Note: 96th of October will be publishing Peter Valente’s complete translation of Pelleasters, from which this chapter is taken. The complete Pelleasters, will contain footnotes to clarify all obscure terms and references. The inclusion of the notes is impractical in online publication. In the meantime, a few of the explanations will be found at the end of the article. These are marked in the text with an asterisk.
That Jacques Hurtel, what a misogynist! He certainly has a lot of stories to share! As if it were only women who were vulnerable to poisonous literature! What about the men? Do you really think they’re immune? Having a beard doesn’t protect you from this affliction. Right next to those ladies, you’ll find the gentlemen. And it wasn’t just the women who packed the premieres at the Théâtre de l’Œuvre. Alongside the striking thinness, the serpentine curves, and the mysterious glances of the aesthetes’ companions, there were the aesthetes themselves: the ones who owned these princesses along with the creators, designers, and hatmakers responsible for dressing up these museum-like dolls.
These aesthetes, who were themselves under the spell of the poison, and even more so, those who spread it by leading others astray: why didn’t you take note of them, too?
With their velvet vests in shades of tawny brown, neckties from the 1830s, dramatic high collars, frock coats in the style of Royer-Collard, lion tamer jackets with fancy knotted fastenings, and topping off foreheads brimming with supposed genius there was every possible hairstyle, from Musset’s trademark curl to Victor Hugo’s wild mane. It was like a parade of characters from the past, carefully modeled after portraits sold along the riverbanks: a whole crowd of imitation Bonapartes, fake Monsieur Ingres, fake Montalemberts, and even some genuine Guizots; a gathering of famous faces standing in for real personalities. And what a collection of rings! How could you miss this impressive lineup of Benjamin Constants and Madame de Staëls who, truth be told, cared as much about the plays being performed as a fish does for an apple, but who all showed up just to see and be seen, and to size each other up?
The same legendary crowd that once attended Lugné-Poé’s premieres now gathers at the Salle Favart, faithfully returning for every revival of Pelléas et Mélisande. These devoted fans who swooned over Grieg’s nostalgic melodies in Peer Gynt and admired the intricate orchestrations of Fervaal have united in their enthusiastic embrace of Claude Debussy’s music. They’re swept up in admiration for the sunlit pizzicati of Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, and it’s now almost required to be dazzled by the deliberate dissonances and lengthy recitatives in Pelléas. The nervous energy stirred up by those lingering chords and the endless, repeated attempts at starting a musical phrase—announced over and over—created a seductive, frustrating, and ultimately harsh sensation inflicted upon the audience’s ears. The teasing ascent of the theme, always interrupted and never fully resolved, felt like a game of anticipation and minor shocks. This whole experience—so “artistic” (or so they say), so “quintessential” (yeah right!), so “nerve-wracking” (you can just imagine!)—was sure to appeal to an audience of snobs and poseurs. Thanks to these men and women, Debussy has become the high priest of a new musical faith. Every performance of Pelléas at the Salle Favart feels like a sacred ritual. The audience attends with a solemn air, sharing knowing glances and secretive winks. After the preludes, listened to in reverent silence, the true believers enact their own rituals in the corridors: fingers pressed to lips in secrecy, quick handshakes exchanged in the shadows of the private boxes, faces set in expressions of martyrdom, and eyes gazing into the distance as if searching for something beyond.
Music is the last religion of this faithless century. Performances of Tristan and Parsifal pack the upper tiers of the Châtelet with an ardent crowd, frozen in a state of hypnosis, that is in every respect akin to the early Christians gathered in the Catacombs. Yet at least Wagner’s devotees are sincere: they are drawn from every social class and the humility of their attire along with the sometimes-sublime ugliness of their contorted faces bears witness to the fervor and intensity of their faith. The religion of Mr. Claude Debussy possesses a greater elegance; his neophytes populate primarily the orchestra seats and the first-tier boxes and, occasionally, the orchestra stalls as well. Seated next to a fair-haired young woman, too frail, too pale, and too blonde, whose resemblance was evidently cultivated to mirror the archetype of Mlle Garden…
(I looked at Lucie: she was pale and blonde…)
…and, idly leafing through the score resting on the ledge of the box, there is the whole clan of handsome young men (almost all Debussyites are young, very young): ephebes with long hair artfully parted in the middle and swept down over the sides of the forehead; their faces were somewhat unremarkable, with deep-set eyes; they wore velvet collars and slightly puffed sleeves; their frock coats were cinched a bit too tightly at the waist; with heavy satin neckties squeezing their necks or loose scarves casually draped over turned-down collars (when the Debussyite happens to be wearing a tailored suit) and all of them wearing on their little fingers (for they all possess beautiful hands) a few precious rings from Egypt or Byzantium: a turquoise scarab or a caduceus of green gold, and all of them paired off in couples. Orestes and Pylades, communing under the guise of Pelléas; or model sons with downcast eyes escorting their mothers! And all of them drinking in the gestures of Mlle Garden, the sets by Jusseaume, and the lighting by Carré – archangels with the eyes of visionaries! – and, in moments of heightened emotion, whispering into one another’s ears, down to the very depths of their souls… These are the Pelleasters.
These Pelleasters are always part of the in crowd.
Six months ago, I attended one of these performances. After the Fountain scene—which is probably one of the highlights of the opera— my opera glasses happened to alight upon an intriguing stage-box. A woman, still remarkably beautiful and dressed in elegant evening attire, occupied the front of it; to her right was a young girl, barely more than a child, her eyes wandering innocently over the crowd: a mother and her daughter, no doubt. On the left, a young man, impeccably dressed in a tailcoat, leaned his elbow on the rail in a relaxed, almost lazy pose. His hand, adorned with rings and pearls, hung casually over the edge. My opera glasses settled on his face, and I couldn’t look away. This young man embodied the purest English type: his thick, silky blond hair fell naturally across his forehead, and his face had a cherubic quality, slightly rounder than most. His cheeks were so rosy, you might have thought they were touched with blush—but that didn’t take away from the delicate lines of his profile.
He was the picture of a young dandy, almost like a teenage Beau Brummell, with an air of boldness and a flair that was impossible to miss. But what really set him apart was his hand, which was unusually slender and graceful. “The most beautiful hand in Paris,” Meyran whispered to me as Meyran had followed the direction of my opera glasses.
“That’s Edward Ytter, the son of the famous English painter, Williams Ytter. He’s here with his mother and sister. He never leaves his mother’s side; he’s absolutely devoted to her!”
“Him too?”
“Yes, they all adore their mothers, write Greek poetry, and are talented musicians. He’s an enthusiastic Pelleaster. Mind you, he hasn’t started collecting bats or hydrangeas yet, and, at least so far, he hasn’t hosted any cat christenings.* Still, he’s got his own way of quietly drawing attention to himself. His hand is well-known in their social circle. And he always wears the most remarkable rings: only pearls and delicate enamels set in green jade. All these young gentlemen find their own unique ways to become known. Edward Ytter’s claim to fame is his hand, his rings, and his collection of treasures from the era of the Sun King. He only allows furniture and tapestries from the seventeenth century in his home; everything’s in the Louis XIV style. He lives in an old mansion on the Île Saint-Louis just like Madame Lelong, who’s watching him right now. He even owns a lacquer chamber pot that once belonged to Madame de Maintenon and sleeps in the bed that belonged to the King’s brother! I really need to take you to visit him sometime.”
“But I don’t want to meet him!”
“Oh, but you must! He’s the missing piece in your collection of characters. I’ll introduce you at the next intermission. Now hush, or we’ll be in trouble; the music’s starting again.”
During the next intermission, I had the pleasure of being introduced to Sir Edward Ytter. The first thing you noticed about him was his impeccable style; his clothes fit so perfectly it was as if they’d been painted on. He spoke with a slight lisp and had a gentle sway to his right leg, which seemed as flexible as his slender walking stick, a single reed topped with a tiny, antique Japanese ornament. The introduction itself was completely proper. Sir Edward was gracious, telling me he’d always wanted to meet me and was genuinely delighted we finally had the chance. As he spoke, he absentmindedly stroked his pale golden budding mustache, perhaps to show off his elegant fingers and their perfectly polished nails, or maybe to draw attention to the unique rings weighing down his hand. “The finest hand in Paris,” Meyran had whispered to me. I must admit, Sir Edward was quite charming. He took in a breath, not without a hint of pride, as Meyran showered him with compliments, admiring his looks, his suit, and even his rings.
Then, just as suddenly, he excused himself with a brief,
“I’m off to join Mother.”
“Yes, he does go on a bit about his mother, but he’s a good kid. Once he loosens up, he’ll make a fine horseman.”
“His mother—his ‘dear’ mother! That’s hardly a calling in life. What does he actually do, besides being the perfect son?”
“Well, for one thing, he doesn’t actually live with his ‘dear mother.’ He does escort her to social events and the theater, but he keeps his distance. Madame Ytter lives on the Champs-Élysées, while he stays over on the Île Saint-Louis, sleeping in the very same bed once used by the King’s own brother.”
“Without the Chevalier de Lorraine?” *
“I certainly hope so.”
“But what does he do, aside from his social rounds—this ‘good son’ of yours?”
“Why, he paints—just like his father!”
“Portraits?”
“No. Snuff boxes.”
“Snuff boxes?”
“For princesses and exiled majesties. The Ytters get around quite a bit. The father’s reputation serves the son well: he undertakes nothing for less than fifteen louis and even at that price, it’s practically a gift! The father was a master; the son is a dandy. He finishes his miniatures with miraculous precision; he has grasped Hubert Robert’s style quite effectively. On these snuff box lids, decorated with faux lacquer, he sometimes paints ruins, and other times flowers; some people prefer the ruins, while others favor the flowers. He is not without talent, mind you. But the very best thing about him is his home. This young Ytter possesses exquisite taste. I simply must take you to visit him.”
The fourth act was beginning. We made our way back to our orchestra seats.
A few days later, I ran into Meyran.
“I was just on my way to see you,” he said. “I was coming to invite you to lunch the day after tomorrow, at Paillard’s; I’ve invited young Ytter and a friend of his; they make quite a pair. The latter is a true connoisseur of color. He has a lophophore chamber;* I won’t say another word about it. He speaks only in phosphorescences and evanescences; he is, moreover, an ardent enthusiast of Pelléas. His neckties are a poem in themselves. He is the son of Damora, the great musician. Astonishing, these descendants of men of genius! One would almost think that Nature, having run dry, simply cannot go on once she has expended her maximum measure of harmony and strength.”
I tried to decline the invitation.
“No, you simply must come,” Meyran insisted. “You have no idea about the younger generation. It might come in handy for a novel someday; it’s a veritable treasure trove of physiological documentation.”
And so, on the appointed day, I went to Paillard’s.
Meyran had reserved a small private dining room on the first floor, a courtesy for which I was grateful, given that his guests were somewhat conspicuous figures. I found Edward Ytter looking sharp and stylish, dressed like a young nobleman in a slate-gray frock coat. A velvet waistcoat in pansy violet peeked out from under the lapels, and a tie the color of irises was loosely draped around his slender neck. He seemed even blonder than he did the other night. That morning, he extended a hand adorned with rings featuring black pearls and pink sapphires and introduced me to his friend, Maxence Damora, the son of the well-known Damora. Maxence had an olive complexion and wore a perfectly tailored myrtle-green jacket, buttoned over a black velvet tie. He didn’t wear any jewelry; instead, a green orchid pinned to his necktie added a unique touch. We dug into the Marennes oysters, and as Sir Edward Ytter seasoned his with aromatic spices, he entertained us with memorable stories. He graciously shared his plans with us. He had just returned from Venice and the Italian Lakes, where he usually spent his autumns. In Venice, he stayed as a guest of Sir Reginald Asthom, who owned a palazzo on the Grand Canal. He’d been invited to spend the winter in Cairo, and there was even talk of him taking a trip up the Nile on a dahabieh, traveling all the way to its source. Regrettably, Egypt was now completely overrun by Americans. Cannes was out of the question until the end of April; there was no way anyone could handle the crowds during Carnival. Besides, he’d already promised himself he’d spend the spring in Sicily. So, he’d have to settle for staying in Paris through January, February, and March. As soon as he saw the almond trees start to bloom, he’d head straight to Taormina.
O blue pastures and fables of Sicily!
Here, one led an extraordinary life. From Taormina, he would make excursions to Messina and Catania; perhaps he would return to Syracuse for the sake of the Latomies though Syracuse was such a melancholy place! He would certainly spend the month of May in Palermo. He was strongly inclined to skip the London Season: there were too many acquaintances there, and the evening engagements robbed him of all his freedom. He would rather spend June in Paris, for the sake of the Salon: he wanted to see the Angladas and the Jacques Blanches and the Helleus, too. He absolutely adored Helleus: his style was so elusive, so deeply personal! Besides, he had promised Lady Corneby he would help her furnish the Dubarry Pavilion, which she had just purchased in Versailles. He had even allowed himself to be coaxed into promising to deliver two or three lectures at her home on late Louis XV furniture, a task that would, naturally, entail some research and many long hours at the library. As for his summer, he would spend it in Castellammare, in the Bay of Naples (where the air is delightfully cool), staying with a Russian friend who had converted an old convent into a villa. There, they organized Neo-Greek festivals—vivid recreations inspired by the frescoes of Pompeii—that were absolutely breathtaking. Prince Noronsoff’s gardens were the perfect setting for these spectacular events. Illuminated by torchlight under the camphor and silvery glow of the Campanian summer moons, it was a scene you’d never forget.
After we talked about his projects, Sir Edward Ytter shared how his remarkable talent attracted countless commissions. His autumn season alone yielded fifteen thousand francs, and he had traveled widely. The Duchess of Middleton and Princess Outchareska had each just commissioned a snuff box from him: the Duchess had requested ruins, and the Princess, flowers (for there were those who preferred ruins, and others who preferred flowers). He was talented in both genres, and—almost unbelievably—he just happened to have both snuff boxes in the pocket of his overcoat. He asked the headwaiter to fetch it for him, and we were granted the privilege of passing judgment on his craftsmanship. The first snuff box enclosed within its oval a small Temple of Love situated on an island, much like the one at Trianon: delicate, openwork colonnades set against a turquoise-blue sky, wisped with rosy mists, while all the russet hues of autumn empurpled the willows surrounding a still, dead pond. The second snuff box has gently rounded, flared sides and is embellished with a pattern of cascading petals; a hedge of wild roses and honeysuckle tumbled in wild disarray against a green sky. “Fifty louis for both,” the painter concluded. “That’s my special friends’ price, just so you know! But one must also do something nice for the ladies.” Sir Edward Ytter was indefatigable. He then proceeded to speak of his expertise in curios and objets d’art. He was one of the foremost oracles on the subject. Lowengard himself consulted him, and not a single major purchase was ever made at Cramer’s without Sir Edward having first rendered his opinion. The bed belonging to the King’s brother—which he had discovered on Rue Visconti amidst a dreadful heap of junk – had earned him the esteem and high regard of London’s most prominent dealers. As for his Madame de Maintenon chamber pot, crafted in red Coromandel lacquer, it was a unique piece for which the Carnavalet Museum had offered him thirty-eight thousand francs. He had a unique sense of style: at the moment, he was in negotiations for a portable chamber pot featuring beautiful wood marquetry that once belonged to the Grand King. He still hoped to get his hands on another portable chamber pot, originally bought at the Vaux auction, from a wealthy collector in Meulan. Imagine—Superintendent Fouquet’s portable urinal, and the Sun King’s own chamber pot!
Prompted by a nudge from Meyran, I feigned enthusiasm when Sir Edward said:
“If the deal goes through, I shall invite you, my dear sir, to come and view the two objects at my home.”
“But the bed belonging to the King’s brother would be plenty!” I replied. “Honestly, I’d be thrilled just to see Madame de Maintenon’s chamber pot!”
“No, all of Paris knows those pieces. Surely, I owe your curiosity a few “new” objects!”
As young Damora stayed quiet, I started to feel uneasy about his silence.
I couldn’t help but ask him, “Are you the one with the lophophore chamber?”
“And the Mandarin décor!” the young man replied.
We parted, utterly “delighted” with each other.
Notes
Lorrain, famous for his eccentric lifestyle, once held a formal christening for his cat and invited members of the elite to attend. This was a gesture highlighting the “art for art’s sake” atmosphere of the time. Here, of course, he is making fun of such absurd ideas.
Philippe of Lorraine (1643–1702), known as the Chevalier de Lorraine, was the prominent lover of Philippe, Duke of Orléans (“Monsieur,” 1640–1701), the younger brother of King Louis XIV.
Lorrain, known as a master of French Decadence, often focused on themes of artificiality, decay, and sensory overload. A “lophophore” (a specialized feeding organ in marine invertebrates) used in this context likely acts as a bizarre metaphor, suggesting a room that feeds, traps, or consumes its occupant.