Paris Spleen: little poems in prose

XXVII: An Heroic Death

53 xxvii An Heroic Death Fancioulle was an admirable jester and almost a friend of his Prince. But for professionals dedicated to the comic, serious concerns form a fatal attraction and, while it may seem odd that ideas of country and liberty should take over completely a mountebank’s brain, Fancioulle one day entered into the conspiracy of some discontented gentlemen. There is, inevitably, some well-placed person to notify the authorities of bitter cantankerous individuals who decide, without further consultation, to depose a prince and undo a society. The gentlemen in question were arrested—along with Fancioulle—and faced with certain death. I would like to believe the Prince was sorry to find his favorite performer among the rebels. This Prince was neither better nor worse than others, but an excessive sensibility rendered him, in many cases, crueler and more despotic than the rest. A passionate lover of the arts, excellent connoisseur as well, in pleasure he was insatiable. Caring little for men or for morals, himself a true artist, he considered Ennui his only foe, and the bizarre efforts he took to flee or to vanquish this universal tyrant would certainly have made a serious historian classify him as “monster”—if, in his domain, it had been permitted to write anything not for enjoyment (or astonishment, enjoyment in a particularly delicate form). The Prince’s great misfortune was that he never had a theatre large enough for his genius. Many a young Nero there is, smothered in too narrow a strait, whose name and good intentions will not resound through the centuries. Providence, lacking foresight, had given this one faculties out of proportion to his circumstances. But suddenly a rumor ran that the sovereign had pardoned the conspirators , rumor reinforced by the announcement of a grand spectacle in which Fancioulle would play one of his main (and best) roles, as- 54 sisted—it was claimed—by the gentlemen condemned. Obviously a sign, shallow minds assumed, of the offended Prince’s generous nature. In the case of a man so naturally and purposefully eccentric, anything was possible, even virtue, even clemency, especially if he could hope to find therein some unwonted pleasure. But for those like me, given to a deeper delve into the depths of this curious sick soul, it was infinitely more likely that the Prince wanted to gauge the histrionic abilities of a man condemned to death. He would profit from the occasion to make a physiological experiment of capital interest—verifying to what point an artist’s habitual abilities might be altered or modified by an extraordinary situation. Beyond that, was there in his soul a more or less settled intention to provide clemency? That point was never clarified. Finally, the great day come round, this minor court drew out all its pomp, and it would be difficult to conceive, without having seen it, what splendors the privileged class of a small state with few resources can muster for a true solemnity. Doubly true, noting first the luxuries magically revealed, but also the mysterious and moral interest involved. Now Fancioulle was best in mute roles or in those with little dialogue , often the protagonist in plays of fantasy representing symbolically the mystery of life. He came on stage lightly and with perfect ease, which confirmed the noble public’s notion of grace and pardon. When we say of an actor, “What a really good actor,” we use a formula which implies that beneath the character we still sense the actor, that is to say, the art, the effort, the will. But could an actor be, to the character he is given to express, what the best ancient statues—miraculously animated, alive, at large, seeing—were in relation to a confused general idea of beauty, there we would have no doubt a case singular and entirely unexpected. Fancioulle was, that evening, a perfect idealization, impossible not to be experienced as alive, possible, real. This jester came, went, laughed, cried, writhed, an indestructible nimbus about his head; a halo invisible to all, but which I could see and which joined in a strange amalgam the radiance of Art and the 55 glory of Martyrdom. Fancioulle, by some peculiar gift, introduced the supernatural, the divine, into even the most extravagant of his buffooneries. My pen trembles and tears of an ever present emotion flood my eyes as I try to describe to you this unforgettable performance...