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The Elixir of Life .................................................................................................................................................1

Honore de Balzac .....................................................................................................................................1

At the very outset of the writer's literary career, a friend, long since dead, gave him the subject of this Study.

Later on he found the same story in a collection published about the beginning of the present century. To the

best of his belief, it is some stray fancy of the brain of Hoffmann of Berlin; probably it appeared in some

German almanac, and was omitted in the published editions of his collected works. The Comedie Humaine is

sufficiently rich in original creations for the author to own to this innocent piece of plagiarism; when, like the

worthy La Fontaine, he has told unwittingly, and after his own fashion, a tale already related by another. This

is not one of the hoaxes in vogue in the year 1830, when every author wrote his "tale of horror" for the

amusement of young ladies. When you have read the account of Don Juan's decorous parricide, try to picture

to yourself the part which would be played under very similar circumstances by honest folk who, in this

nineteenth century, will take a man's money and undertake to pay him a life annuity on the faith of a chill, or

let a house to an ancient lady for the term of her natural life! Would they be for resuscitating their clients? I

should dearly like a connoisseur in consciences to consider how far there is a resemblance between a Don

Juan and fathers who marry their children to great expectations. Does humanity, which, according to certain

philosophers, is making progress, look on the art of waiting for dead men's shoes as a step in the right

direction? To this art we owe several honorable professions, which open up ways of living on death. There

are people who rely entirely on an expected demise; who brood over it, crouching each morning upon a

corpse, that serves again for their pillow at night. To this class belong bishops' coadjutors, cardinals'

supernumeraries, tontiniers, and the like. Add to the list many delicately scrupulous persons eager to buy

landed property beyond their means, who calculate with dry logic and in cold blood the probable duration of

the life of a father or of a stepmother, some old man or woman of eighty or ninety, saying to themselves, "I

shall be sure to come in for it in three years' time, and then" A murderer is less loathsome to us than a

spy. The murderer may have acted on a sudden mad impulse; he may be penitent and amend; but a spy is

always a spy, night and day, in bed, at table, as he walks abroad; his vileness pervades every moment of his

life. Then what must it be to live when every moment of your life is tainted with murder? And have we not

just admitted that a host of human creatures in our midst are led by our laws, customs, and usages to dwell

without ceasing on a fellowcreature's death? There are men who put the weight of a coffin into their

deliberations as they bargain for Cashmere shawls for their wives, as they go up the staircase of a theatre, or

think of going to the Bouffons, or of setting up a carriage; who are murderers in thought when dear ones, with

the irresistible charm of innocence, hold up childish foreheads to be kissed with a "Goodnight, father!"

Hourly they meet the gaze of eyes that they would fain close for ever, eyes that still open each morning to the

light, like Belvidero's in this Study. God alone knows the number of those who are parricides in thought.

Picture to yourself the state of mind of a man who must pay a life annuity to some old woman whom he

scarcely knows; both live in the country with a brook between them, both sides are free to hate cordially,

without offending against the social conventions that require two brothers to wear a mask if the older will

succeed to the entail, and the other to the fortune of a younger son. The whole civilization of Europe turns

upon the principle of hereditary succession as upon a pivot; it would be madness to subvert the principle; but

could we not, in an age that prides itself upon its mechanical inventions, perfect this essential portion of the

If the author has preserved the oldfashioned style of address To the Reader before a work wherein he

endeavors to represent all literary forms, it is for the purpose of making a remark that applies to several of the

Studies, and very specially to this. Every one of his compositions has been based upon ideas more or less

novel, which, as it seemed to him, needed literary expression; he can claim priority for certain forms and for

certain ideas which have since passed into the domain of literature, and have there, in some instances,

become common property; so that the date of the first publication of each Study cannot be a matter of

Reading brings us unknown friends, and what friend is like a reader? We have friends in our own circle who

read nothing of ours. The author hopes to pay his debt, by dedicating this work Diis ignotis.

One winter evening, in a princely palace at Ferrara, Don Juan Belvidero was giving a banquet to a prince of

the house of Este. A banquet in those times was a marvelous spectacle which only royal wealth or the power

of a mightly [sic] lord could furnish forth. Seated about a table lit up with perfumed tapers, seven

laughterloving women were interchanging sweet talk. The white marble of the noble works of art about

them stood out against the red stucco walls, and made strong contrasts with the rich Turkey carpets. Clad in

satin, glittering with gold, and covered with gems less brilliant than their eyes, each told a tale of energetic

passions as diverse as their styles of beauty. They differed neither in their ideas nor in their language; but the

expression of their eyes, their glances, occasional gestures, or the tones of their voices supplied a

A third, a neophyte at these banquets, was inclined to blush. "I feel remorse in the depths of my heart! I am a

Catholic, and afraid of hell. But I love you, I love you so that I can sacrifice my hereafter to you."

The fourth drained a cup of Chian wine. "Give me a joyous life!" she cried; "I begin life afresh each day with

the dawn. Forgetful of the past, with the intoxication of yesterday's rapture still upon me, I drink deep of

The woman who sat next to Juan Belvidero looked at him with a feverish glitter in her eyes. She was silent.

Then"I should need no hired bravo to kill my lover if he forsook me!" she cried at last, and laughed, but

the marvelously wrought gold comfit box in her fingers was crushed by her convulsive clutch.

"When are you to be Grand Duke?" asked the sixth. There was the frenzy of a Bacchante in her eyes, and her

"Yes, when is that father of yours going to die?" asked the seventh, throwing her bouquet at Don Juan with

bewitching playfulness. It was a childish girl who spoke, and the speaker was wont to make sport of sacred

"Oh! don't talk about it," cried Don Juan, the young and handsome giver of the banquet. "There is but one

The seven Ferrarese, Don Juan's friends, the Prince himself, gave a cry of horror. Two hundred years later, in

the days of Louis XV., people of taste would have laughed at this witticism. Or was it, perhaps, that at the

outset of an orgy there is a certain unwonted lucidity of mind? Despite the taper light, the clamor of the

senses, the gleam of gold and silver, the fumes of wine, and the exquisite beauty of the women, there may

perhaps have been in the depths of the revelers' hearts some struggling glimmer of reverence for things divine

and human, until it was drowned in glowing floods of wine! Yet even then the flowers had been crushed, eyes

were growing dull, and drunkenness, in Rabelais' phrase, had "taken possession of them down to their

During that brief pause a door opened; and as once the Divine presence was revealed at Belshazzar's feast, so

now it seemed to be manifest in the apparition of an old whitehaired servant, who tottered in, and looked

sadly from under knitted brows at the revelers. He gave a withering glance at the garlands, the golden cups,

the pyramids of fruit, the dazzling lights of the banquet, the flushed scared faces, the hues of the cushions

"My lord, your father is dying!" he said; and at those solemn words, uttered in hollow tones, a veil of crape

Don Juan rose to his feet with a gesture to his guests that might be rendered by, "Excuse me; this kind of

Does it so seldom happen that a father's death surprises youth in the fullblown splendor of life, in the midst

of the mad riot of an orgy? Death is as unexpected in his caprice as a courtesan in her disdain; but death is

Don Juan closed the door of the banquetinghall; and as he went down the long gallery, through the cold and

darkness, he strove to assume an expression in keeping with the part he had to play; he had thrown off his

mirthful mood, as he had thrown down his table napkin, at the first thought of this role. The night was dark.

The mute servitor, his guide to the chamber where the dying man lay, lighted the way so dimly that Death,

aided by cold, silence, and darkness, and it may be by a reaction of drunkenness, could send some sober

thoughts through the spendthrift's soul. He examined his life, and became thoughtful, like a man involved in a

Bartolommeo Belvidero, Don Juan's father, was an old man of ninety, who had devoted the greatest part of

his life to business pursuits. He had acquired vast wealth in many a journey to magical Eastern lands, and

knowledge, so it was said, more valuable than the gold and diamonds, which had almost ceased to have any

"I would give more to have a tooth in my head than for a ruby," he would say at times with a smile. The

indulgent father loved to hear Don Juan's story of this and that wild freak of youth. "So long as these follies

amuse you, dear boy" he would say laughingly, as he lavished money on his son. Age never took such

pleasure in the sight of youth; the fond father did not remember his own decaying powers while he looked on

Bartolommeo Belvidero, at the age of sixty, had fallen in love with an angel of peace and beauty. Don Juan

had been the sole fruit of this late and shortlived love. For fifteen years the widower had mourned the loss

of his beloved Juana; and to this sorrow of age, his son and his numerous household had attributed the strange

habits that he had contracted. He had shut himself up in the least comfortable wing of his palace, and very

seldom left his apartments; even Don Juan himself must first ask permission before seeing his father. If this

hermit, unbound by vows, came or went in his palace or in the streets of Ferrara, he walked as if he were in a

dream, wholly engrossed, like a man at strife with a memory, or a wrestler with some thought.

The young Don Juan might give princely banquets, the palace might echo with clamorous mirth, horses

pawed the ground in the courtyards, pages quarreled and flung dice upon the stairs, but Bartolommeo ate his

seven ounces of bread daily and drank water. A fowl was occasionally dressed for him, simply that the black

poodle, his faithful companion, might have the bones. Bartolommeo never complained of the noise. If the

huntsmen's horns and baying dogs disturbed his sleep during his illness, he only said, "Ah! Don Juan has

come back again." Never on earth has there been a father so little exacting and so indulgent; and, in

consequence, young Belvidero, accustomed to treat his father unceremoniously, had all the faults of a spoiled

child. He treated old Bartolommeo as a wilful courtesan treats an elderly adorer; buying indemnity for

Don Juan, beholding scene after scene of his younger years, saw that it would be a difficult task to find his

father's indulgence at fault. Some newborn remorse stirred the depths of his heart; he felt almost ready to

forgive this father now about to die for having lived so long. He had an accession of filial piety, like a thief's

Before long Don Juan had crossed the lofty, chilly suite of rooms in which his father lived; the penetrating

influences of the damp close air, the mustiness diffused by old tapestries and presses thickly covered with

dust had passed into him, and now he stood in the old man's antiquated room, in the repulsive presence of the

deathbed, beside a dying fire. A flickering lamp on a Gothic table sent broad uncertain shafts of light, fainter

or brighter, across the bed, so that the dying man's face seemed to wear a different look at every moment. The

bitter wind whistled through the crannies of the illfitting casements; there was a smothered sound of snow

lashing the windows. The harsh contrast of these sights and sounds with the scenes which Don Juan had just

quitted was so sudden that he could not help shuddering. He turned cold as he came towards the bed; the

lamp flared in a sudden vehement gust of wind and lighted up his father's face; the features were wasted and

distorted; the skin that cleaved to their bony outlines had taken wan livid hues, all the more ghastly by force

of contrast with the white pillows on which he lay. The muscles about the toothless mouth had contracted

with pain and drawn apart the lips; the moans that issued between them with appalling energy found an

In spite of every sign of coming dissolution, the most striking thing about the dying face was its incredible

power. It was no ordinary spirit that wrestled there with Death. The eyes glared with strange fixity of gaze

from the cavernous sockets hollowed by disease. It seemed as if Bartolommeo sought to kill some enemy

sitting at the foot of his bed by the intent gaze of dying eyes. That steady remorseless look was the more

appalling because the head that lay upon the pillow was passive and motionless as a skull upon a doctor's

table. The outlines of the body, revealed by the coverlet, were no less rigid and stiff; he lay there as one dead,

save for those eyes. There was something automatic about the moaning sounds that came from the mouth.

Don Juan felt something like shame that he must be brought thus to his father's bedside, wearing a courtesan's

bouquet, redolent of the fragrance of the banquetingchamber and the fumes of wine.

Even as he spoke the pure high notes of a woman's voice, sustained by the sound of the viol on which she

accompanied her song, rose above the rattle of the storm against the casements, and floated up to the chamber

of death. Don Juan stopped his ears against the barbarous answer to his father's speech.

The words were full of kindness, but they hurt Don Juan; he could not pardon this heartsearching goodness

"Poor Juanino," the dying man went on, in a smothered voice, "I have always been so kind to you, that you

"Oh, if it were only possible to keep you here by giving up a part of my own life!" cried Don Juan.

("We can always SAY this sort of thing," the spendthrift thought; "it is as if I laid the whole world at my

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when the old poodle barked. Don Juan shivered; the response was

"I was sure that I could count upon you, my son!" cried the dying man. "I shall live. So be it; you shall be

satisfied. I shall live, but without depriving you of a single day of your life."

"He is raving," thought Don Juan. Aloud he added, "Yes, dearest father, yes; you shall live, of course, as long

"It is not that kind of life that I mean," said the old noble, summoning all his strength to sit up in bed; for a

thrill of doubt ran through him, one of those suspicions that come into being under a dying man's pillow.

"Listen, my son," he went on, in a voice grown weak with that last effort, "I have no more wish to give up life

"I can well believe it," thought the son; and he knelt down by the bed and kissed Bartolommeo's cold hands.

"But, father, my dear father," he added aloud, "we must submit to the will of God."

"Do not blaspheme!" cried the other, as he saw the menacing expression on his father's face. "Beware what

you say; you have received extreme unction, and I should be inconsolable if you were to die before my eyes

Don Juan held his peace; an ugly silence prevailed. Yet above the muffled sound of the beating of the snow

against the windows rose the sounds of the beautiful voice and the viol in unison, far off and faint as the

"Thank you," he said, "for bringing those singing voices and the music, a banquet, young and lovely women

with fair faces and dark tresses, all the pleasure of life! Bid them wait for me; for I am about to begin life

"I have found out a way of coming to life again," the speaker went on. "There, just look in that table drawer,

"I have spent twenty years in" but even as he spoke the old man felt how very near the end had come,

and summoned all his dying strength to say, "As soon as the breath is out of me, rub me all over with that

Though Bartolommeo could no longer speak, he could still hear and see. When those words dropped from

Don Juan, his head turned with appalling quickness, his neck was twisted like the throat of some marble

statue which the sculptor had condemned to remain stretched out for ever, the wide eyes had come to have a

He had sought a shelter in his son's heart, and it had proved to be a sepulchre, a pit deeper than men dig for

their dead. The hair on his head had risen and stiffened with horror, his agonized glance still spoke. He was a

father rising in just anger from his tomb, to demand vengeance at the throne of God.

He had been so interested in holding the mysterious phial to the lamp, as a drinker holds up the winebottle

at the end of a meal, that he had not seen his father's eyes fade. The cowering poodle looked from his master

to the elixir, just as Don Juan himself glanced again and again from his father to the flask. The lamplight

flickered. There was a deep silence; the viol was mute. Juan Belvidero thought that he saw his father stir, and

trembled. The changeless gaze of those accusing eyes frightened him; he closed them hastily, as he would

have closed a loose shutter swayed by the wind of an autumn night. He stood there motionless, lost in a world

Suddenly the silence was broken by a shrill sound like the creaking of a rusty spring. It startled Don Juan; he

all but dropped the phial. A sweat, colder than the blade of a dagger, issued through every pore. It was only a

piece of clockwork, a wooden cock that sprang out and crowed three times, an ingenious contrivance by

which the learned of that epoch were wont to be awakened at the appointed hour to begin the labors of the

day. Through the windows there came already a flush of dawn. The thing, composed of wood, and cords, and

wheels, and pulleys, was more faithful in its service than he in his duty to Bartolommeo he, a man with

Don Juan the sceptic shut the flask again in the secret drawer in the Gothic tablehe meant to run no more

Even at that solemn moment he heard the murmur of a crowd in the gallery, a confused sound of voices, of

stifled laughter and light footfalls, and the rustling of silksthe sounds of a band of revelers struggling for

gravity. The door opened, and in came the Prince and Don Juan's friends, the seven courtesans, and the

singers, disheveled and wild like dancers surprised by the dawn, when the tapers that have burned through the

"Oho! is poor Don Juan really taking this seriously?" said the Prince in Brambilla's ear.

But Don Juan's nightthoughts had left such unmistakable traces on his features, that the crew was awed into

silence. The men stood motionless. The women, with wineparched lips and cheeks marbled with kisses,

knelt down and began a prayer. Don Juan could scarce help trembling when he saw splendor and mirth and

laughter and song and youth and beauty and power bowed in reverence before Death. But in those times, in

that adorable Italy of the sixteenth century, religion and revelry went hand in hand; and religious excess

The Prince grasped Don Juan's hand affectionately, then when all faces had simultaneously put on the same

grimacehalfgloomy, halfindifferentthe whole masque disappeared, and left the chamber of death

As they went down the staircase, the Prince spoke to Rivabarella: "Now, who would have taken Don Juan's

"What is that to me?" cried the proud Veronese (she who had crushed the comfitbox).

"What does it matter to you, forsooth?" cried the Duke. "With his money he is as much a prince as I am."

At first Don Juan was swayed hither and thither by countless thoughts, and wavered between two decisions.

He took counsel with the gold heaped up by his father, and returned in the evening to the chamber of death,

his whole soul brimming over with hideous selfishness. He found all his household busy there. "His lordship"

was to lie in state tomorrow; all Ferrara would flock to behold the wonderful spectacle; and the servants

were busy decking the room and the couch on which the dead man lay. At a sign from Don Juan all his

"Leave me alone here," he said, and his voice was changed, "and do not return until I leave the room."

When the footsteps of the old servitor, who was the last to go, echoed but faintly along the paved gallery,

Don Juan hastily locked the door, and sure that he was quite alone, "Let us try," he said to himself.

Bartolommeo's body was stretched on a long table. The embalmers had laid a sheet over it, to hide from all

eyes the dreadful spectacle of a corpse so wasted and shrunken that it seemed like a skeleton, and only the

face was uncovered. This mummylike figure lay in the middle of the room. The limp clinging linen lent

itself to the outlines it shroudedso sharp, bony, and thin. Large violet patches had already begun to spread

Don Juan, strong as he was in his scepticism, felt a tremor as he opened the magic crystal flask. When he

stood over that face, he was trembling so violently, that he was actually obliged to wait for a moment. But

Don Juan had acquired an early familiarity with evil; his morals had been corrupted by a licentious court, a

reflection worthy of the Duke of Urbino crossed his mind, and it was a keen sense of curiosity that goaded

him into boldness. The devil himself might have whispered the words that were echoing through his brain,

Moisten one of the eyes with the liquid! He took up a linen cloth, moistened it sparingly with the precious

fluid, and passed it lightly over the right eyelid of the corpse. The eye unclosed. . . .

"Aha!" said Don Juan. He gripped the flask tightly, as we clutch in dreams the branch from which we hang

For the eye was full of life. It was a young child's eye set in a death's head; the light quivered in the depths of

its youthful liquid brightness. Shaded by the long dark lashes, it sparkled like the strange lights that travelers

see in lonely places in winter nights. The eye seemed as if it would fain dart fire at Don Juan; he saw it

thinking, upbraiding, condemning, uttering accusations, threatening doom; it cried aloud, and gnashed upon

him. All anguish that shakes human souls was gathered there; supplications the most tender, the wrath of

kings, the love in a girl's heart pleading with the headsman; then, and after all these, the deeply searching

glance a man turns on his fellows as he mounts the last step of the scaffold. Life so dilated in this fragment of

life that Don Juan shrank back; he walked up and down the room, he dared not meet that gaze, but he saw

nothing else. The ceiling and the hangings, the whole room was sown with living points of fire and

"He might very likely have lived another hundred years!" he cried involuntarily. Some diabolical influence

had drawn him to his father, and again he gazed at that luminous spark. The eyelid closed and opened again

abruptly; it was like a woman's sign of assent. It was an intelligent movement. If a voice had cried "Yes!"

"Aha!" said Don Juan to himself, "here is witchcraft at work!" And he went closer to crush the thing. A great

"It is scalding!" he cried. He sat down. The struggle exhausted him; it was as if, like Jacob of old, he was

Then, summoning all the courage needed for a coward's crime, he extinguished the eye, pressing it with the

linen cloth, turning his head away. A terrible groan startled him. It was the poor poodle, who died with a

"Could the brute have been in the secret?" thought Don Juan, looking down at the faithful creature.

Don Juan Belvidero was looked upon as a dutiful son. He reared a white marble monument on his father's

tomb, and employed the greatest sculptors of the time upon it. He did not recover perfect ease of mind till the

day when his father knelt in marble before Religion, and the heavy weight of the stone had sealed the mouth

of the grave in which he had laid the one feeling of remorse that sometimes flitted through his soul in

He had drawn up a list of the wealth heaped up by the old merchant in the East, and he became a miser: had

he not to provide for a second lifetime? His views of life were the more profound and penetrating; he grasped

its significance, as a whole, the better, because he saw it across a grave. All men, all things, he analyzed once

and for all; he summed up the Past, represented by its records; the Present in the law, its crystallized form; the

Future, revealed by religion. He took spirit and matter, and flung them into his crucible, and found

At the outset of his life, in the prime of youth and the beauty of youth, he knew the illusions of life for what

they were; he despised the world, and made the utmost of the world. His felicity could not have been of the

bourgeois kind, rejoicing in periodically recurrent bouilli, in the comforts of a warmingpan, a lamp of a

night, and a new pair of slippers once a quarter. Nay, rather he seized upon existence as a monkey snatches a

nut, and after no long toying with it, proceeds deftly to strip off the mere husks to reach the savory kernel

Poetry and the sublime transports of passion scarcely reached ankledepth with him now. He in nowise fell

into the error of strong natures who flatter themselves now and again that little souls will believe in a great

soul, and are willing to barter their own lofty thoughts of the future for the small change of our lifeannuity

ideas. He, even as they, had he chosen, might well have walked with his feet on the earth and his head in the

skies; but he liked better to sit on earth, to wither the soft, fresh, fragrant lips of a woman with kisses, for like

Death, he devoured everything without scruple as he passed; he would have full fruition; he was an Oriental

lover, seeking prolonged pleasures easily obtained. He sought nothing but a woman in women, and cultivated

cynicism, until it became with him a habit of mind. When his mistress, from the couch on which she lay,

soared and was lost in regions of ecstatic bliss, Don Juan followed suit, earnest, expansive, serious as any

German student. But he said I, while she, in the transports of intoxication, said We. He understood to

admiration the art of abandoning himself to the influence of a woman; he was always clever enough to make

her believe that he trembled like some boy fresh from college before his first partner at a dance, when he asks

her, "Do you like dancing?" But, no less, he could be terrible at need, could unsheathe a formidable sword

and make short work of Commandants. Banter lurked beneath his simplicity, mocking laughter behind his

tearsfor he had tears at need, like any woman nowadays who says to her husband, "Give me a carriage, or I

For the merchant the world is a bale of goods or a mass of circulating bills; for most young men it is a

woman, and for a woman here and there it is a man; for a certain order of mind it is a salon, a coterie, a

quarter of the town, or some single city; but Don Juan found his world in himself.

This model of grace and dignity, this captivating wit, moored his bark by every shore; but wherever he was

led he was never carried away, and was only steered in a course of his own choosing. The more he saw, the

more he doubted. He watched men narrowly, and saw how, beneath the surface, courage was often rashness;

and prudence, cowardice; generosity, a clever piece of calculation; justice, a wrong; delicacy, pusillanimity;

honesty, a modus vivendi; and by some strange dispensation of fate, he must see that those who at heart were

really honest, scrupulous, just, generous, prudent, or brave were held cheaply by their fellow men.

From that time forth he renounced a better world, and never uncovered himself when a Name was

pronounced, and for him the carven saints in the churches became works of art. He understood the

mechanism of society too well to clash wantonly with its prejudices; for, after all, he was not as powerful as

the executioner, but he evaded social laws with the wit and grace so well rendered in the scene with M.

Dimanche. He was, in fact, Moliere's Don Juan, Goethe's Faust, Byron's Manfred, Mathurin's

Melmothgreat allegorical figures drawn by the greatest men of genius in Europe, to which Mozart's

harmonies, perhaps, do no more justice than Rossini's lyre. Terrible allegorical figures that shall endure as

long as the principle of evil existing in the heart of man shall produce a few copies from century to century.

Sometimes the type becomes halfhuman when incarnate as a Mirabeau, sometimes it is an inarticulate force

in a Bonaparte, sometimes it overwhelms the universe with irony as a Rabelais; or, yet again, it appears when

a Marechal de Richelieu elects to laugh at human beings instead of scoffing at things, or when one of the

most famous of our ambassadors goes a step further and scoffs at both men and things. But the profound

genius of Juan Belvidero anticipated and resumed all these. All things were a jest to him. His was the life of a

mocking spirit. All men, all institutions, all realities, all ideas were within its scope. As for eternity, after half

"If it is absolutely necessary to make a choice, I would rather believe in God than in the Devil; power

combined with goodness always offers more resources than the spirit of Evil can boast."

"So you always think of your indulgences," returned Don Juan Belvidero. "Well, well, I have another life in

"Oh, if you regard old age in that light," cried the Pope, "you are in danger on canonization"

"After your elevation to the Papacy nothing is incredible." And they went to watch the workmen who were

"Saint Peter, as the man of genius who laid the foundation of our double power," the Pope said to Don Juan,

"deserves this monument. Sometimes, though, at night, I think that a deluge will wipe all this out as with a

Don Juan and the Pope began to laugh; they understood each other. A fool would have gone on the morrow to

amuse himself with Julius II. in Raphael's studio or at the delicious Villa Madama; not so Belvidero. He went

to see the Pope as pontiff, to be convinced of any doubts that he (Don Juan) entertained. Over his cups the

Rovere would have been capable of denying his own infallibility and of commenting on the Apocalypse.

Nevertheless, this legend has not been undertaken to furnish materials for future biographies of Don Juan; it

is intended to prove to honest folk that Belvidero did not die in a duel with stone, as some lithographers

When Don Juan Belvidero reached the age of sixty he settled in Spain, and there in his old age he married a

young and charming Andalusian wife. But of set purpose he was neither a good husband nor a good father.

He had observed that we are never so tenderly loved as by women to whom we scarcely give a thought. Dona

Elvira had been devoutly brought up by an old aunt in a castle a few leagues from SanLucar in a remote part

of Andalusia. She was a model of devotion and grace. Don Juan foresaw that this would be a woman who

would struggle long against a passion before yielding, and therefore hoped to keep her virtuous until his

death. It was a jest undertaken in earnest, a game of chess which he meant to reserve till his old age. Don

Juan had learned wisdom from the mistakes made by his father Bartolommeo; he determined that the least

details of his life in old age should be subordinated to one objectthe success of the drama which was to be

For the same reason the largest part of his wealth was buried in the cellars of his palace at Ferrara, whither he

seldom went. As for the rest of his fortune, it was invested in a life annuity, with a view to give his wife and

children an interest in keeping him alive; but this Machiavellian piece of foresight was scarcely necessary.

His son, young Felipe Belvidero, grew up as a Spaniard as religiously conscientious as his father was

irreligious, in virtue, perhaps, of the old rule, "A miser has a spendthrift son." The Abbot of SanLucar was

chosen by Don Juan to be the director of the consciences of the Duchess of Belvidero and her son Felipe. The

ecclesiastic was a holy man, well shaped, and admirably well proportioned. He had fine dark eyes, a head like

that of Tiberius, worn with fasting, bleached by an ascetic life, and, like all dwellers in the wilderness, was

daily tempted. The noble lord had hopes, it may be, of despatching yet another monk before his term of life

But whether because the Abbot was every whit as clever as Don Juan himself, or Dona Elvira possessed more

discretion or more virtue than Spanish wives are usually credited with, Don Juan was compelled to spend his

declining years beneath his own roof, with no more scandal under it than if he had been an ancient country

parson. Occasionally he would take wife and son to task for negligence in the duties of religion, peremptorily

insisting that they should carry out to the letter the obligations imposed upon the flock by the Court of Rome.

Indeed, he was never so well pleased as when he had set the courtly Abbot discussing some case of

At length, however, despite the prodigious care that the great magnifico, Don Juan Belvidero, took of

himself, the days of decrepitude came upon him, and with those days the constant importunity of physical

feebleness, an importunity all the more distressing by contrast with the wealth of memories of his impetuous

youth and the sensual pleasures of middle age. The unbeliever who in the height of his cynical humor had

been wont to persuade others to believe in laws and principles at which he scoffed, must repose nightly upon

a PERHAPS. The great Duke, the pattern of good breeding, the champion of many a carouse, the proud

ornament of Courts, the man of genius, the graceful winner of hearts that he had wrung as carelessly as a

peasant twists an osier withe, was now the victim of a cough, of a ruthless sciatica, of an unmannerly gout.

His teeth gradually deserted him, as at the end of an evening the fairest and bestdressed women take their

leave one by one till the room is left empty and desolate. The active hands became palsystricken, the

shapely legs tottered as he walked. At last, one night, a stroke of apoplexy caught him by the throat in its icy

He would reproach his wife and son with their devotion, casting it in their teeth that the affecting and

thoughtful care that they lavished so tenderly upon him was bestowed because they knew that his money was

invested in a life annuity. Then Elvira and Felipe would shed bitter tears and redouble their caresses, and the

wicked old man's insinuating voice would take an affectionate tone"Ah, you will forgive me, will you not,

dear friends, dear wife? I am rather a nuisance. Alas, Lord in heaven, how canst Thou use me as the

instrument by which Thou provest these two angelic creatures? I who should be the joy of their lives am

In this manner he kept them tethered to his pillow, blotting out the memory of whole months of fretfulness

and unkindness in one short hour when he chose to display for them the evernew treasures of his pinchbeck

tenderness and charm of mannera system of paternity that yielded him an infinitely better return than his

own father's indulgence had formerly gained. At length his bodily infirmities reached a point when the task of

laying him in bed became as difficult as the navigation of a felucca in the perils of an intricate channel. Then

came the day of his death; and this brilliant sceptic, whose mental faculties alone had survived the most

dreadful of all destructions, found himself between his two special antipathiesthe doctor and the confessor.

But he was jovial with them. Did he not see a light gleaming in the future beyond the veil? The pall that is

like lead for other men was thin and translucent for him; the light footed, irresistible delights of youth

It was on a beautiful summer evening that Don Juan felt the near approach of death. The sky of Spain was

serene and cloudless; the air was full of the scent of orangeblossom; the stars shed clear, pure gleams of

light; nature without seemed to give the dying man assurance of resurrection; a dutiful and obedient son sat

there watching him with loving and respectful eyes. Towards eleven o'clock he desired to be left alone with

"Felipe," said the father, in tones so soft and affectionate that the young man trembled, and tears of gladness

came to his eyes; never had that stern father spoken his name in such a tone. "Listen, my son," the dying man

went on. "I am a great sinner. All my life long, however, I have thought of my death. I was once the friend of

the great Pope Julius II.; and that illustrious Pontiff, fearing lest the excessive excitability of my senses

should entangle me in mortal sin between the moment of my death and the time of my anointing with the

holy oil, gave me a flask that contains a little of the holy water that once issued from the rock in the

wilderness. I have kept the secret of this squandering of a treasure belonging to Holy Church, but I am

permitted to reveal the mystery in articulo mortis to my son. You will find the flask in a drawer in that Gothic

table that always stands by the head of the bed. . . . The precious little crystal flask may be of use yet again

for you, dearest Felipe. Will you swear to me, by your salvation, to carry out my instructions faithfully?"

Felipe looked at his father, and Don Juan was too deeply learned in the lore of the human countenance not to

die in peace with that look as his warrant, as his own father had died in despair at meeting the expression in

"You deserved to have a better father," Don Juan went on. "I dare to confess, my child, that while the

reverend Abbot of SanLucar was administering the Viaticum I was thinking of the incompatibility of the

"And I said to myself, when Satan makes his peace he ought surely to stipulate for the pardon of his

followers, or he will be the veriest scoundrel. The thought haunted me; so I shall go to hell, my son, unless

"As soon as I have closed my eyes," Don Juan went on, "and that may be in a few minutes, you must take my

body before it grows cold and lay it on a table in this room. Then put out the lamp; the light of the stars

should be sufficient. Take off my clothes, reciting Aves and Paters the while, raising your soul to God in

prayer, and carefully anoint my lips and eyes with this holy water; begin with the face, and proceed

successively to my limbs and the rest of my body; my dear son, the power of God is so great that you must be

Don Juan felt death so near, that he added in a terrible voice, "Be careful not to drop the flask."

Then he breathed his last gently in the arms of his son, and his son's tears fell fast over his sardonic, haggard

It was almost midnight when Don Felipe Belvidero laid his father's body upon the table. He kissed the

By the soft moonlight that lit strange gleams across the country without, Felipe could dimly see his father's

body, a vague white thing among the shadows. The dutiful son moistened a linen cloth with the liquid, and,

absorbed in prayer, he anointed the revered face. A deep silence reigned. Felipe heard faint, indescribable

rustlings; it was the breeze in the treetops, he thought. But when he had moistened the right arm, he felt

himself caught by the throat, a young strong hand held him in a tight gripit was his father's hand! He

shrieked aloud; the flask dropped from his hand and broke in pieces. The liquid evaporated; the whole

household hurried into the room, holding torches aloft. That shriek had startled them, and filled them with as

much terror as if the Trumpet of the Angel sounding on the Last Day had rung through earth and sky. The

room was full of people, and a horror stricken crowd beheld the fainting Felipe upheld by the strong arm of

his father, who clutched him by the throat. They saw another thing, an unearthly spectacleDon Juan's face

grown young and beautiful as Antinous, with its dark hair and brilliant eyes and red lips, a head that made

An old servitor cried, "A miracle! a miracle!" and all the Spaniards echoed, "A miracle! a miracle!"

Dona Elvira, too pious to attribute this to magic, sent for the Abbot of SanLucar; and the Prior beholding the

miracle with his own eyes, being a clever man, and withal an Abbot desirous of augmenting his revenues,

determined to turn the occasion to profit. He immediately gave out that Don Juan would certainly be

canonized; he appointed a day for the celebration of the apotheosis in his convent, which thenceforward, he

said, should be called the convent of San Juan of Lucar. At these words a sufficiently facetious grimace

The taste of the Spanish people for ecclesiastical solemnities is so well known, that it should not be difficult

to imagine the religious pantomime by which the Convent of SanLucar celebrated the translation of the

blessed Don Juan Belvidero to the abbey church. The tale of the partial resurrection had spread so quickly

from village to village, that a day or two after the death of the illustrious nobleman the report had reached

every place within fifty miles of SanLucar, and it was as good as a play to see the roads covered already

with crowds flocking in on all sides, their curiosity whetted still further by the prospect of a Te Deum sung

by torchlight. The old abbey church of San Lucar, a marvelous building erected by the Moors, a mosque of

Allah, which for three centuries had heard the name of Christ, could not hold the throng that poured in to see

the ceremony. Hidalgos in their velvet mantles, with their good swords at their sides, swarmed like ants, and

were so tightly packed in among the pillars that they had not room to bend the knees, which never bent save

to God. Charming peasant girls, in the basquina that defines the luxuriant outlines of their figures, lent an arm

to whitehaired old men. Young men, with eyes of fire, walked beside aged crones in holiday array. Then

came couples tremulous with joy, young lovers led thither by curiosity, newlywedded folk; children timidly

clasping each other by the hand. This throng, so rich in coloring, in vivid contrasts, laden with flowers,

enameled like a meadow, sent up a soft murmur through the quiet night. Then the great doors of the church

Late comers who remained without saw afar, through the three great open doorways, a scene of which the

theatrical illusions of modern opera can give but a faint idea. The vast church was lighted up by thousands of

candles, offered by saints and sinners alike eager to win the favor of this new candidate for canonization, and

these selfcommending illuminations turned the great building into an enchanted fairyland. The black

archways, the shafts and capitals, the recessed chapels with gold and silver gleaming in their depths, the

galleries, the Arab traceries, all the most delicate outlines of that delicate sculpture, burned in the excess of

light like the fantastic figures in the red heart of a brazier. At the further end of the church, above that blazing

sea, rose the high altar like a splendid dawn. All the glories of the golden lamps and silver candlesticks, of

banners and tassels, of the shrines of the saints and votive offerings, paled before the gorgeous brightness of

the reliquary in which Don Juan lay. The blasphemer's body sparkled with gems, and flowers, and crystal,

with diamonds and gold, and plumes white as the wings of seraphim; they had set it up on the altar, where the

pictures of Christ had stood. All about him blazed a host of tall candles; the air quivered in the radiant light.

The worthy Abbot of SanLucar, in pontifical robes, with his mitre set with precious stones, his rochet and

golden crosier, sat enthroned in imperial state among his clergy in the choir. Rows of impassive aged faces,

silverhaired old men clad in fine linen albs, were grouped about him, as the saints who confessed Christ on

earth are set by painters, each in his place, about the throne of God in heaven. The precentor and the

dignitaries of the chapter, adorned with the gorgeous insignia of ecclesiastical vanity, came and went through

When the hour of triumph arrived, the bells awoke the echoes far and wide, and the whole vast crowd raised

to God the first cry of praise that begins the Te Deum. A sublime cry! High, pure notes, the voices of women

in ecstasy, mingled in it with the sterner and deeper voices of men; thousands of voices sent up a volume of

sound so mighty, that the straining, groaning organpipes could not dominate that harmony. But the shrill

sound of children's singing among the choristers, the reverberation of deep bass notes, awakened gracious

associations, visions of childhood, and of man in his strength, and rose above that entrancing harmony of

The chant went up from the black masses of men and women kneeling in the cathedral, like a sudden

breaking out of light in darkness, and the silence was shattered as by a peal of thunder. The voices floated up

with the clouds of incense that had begun to cast thin bluish veils over the fanciful marvels of the

architecture, and the aisles were filled with splendor and perfume and light and melody. Even at the moment

when that music of love and thanksgiving soared up to the altar, Don Juan, too well bred not to express his

acknowledgments, too witty not to understand how to take a jest, bridled up in his reliquary, and responded

with an appalling burst of laughter. Then the Devil having put him in mind of the risk he was running of

being taken for an ordinary man, a saint, a Boniface, a Pantaleone, he interrupted the melody of love by a

yell, the thousand voices of hell joined in it. Earth blessed, Heaven banned. The church was shaken to its

"Go to the devil, brute beasts that you are! Dios! Dios! Garajos demonios! Idiots! What fools you are with

your dotard God!" and a torrent of imprecations poured forth like a stream of redhot lava from the mouth of

"You are insulting the majesty of Hell," shouted Don Juan, gnashing his teeth. In another moment the living

arm struggled out of the reliquary, and was brandished over the assembly in mockery and despair.

"The saint is blessing us," cried the old women, children, lovers, and the credulous among the crowd.

And note how often we are deceived in the homage we pay; the great man scoffs at those who praise him, and

pays compliments now and again to those whom he laughs at in the depths of his heart.

Just as the Abbot, prostrate before the altar, was chanting "Sancte Johannes, ora pro noblis!" he heard a voice

"What can be going on up there?" cried the Subprior, as he saw the reliquary move.

Even as he spoke the living head tore itself away from the lifeless body, and dropped upon the sallow

"Remember Dona Elvira!" cried the thing, with its teeth set fast in the Abbot's head.

The Abbot's horrorstricken shriek disturbed the ceremony; all the ecclesiastics hurried up and crowded

"Idiot, tell us now if there is a God!" the voice cried, as the Abbot, bitten through the brain, drew his last