The Death of Baldassare Silvande, Viscount of Sylvania, Marcel Proust

The Death of Baldassare Silvande, Viscount of Sylvania

The poets say that Apollo tended the flocks of Admetus; so too each man is a God in disguise who plays the fool.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

“Don’t cry like that, Master Alexis. Monsieur the Viscount of Sylvania may be giving you a horse.”

“A big horse, Beppo, or a pony?”
“Perhaps a big horse, like Monsieur Cardenio’s. But please don’t cry like that . . . on your thirteenth birthday of all days!”

The hope of getting a horse and the reminder that he was thirteen made Alexis’s eyes light up through his tears. Yet he was not consoled since he had to go and visit his uncle, Baldassare Silvande, Viscount of Sylvania. Granted, ever since he had heard that his uncle’s disease was incurable, Alexis had been to see him several times. But meanwhile everything had changed.

Baldassare was now aware of the full scope of his disease and he knew he had at most three years to live. Without, incidentally, grasping why the anguish had not killed his uncle, the certainty had not driven him insane, Alexis felt incapable of enduring the pain of seeing him.

Convinced that his uncle would be talking to him about his imminent end, Alexis did not think he had the strength not only to console him, but also to choke back his own sobs. He had always adored his uncle, the grandest, handsomest, youngest, liveliest, gentlest of his relatives. He loved his gray eyes, his blond moustache, his lap—a deep and sweet place of delight and refuge when Alexis had been younger, a place that had seemed as unassailable as a citadel, as enjoyable as the wooden horses of a merry-go-round, and more inviolable than a temple.

Alexis, who highly disapproved of his father’s severe and somber wardrobe and dreamed about a future in which, always on horseback, he would be as elegant as a lady and as splendid as a king, recognized Baldassare as what he, the nephew, considered the most sublime epitome of a man. He knew that his uncle was handsome, that he, Alexis, resembled him; he also knew that his uncle was intelligent, generous, and as powerful as a bishop or a general.

Truth to tell, his parents’ criticism had taught Alexis that the viscount had his faults. He even remembered his uncle’s violent anger the day his cousin Jean Galeas had made fun of him; his blazing eyes had hinted at the joys of his vanity when the Duke of Parma had offered him his sister’s hand (trying to disguise his pleasure, the viscount had clenched his teeth in a habitual grimace that Alexis despised); and the boy recalled his uncle’s scornful tone when talking to Lucretia, who had openly stated that she did not care for his music.

Often Alexis’s parents would allude to other things that his uncle had done and that the boy did not understand, though he heard them being sharply condemned.

But all of Baldassare’s faults, his commonplace grimace, had undoubtedly disappeared. When he had learned he might be dead in two years, how indifferent he must have become to the mockeries of Jean Galeas, to his friendship with the Duke of Parma, and to his own music. Alexis pictured his uncle as still handsome, but solemn and even more perfect than he had been before. Yes, solemn, and already not completely of this world. Hence, a little disquiet and terror mingled with the boy’s despair.

The horses had been harnessed long ago, it was time to leave; the boy stepped into the carriage, then climbed down again in order to ask his tutor for some final advice. When Alexis spoke, his face turned very crimson:
“Monsieur Legrand, is it better for my uncle to believe or not believe that I know that he knows that he’s dying?”

“He must not believe it, Alexis!”
“But what if he brings it up?”
“He won’t bring it up.”

“He won’t bring it up?” said Alexis, astonished, for that was the only alternative he had not foreseen: whenever he imagined his visit with his uncle, he could hear him talking about death with the gentleness of a priest.
“But what if he does bring it up after all?”

“You’ll tell him he’s mistaken.”
“And what if I cry?”

“You’ve cried too much this morning, you won’t cry in his home.”
“I won’t cry!” Alexis exclaimed in despair. “But he’ll think that I don’t care, that I don’t love him . . . my dear, sweet uncle!”

And he burst into tears. His mother, losing patience, came looking for him; they left.

After handing his little overcoat to a servant who stood in the vestibule, wearing a green and white livery with the Sylvanian arms, Alexis momentarily halted with his mother and listened to a violin melody coming from an adjacent room.

Then the visitors were ushered into a huge, round, glass-enclosed atrium, where the viscount spent much of his time. Upon entering, you faced the ocean, and upon turning your head, you saw lawns, pastures, and woods; at the other end of the room there were two cats, plus roses, poppies, and numerous musical instruments. The guests waited for an instant.

Alexis flung himself on his mother; she thought he wanted to kiss her, but, pressing his lips against her ear, he whispered:
“How old is my uncle?”
“He’ll be thirty-six this June.”

Alexis wanted to ask: “Do you think he’ll ever reach thirty-six?”, but he did not dare.
A door opened, Alexis trembled, a domestic said: “The viscount is coming shortly.”

Soon the domestic returned, with two peacocks and a kid, which the viscount took along everywhere. Then, more steps were heard, and the door opened again.
“It’s nothing,” Alexis thought to himself, his heart beating whenever he heard noise. “It’s probably a servant, yes, quite probably a servant.”
But at the same time he heard a soft voice: “Bonjour, my little Alexis, I wish you a happy birthday.”

His uncle, kissing the boy, frightened him. He must have sensed it, for, paying him no further heed in order to give him time to recover, the viscount started brightly chatting with Alexis’s mother, his sister-in-law, who, ever since his mother’s death, was the person he loved most in the world.

Now, Alexis, reassured, felt nothing but immense tenderness for this still charming young man, who was a wee bit paler and so heroic as to feign gaiety in these tragic minutes. The boy wanted to throw his arms around him but did not dare, afraid he might sap his uncle’s strength and make him lose his self-control.

More than anything else the viscount’s sad, sweet gaze made the boy feel like crying. Alexis knew that those eyes had always been sad and, even in the happiest moments, they seemed to implore a consolation for sufferings that he did not appear to experience.

But at this moment Alexis believed that his uncle’s sadness, courageously banished from his conversation, had taken refuge in his eyes, which, along with his sunken cheeks, were the only sincere things about his entire person.

“I know you’d like to drive a carriage and pair, my little Alexis,” said Baldassare, “you’ll get one horse tomorrow. Next year I’ll complete the pair and in two years I’ll give you the carriage. But this year perhaps you’ll learn how to ride a horse; we’ll try when I come back. You see, I’m definitely leaving tomorrow,” he added, “but not for long. I’ll be back in less than a month, and we’ll go to the matinee, you know, the comedy I promised I’d take you to.”

Alexis knew that his uncle was going to visit a friend for several weeks; he also knew that his uncle was still allowed to go to the theater; but Alexis was thoroughly imbued with the idea of death, which had deeply upset him prior to his coming here, and so his uncle’s words gave him a deep and painful shock.

“I won’t go,” Alexis thought to himself. “He’ll suffer awfully when he hears the buffoonery of the actors and the laughter of the audience.”

“What was that lovely melody we heard when we came in?” Alexis’s mother asked.

“Oh, you found it lovely?” Baldassare exclaimed vividly and joyfully. “It’s the love song I told you about.”
“Is he play-acting?” Alexis wondered to himself. “How can the success of his music still bring him any pleasure?”
At that moment the viscount’s face took on an expression of deep pain; his cheeks paled, he frowned, his lips puckered, his eyes filled with tears.

“My God!” Alexis cried out mentally. “His play-acting’s too much for him. My poor uncle! But why is he so scared of hurting us? Why is he forcing himself so hard?”
However, the pains of general paralysis, which at times squeezed Baldassare like an iron corset, the torture often leaving marks on his body and, despite all his efforts, making his face cramp up, had now dissipated.

After wiping his eyes he resumed chatting in a good mood.
“Am I mistaken,” Alexis’s mother tactlessly asked, “or has the Duke of Parma been less friendly to you for some time now?”

“The Duke of Parma!” Baldassare furiously snapped. “The Duke of Parma less friendly! Are you joking, my dear? He wrote me this very morning, offering to put his Illyrian castle at my disposal if mountain air could do me any good.”

He jumped up, re-triggering his dreadful pain, which made him pause for a moment; no sooner was the pain gone than he called to his servant:
“Bring me the letter that’s by my bed.”
And he then read in a lively voice:
“ ‘My dear Baldassare, how bored I am without you, etc., etc.’ ”

As