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187 pages

English

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This unique nineteenth-century novel, originally published in French, is the result of a fascinating literary experiment. It takes the form of an epistolary dialogue of letters exchanged among four characters, each of which is an alter ego of one of the book's four authors.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776599714
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE CROSS OF BERNY
OR, IRENE'S LOVERS
* * *
EMILE DE GIRARDIN
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
JULES SANDEAU MERY

*
The Cross of Berny Or, Irene's Lovers From an 1873 edition Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-971-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-972-1 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Preface to the American Edition Original Preface to the French Edition Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XL Chapter XLI
Preface to the American Edition
*
Literary partnerships have often been tried, but very rarely withsuccess in the more imaginative branches of literature. Occasionally twominds have been found to supplement each other sufficiently to producegood joint writing, as in the works of MM. Erckman-Chatrian; but whenthe partnership has included more than two, it has almost invariablyproved a failure, even when composed of individually the brightestintellects, and where the highest hopes have been entertained. Standingalmost if not quite alone, in contrast with these failures of the past,THE CROSS OF BERNY is the more remarkable; and has achieved the successnot merely of being the simply harmonious joint work of four individualminds,—but of being in itself, and entirely aside from its interest asa literary curiosity, a great book .
A high rank, then, is claimed for it not upon its success as a literarypartnership, for that at best would but excite a sort of curiousinterest, but upon its intrinsic merit as a work of fiction. The spiritof rivalry in which it was undertaken was perhaps not the best guaranteeof harmony in the tone of the whole work, but it has certainly addedmaterially to the wit and brilliancy of the letters, while harmony hasbeen preserved by much tact and skill. No one of its authors could alonehave written THE CROSS OF BERNY—together, each one has given us hisbest, and their joint effort will long live to their fame.
The shape in which it appears, as a correspondence between fourcharacters whose names are the pseudonyms of the four authors of thebook, although at first it may seem to the reader a little awkward, willupon reflection be seen to be wisely chosen, since it allows to each ofthe prominent characters an individuality otherwise very difficult ofattainment. In this way also any differences of style which there maybe, tend rather to heighten the effect, and to increase the reality ofthe characters.
The title under which the original French edition appeared has beenretained in the translation, although since its applicability dependsupon a somewhat local allusion, the general reader may possibly fail toappreciate it.
Original Preface to the French Edition
*
The Cross of Berny was, it will be remembered, a brilliant tourney,where Madame de Girardin (née Delphine Gay), Théophile Gautier, JulesSandeau and Méry, broke lances like valiant knights of old.
We believe we respond to the general wish by adding to the BibliothèqueNouvelle this unique work, which assumed and will ever retain a highposition among the literary curiosities of the day.
Not feeling called upon to decide who is the victor in the tilt, wemerely lift the pseudonymous veil concealing the champions.
The letters signed Irene de Chateaudun are by Madame de Girardin.
The letters signed Edgar de Meilhan are by M. Théophile Gautier.
The letters signed Raymond de Villiers are by M. Jules Sandeau.
The letters signed Roger de Monbert are by M. Méry.
Who are recognised as the four most brilliant of our celebratedcontemporaneous authors.—EDITOR.
Chapter I
*
IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES, Hotel de la Préfecture, GRENOBLE (Isère).
PARIS, May 16th, 18—.
You are a great prophetess, my dear Valentino. Your predictions areverified.
Thanks to my peculiar disposition, I am already in the most deplorablyfalse position that a reasonable mind and romantic heart could ever havecontrived.
With you, naturally and instinctively, I have always been sincere;indeed it would be difficult to deceive one whom I have so often seen bya single glance read the startled conscience, and lead it from the waysof insolence and shame back into the paths of rectitude.
It is to you I would confide all my troubles; your counsel may save meere it be too late.
You must not think me absurd in ascribing all my unhappiness to what ispopularly regarded as "a piece of good luck."
Governed by my weakness, or rather by my fatal judgment, I have plightedmy troth!... Good Heavens! is it really true that I am engaged to Princede Monbert?
If you knew the prince you would laugh at my sadness, and at themelancholy tone in which I announce this intelligence.
Monsieur de Monbert is the most witty and agreeable man in Paris; he isnoble-hearted, generous and ...in fact fascinating!... and I love him!He alone pleases me; in his absence I weary of everything; in hispresence I am satisfied and happy—the hours glide away uncounted; Ihave perfect faith in his good heart and sound judgment, and proudlyrecognise his incontestable superiority—yes, I admire, respect, and, Irepeat it, love him!...
Yet, the promise I have made to dedicate my life to him, frightens me,and for a month I have had but one thought—to postpone this marriage Iwished for—to fly from this man whom I have chosen!...
I question my heart, my experience, my imagination, for an answer tothis inexplicable contradiction; and to interpret so many fears, findnothing but school-girl philosophy and poetic fancies, which you willexcuse because you love me, and I know my imaginary sufferings will atleast awaken pity in your sympathetic breast.
Yes, my dear Valentine, I am more to be pitied now, than I was in thedays of my distress and desolation. I, who so courageously braved theblows of adversity, feel weak and trembling under the weight of a toobrilliant fortune.
This happy destiny for which I alone am responsible, alarms me more thandid the bitter lot that was forced upon me one year ago.
The actual trials of poverty exhaust the field of thought and prevent usfrom nursing imaginary cares, for when we have undergone the torture ofour own forebodings, struggled with the impetuosity and agony of anature surrendered to itself, we are disposed to look almost with reliefon tangible troubles, and to end by appreciating the cares of poverty assalutary distractions from the sickly anxieties of an unemployed mind.
Oh! believe me to be serious, and accuse me not of comic-operaphilosophy, my dear Valentine! I feel none of that proud disdain forimportunate fortune that we read of in novels; nor do I regret "mypretty boat," nor "my cottage by the sea;" here, in this beautifuldrawing-room of the Hotel de Langeac, writing to you, I do not sigh formy gloomy garret in the Marais, where my labors day and night were mosttiresome, because a mere parody of the noblest arts, an undignifiedlabor making patience and courage ridiculous, a cruel game which we playfor life while cursing it.
No! I regret not this, but I do regret the indolence, the idleness ofmind succeeding such trivial exertions. For then there were noresolutions to make, no characters to study, and, above all, noresponsibility to bear, nothing to choose, nothing to change.
I had but to follow every morning the path marked out by necessity theevening before.
If I were able to copy or originate some hundred designs; if I possessedsufficient carmine or cobalt to color some wretchedengravings—worthless, but fashionable—which I must myself deliver onthe morrow; if I could succeed in finding some new patterns forembroidery and tapestry, I was content—and for recreation indulged atevenings in the sweetest, that is most absurd, reveries.
Revery then was a rest to me, now it is a labor, and a dangerous laborwhen too often resorted to; good thoughts then came to assist me in mymisery; now, vexatious presentiments torment my happiness. Then theuncertainty of my future made me mistress of events. I could each daychoose a new destiny, and new adventures. My unexpected and undeservedmisfortune was so complete that I had nothing more to dread andeverything to hope for, and experienced a vague feeling of gratitude forthe ultimate succor that I confidently expected.
I would pass long hours gazing from my window at a little light shiningfrom the fourth-story window of a distant house. What strangeconjectures I made, as I silently watched the mysterious beacon!
Sometimes, in contemplating it, I recalled the questions addressed byChilde Harold to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, asking the cold marble ifshe who rested there were young and beautiful, a dark-eyed,delicate-featured woman, whose destiny was that reserved by Heaven forthose it loves; or was she a venerable matron who had outlived hercharms, her children and her kindred?
So I also questioned this solitary light:
To what distressed soul did it lend its aid? Some anxious motherwatching and praying beside her sick child, or some youthful studentplunging with stern delight into the arcana of science, to wrest