The Englishman of Etretat

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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A great English poet has just crossed over to France in order to greetVictor Hugo. All the newspapers are full of his name and he is the greattopic of conversation in all drawing-rooms. Fifteen years ago I hadoccasion several times to meet Algernon Charles Swinburne. I willattempt to show him just as I saw him and to give an idea of the strangeimpression he made on me, which will remain with me throughout time.I believe it was in 1867 or in 1868 that an unknown young Englishman cameto Etretat and bought a little but hidden under great trees. It was saidthat he lived there, always alone, in a strange manner; and he arousedthe inimical surprise of the natives, for the inhabitants were sullen andfoolishly malicious, as they always are in little towns.They declared that this whimsical Englishman ate nothing but boiled.roasted or stewed monkey; that he would see no one; that he talked tohimself hours at a time and many other surprising things that made peoplethink that he was different from other men. They were surprised that heshould live alone with a monkey. Had it been a cat or a dog they wouldhave said nothing. But a monkey! Was that not frightful? What savagetastes the man must have!I knew this young man only from seeing him in the streets. He was short,plump, without being fat, mild-looking, and he wore a little blondmustache, which was almost invisible.Chance brought us together. This savage had amiable and pleasingmanners, but he was one of those strange Englishmen that one meets hereand there throughout the world.Endowed with remarkable intelligence, he seemed to live in a fantasticdream, as Edgar Poe must have lived. He had translated into English avolume of strange Icelandic legends, which I ardently desired to seetranslated into French. He loved the supernatural, the dismal andgrewsome, but he spoke of the most marvellous things with a calmness thatwas typically English, to which his gentle and quiet voice gave asemblance of reality that was maddening.Full of a haughty disdain for the world, with its conventions, prejudicesand code of morality, he had nailed to his house a name that was boldlyimpudent. The keeper of a lonely inn who should write on his door:"Travellers murdered here!" could not make a more sinister jest. I neverhad entered his dwelling, when one day I received an invitation toluncheon, following an accident that had occurred to one of his friends,who had been almost drowned and whom I had attempted to rescue.Although I was unable to reach the man until he had already been rescued,I received the hearty thanks of the two Englishmen, and the following dayI called upon them.The friend was a man about thirty years old. He bore an enormous head ona child's body--a body without chest or shoulders. An immense forehead,which seemed to have engulfed the rest of the man, expanded like a domeabove a thin face which ended in a little pointed beard. Two sharp eyesand a peculiar mouth gave one the impression of the head of a reptile,while the magnificent brow suggested a genius.A nervous twitching shook this peculiar being, who walked, moved, actedby jerks like a broken spring.This was Algernon Charles Swinburne, son of an English admiral andgrandson, on the maternal side, of the Earl of Ashburnham.He strange countenance was transfigured when he spoke. I have seldomseen a man more impressive, more eloquent, incisive or charming inconversation. His rapid, clear, piercing and fantastic imaginationseemed to creep into his voice and to lend life to his words. Hisbrusque gestures enlivened his speech, which penetrated one like adagger, and he had bursts of thought, just as lighthouses throw outflashes of fire, great, genial lights that seemed to illuminate a wholeworld of ideas.The home of the two friends was pretty and by no means commonplace.Everywhere were paintings, some superb, some strange, representingdifferent conceptions of insanity. Unless I am mistaken, there was awater-color which represented the head of a dead man floating in a rose-colored shell on a boundless ocean, under a moon with a human face.Here and there I came across bones. I clearly remember a flayed hand onwhich was hanging some dried skin and black muscles, and on the snow-white bones could be seen the traces of dried blood.The food was a riddle which I could not solve. Was it good? Was it bad?I could not say. Some roast monkey took away all desire to make a steadydiet of this animal, and the great monkey who roamed about among us atlarge and playfully pushed his head into my glass when I wished to drinkcured me of any desire I might have to take one of his brothers as acompanion for the rest of my days.As for the two men, they gave me the impression of two strange, original,remarkable minds, belonging to that peculiar race of talented madmen fromamong whom have arisen Poe, Hoffmann and many others.If genius is, as is commonly believed, a sort of aberration of greatminds, then Algernon Charles Swinburne is undoubtedly a genius.Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while thissublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior butare slightly touched by madness.At any rate, this poet remains one of the first of his time, through hisoriginality and polished form. He is an exalted lyrical singer whoseldom bothers about the good and humble truth, which French poets arenow seeking so persistently and patiently. He strives to set downdreams, subtle thoughts, sometimes great, sometimes visibly forced, butsometimes magnificent.Two years later I found the house closed and its tenants gone. Thefurniture was being sold. In memory of them I bought the hideous flayedhand. On the grass an enormous square block of granite bore this simpleword: "Nip." Above this a hollow stone offered water to the birds. Itwas the grave of the monkey, who had been hanged by a young, vindictivenegro servant. It was said that this violent domestic had been forced toflee at the point of his exasperated master's revolver. After wanderingabout without home or food for several days, he returned and began topeddle barley-sugar in the streets. He was expelled from the countryafter he had almost strangled a displeased customer.The world would be gayer if one could often meet homes like that.

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