The Dial (Third Series)/Volume 75/The Princess Chalcondylas

by Louis Couperus

PRINCESS CHALCONDYLAS

BY LOUIS COUPERUS

Translated from the Dutch by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos

ANY mention of Princess Chalcondylas and her son Basile in Rome always provoked a smile: a cruel smile, perhaps; certainly a smile which casts a cruel light upon both their portraits.

Princess Chalcondylas bore an ancient Graeco-Byzantine name, but she was no princesse lointaine and she was once plain Marie Delestre. She came from nowhere more remote than Paris and her maiden name was that of a respectable family of teachers, a family which, though middle-class, yet seemed to contain a heritage of intellect, for it had enriched mankind for years, if not for centuries, with tutors and governesses, even as another family will breed clergymen, a third give the preference to men of business, a fourth supply the military element, and a fifth play-actors, civil servants, hairdressers, sailors, or what not. Marie Delestre proved herself a chip of the old block: as a girl of barely nineteen, she took the courageous resolve to seek a situation as a governess, in order to contribute to the support of her elderly parents. Governesses are always better paid abroad than at home; so Marie Delestre, with a couple of certificates in her pocket, looked out for a situation in Germany, Russia, or America. As luck would have it, the agency to which she applied found her a position as governess in a half-Greek, half-Roumanian family, who lived at Bucharest and wanted a French teacher for their children, two boys of fifteen and fourteen and a girl of twelve. The family enjoyed the princely title of Chalcondylas and owned extensive estates in Roumania in addition to their palace at Bucharest.

II

Marie Delestre set out for Bucharest. She was a plucky girl with good qualities all her own. She was not pretty, but capable and confident, young and healthy, a fresh blossom of the Delestre family, thanks to the less intellectual blood of her mother, who came of a family of provincial countryfolk. Zola has accustomed us so thoroughly to examining the hereditary problems of the persons whom we evoke in literature that we novelists, writers of short stories, and painters of cruel portraits can never lose sight of them. And so Marie Delestre did not look in the least like the decadent offshoot of a family of teachers who had overdone her studies. She was a short, bright, lively, sonsy little woman, with a wealth of dark, curly hair; and, as her certificates showed, she had sufficient intelligence to teach young people French and the first principles of music. She herself played the piano very well. She was absolutely likable, in spite of a touch of professional pedantry which she had inherited on her father's side. She was a pleasant, capable girl of nineteen, who intended to make her way in the world and cherished a dutiful and affectionate feeling for her old people. No one, painting her portrait as a young girl, could have introduced any cruel emphasis, however much he might have wished to do so.

III

Marie Delestre arrived at Bucharest. She was tired after her long journey, just a little nervous, and, now that she had come so far, frightened of this foreign princely family. She would be fetched at the station, they had written to tell her; and her eyes were looking out for a footman, for the face of a clean-shaven footman, when a charming young man came up to her, hat in hand, and asked:

"Are you Mlle Delestre?"

Marie said yes. And the young fellow introduced himself as Prince Basile Chalcondylas, who had come to meet the new governess at the station. Marie was surprised and did not understand; and Prince Basile had to explain that, besides the two sons and the daughter whom she was to teach, there was also an eldest son, who of course had not been mentioned in the letters. He, Basile, was this eldest son. He led her to his little car, which he drove himself, and took her home, where Marie was received by the parents, the prince and princess, and made the acquaintance of her three pupils, two big, unruly boys and a naughty girl who put out her tongue at her.

IV

Marie had a difficult time at the Chalcondylas palace. She had the greatest trouble in maintaining her authority, she, a girl of barely nineteen. The two young princes of fourteen and fifteen looked seventeen and eighteen and were youthful sprigs of full-blooded virility, on the point of budding and bursting into full bloom. Not every princely race is bloodless and, if I adopted Zola's theories of heredity, I could explain to you why these young princes were so warm-blooded, but I dare say that you will agree that it was because of some warm-blooded grandfather or grandmother. And they were decidedly troublesome to their young governess, with their impudent efforts to romp and take liberties with her. While Marie was defending herself, the naughty little princess would peep inquisitively through a chink of the door. The Chalcondylas palace, however princely, was not exactly a model residence nor noted for its austere manners and strict code of morals: when the princess went to Vienna, now and again, to replenish her wardrobe, the prince would also disappear for a few days, in mysterious company, to his hunting-box; and the three children and the host of servants, like so many savages and cannibals let loose, remained masters of the house. Everyone slept as long as he pleased and had his meals when he felt inclined; there was dancing below stairs; and Marie Delestre, generally so plucky and self-possessed, was as much scared as though her last hour had struck, especially when the two young princes came rattling at the handle of her locked door, while the little princess did Heaven knows what Heaven knows where. . . .

Of this house of noble and semi-oriental modern barbarians, Prince Basile was, to the perplexed Marie Delestre, the most understandable element. She understood neither the trips to Vienna nor the idylls at the hunting-box; and she would never have had any suspicion of a child-life such as that led by her pupils. But Prince Basile at any rate was understandable: he was a fashionable youth, with plenty of money, who used to come home late at night from mingling in society, respectable or other. He was polite and charming; and lately he seemed to surmise that he was not employing the French subjunctive quite correctly. He felt this defect in his education so strongly that he asked Marie's permission to attend the French lessons which she was giving to the three young reprobates. These lessons never taught him the correct use of the French subjunctive, but the fact that he was attending them had certain results, especially when Marie unbosomed herself to him one day. The young princes ceased trying to take liberties with their terrified governess and the little princess no longer put out her tongue at her.

It was during one of the trips to Vienna and one of the idylls at the hunting-box: the prince and princess, so irregular in other respects, displayed in this particular both regularity and co-operation. Marie Delestre, owing to Prince Basile's temporary absence, had had a most difficult day with her unmanageable pupils. They had emptied a decanter of wine into the piano and made Marie's life unbearable in every possible way. That evening Marie sat up for Prince Basile, who came home very late, just a little merry and not quite steady on his legs, but otherwise delightfully polite and charming. Marie, in tears, confessed her sorrows to Prince Basile, with the result that Prince Basile confessed his to Marie. There was a strange feeling of thunder in the air. There was a strange, early-morning feeling indoors. The servants had been drinking and dancing below stairs; and the din had ceased only when the chauffeur, who had been posted as sentry, heard Prince Basile's key in the latch. The children were in bed.

You can guess the rest, reader. It was perhaps only the fault of the French subjunctive; but Marie Delestre had to leave Bucharest a few months later . . . to go to Paris and replenish her wardrobe; for her simple, tasteful little frocks, cut to her brisk, neat, lively little governess figure, no longer fitted her at all.

V

We must not take things more tragically than the occasion warrants, lest we become more tragic than tragedy. A moment can be tragic, life never. Life is humorous rather than tragic, as witness the story of Marie Delestre, who is now in Paris, feeling a little sad about her tragic moment and replenishing her wardrobe. Humour has its eye on her—dear, kind humour, which does not admit the least shade of cruelty. In Paris she meets Jean Damour, an elderly man, a worthy younger colleague of her father's. Jean Damour is a credit to his name: he was already in love with Marie when she set out for Bucharest. During her absence abroad he has come into a legacy: he is well off. Marie tells him her tragedy and the good fellow marries her and . . . and even adopts her son, who is born three months later, as his own.

You can't paint cruel portraits of such good people as that. And so I shall not go on painting Jean Damour. Besides, he dies after ten years of a happy and peaceful life with his wife and his adopted son Jean.

VI

Marie Damour, née Delestre, now a young widow in Paris possessed of a comfortable fortune, reads in the papers that Prince Basile Chalcondylas has arrived. He is her seducer of ten years ago! How could her thoughts do other than fly to him? Mixed thoughts, it is true, thoughts which exert a certain influence, especially when Marie learns incidentally that Basile, who is now just turned thirty, two years older than herself, is a ruined man, without even being able to boast that he is the author of his own ruin: the trips to Vienna, the idylls at the hunting-box had already brought the ruin about; and on the death of his princely parents Basile was left without a penny. He is now looking out for a rich wife. . . .

Marie calls on the prince at his hotel. He does not refuse to see her and the interview is even pleasurable. Basile admits that he is looking for a rich wife, the daughter of some American millionaire. But will he find her? He confesses his doubts to Marie. His health has gone snap; for that matter, you can see as much by looking at him. Though he is young in years, it is not only his purse that has suffered. In a word, for all his princely title, he is no great catch as a husband, as he himself honestly admits. My readers know that I appreciate these little flashes of honest illumination which fall upon my cruel portraits.

But Marie, after those mixed thoughts of hers, has made up her mind about what she will propose to Basile. Look at her: she is not a transatlantic millionairess, but she has a very pretty income. She is the last woman to make herself a nuisance to Prince Basile, but, if he consented to marry her and acknowledge their son, she would be prepared to give him a handsome allowance, an allowance big enough to enable him to vegetate in a bachelor's flat in Paris or at the hunting-box in Roumania—Prince Basile's only possession—until the health that has gone snap says "Snap!" for good and all. It would mean a quiet existence for Basile: no hunting for an American bride, with doubtful chances of success, but a safe income for the rest of his life. . . .

And Prince Basile accepts. He marries Marie Delestre, who now becomes Princess Maria Chalcondylas; he sees his son, a pretty, dark-haired Roumanian lad—the very image of Basile's younger brother—whose name is to be changed from Jean Damour to Prince Basile Chalcondylas the younger. . . .

But stop, stop! Let us not hurry on too fast. I am no expert in French and Roumanian law. See here: old Jean Damour married Marie Delestre, who gave birth, a few months after the wedding, to a son registered in Paris as Jean Damour the younger. Now there is no doubt whatever that young Jean Damour is Prince Basile's son, but . . . but has the law, the French or Roumanian law, anything to say in the matter? True, Prince Basile acknowledges Jean Damour the younger as his son and gives him the right to call himself Prince Basile the younger . . . but is everything all right in the eyes of the law and of society? Maybe it is, maybe it is not: the reader cannot expect me, a mere painter of cruel portraits, to decide. . . .

But, without learning of the decision, you will understand the smile that is always provoked in Rome by the mention of Princess Maria Chalcondylas and her son Basile, a good-looking, pleasant boy whom his mother would like to marry to a Pallavicini or Odescalchi. For I have kept my cruelest touch for the end. You must know that Princess Maria has always remained a scion of the French teacher's family. She has remained middle-class: and her short, thick-set, buxom figure, now that she is growing older, lacks any trace of aristocratic languor: remember her wholesome, provincial, countrified mother. She does not speak a word of Roumanian, which is odd in a Graeco-Roumanian princess. Also, young Prince Basile, who was never at Bucharest in his life, is a true Parisian, notwithstanding his classic, oriental features. That strikes the Odescalchis and Pallavicinis—families born with proud, age-old traditions—as very peculiar. They don't know what to make of it all.

In any case, Prince Basile the younger, with his personal charm and old Jean Damour's little fortune, will never make a brilliant marriage. Perhaps he does not mind, but his mother does. On the simple, practical, and erstwhile filial soul of Marie Delestre vanity has set its seal. She is a princess: her son is a prince. She is undoubtedly admitted to the drawing-rooms which are not excessively strict and which have cosmopolitan at-homes on Thursdays, whereas they receive the real set quietly on Mondays. On Thursdays Princess Maria is received. Is she not a sensible woman, a good mother, a talented musician, and, moreover, is she not really Princess Chalcondylas? She has to be received on the Thursdays . . . although she is never there on the Mondays.

This makes Princess Maria very unhappy, both because of her son and because of her vanity. They are her son and daughter. Vanity is her younger daughter, almost as dear to her as her son.

When Princess Maria is alone, she thinks of the old days and sometimes forgets her vanity. And then she gives a little smile and shrugs her shoulders. For in reality she is a sensible woman with good qualities all her own. And she herself feels that life is never more tragic than tragedy; and she realizes at the same time how humorous it all is, that she, Marie Delestre, the little governess, has become Princess Chalcondylas and her son Prince Basile. . . .