks at one of his friends’ houses. He also knew that his uncle was still allowed to go to the theatre; but as he was even now transfixed by the idea of death that had so deeply shaken him before coming to his uncle’s, the latter’s words gave him a painful and profound surprise.
“I won’t go,” he said to himself. “How much pain it would cause him to hear the actors’ buffoonery and the audience’s laughter!”
“What was that lovely violin tune we heard when we came in?” asked Alexis’s mother.
“Ah! So you thought it was lovely?” said Baldassare quickly, looking extremely pleased. “It was the romance I mentioned to you.”
“Is he putting it on?” Alexis wondered. “How can the success of his music still give him any pleasure?”
Just then, the Viscount’s face assumed an expression of deep pain; his cheeks
