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that their attire is a vastly becoming shroud… …no； Aurelie and Sylvie； in
Les Filles de Feu； are nice and natural girls； but their lover is not in love
with them 〃in a human sort of way。〃 He is in love with some vaporous
ideal； of which they faintly remind him。 He is； as it were； the eternal
passer…by； he is a wanderer from his birth； he sees the old chateau； or the
farmer's cottage； or even the bright theatre； or the desert tent； he sees the
daughters of men that they are fair and dear； in moonlight； in sunlight； in
the glare of the footlights； and he looks； and longs； and sighs； and wanders
on his fatal path。 Nothing can make him pause； and at last his urgent
spirit leads him over the limit of this earth； and far from the human shores；
his delirious fancy haunts graveyards； or the fabled harbours of happy
stars； and he who rested never； rests in the grave； forgetting his dreams or
finding them true。
All this is too vague for you； I do not doubt； but for me the man and
his work have an attraction I cannot very well explain； like the personal
influence of one who is your friend； though other people cannot see what
you see in him。
Gerard de Nerval （that was only his pen…name） was a young man of
the young romantic school of 1830； one of the set of Hugo and Gautier。
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Their gallant； school…boyish absurdities are too familiar to be dwelt upon。
They were much of Scott's mind when he was young； and translated
Burger； and 〃wished to heaven he had a skull and cross… bones。〃 Two or
three of them died early； two or three subsided into ordinary literary
gentlemen （like M。 Maquet； lately deceased）； two； nay three； became
poetsVictor Hugo； Theophile Gautier； and Gerard de Nerval。 It is not
necessary to have heard of Gerard； even that queer sham； the lady of
culture； admits without a blush that she knows not Gerard。 Yet he is
worth knowing。
What he will live by is his story of 〃Sylvie；〃 it is one of the little
masterpieces of the world。 It has a Greek perfection。 One reads it； and
however old one is； youth comes back； and April； and a thousand pleasant
sounds of birds in hedges； of wind in the boughs； of brooks trotting
merrily under the rustic bridges。 And this fresh nature is peopled by girls
eternally young； natural； gay； or pensive； standing with eager feet on the
threshold of their life； innocent； expectant； with the old ballads of old
France on their lips。 For the story is full of those artless； lisping numbers
of the popular French Muse； the ancient ballads that Gerard collected and
put in the mouth of Sylvie； the pretty peasant girl。
Do you know what it is to walk alone all day on the Border； and what
good company to you the burn is that runs beside the highway？ Just so
companionable is the music of the ballads in that enchanted country of
Gerard's fancy； in the land of the Valois。 All the while you read； you
have a sense of the briefness of the pleasure； you know that the hero
cannot rest here； that the girls and their loves； the cottage and its shelter；
are not for him。 He is only passing by； happy yet wistful； far untravelled
horizons are alluring him； the great city is drawing him to herself and will
slay him one day in her den； as Scylla slew her victims。
Conceive Gerard living a wild life with wilder young men and women
in a great barrack of an old hotel that the painters amused themselves by
decorating。 Conceive him coming home from the play； or rather from
watching the particular actress for whom he had a distant； fantastic passion。
He leaves the theatre and takes up a newspaper； where he reads that
tomorrow the Archers of Senlis are to meet the Archers of Loisy。 These
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were places in his native district； where he had been a boy。 They recalled
many memories； he could not sleep that night； the old scenes flashed
before his half… dreaming eyes。 This was one of the visions。
〃In front of a chateau of the time of Henri IV。； a chateau with peaked
lichen…covered roofs； with a facing of red brick varied by stonework of a
paler hue； lay a wide； green lawn set round with limes and elms； and
through the leaves fell the golden rays of the setting sun。 Young girls
were dancing in a circle on the mossy grass； to the sound of airs that their
mothers had sung； airs with words so pure and natural that one felt one's
self indeed in that old Valois land； where for a thousand years has beat the
heart of France。
〃I was the only boy in the circle whither I had led my little friend；
Sylvie； a child of a neighbouring hamlet； Sylvie； so full of life； so fresh；
with her dark eyes； her regular profile； her sunburnt face。 I had loved
nobody； I had seen nobody but her； till the daughter of the chateau； fair
and tall； entered the circle of peasant girls。 To obtain the right to join the
ring she had to chant a scrap of a ballad。 We sat round her； and in a fresh；
clear voice she sang one of the old ballads of romance； full of love and
sadness 。 。 。 As she sang； the shadow of the great trees grew deeper； and
the broad light of the risen moon fell on her alone； she standing without
the listening circle。 Her song was over； and no one dared to break the
silence。 A light mist arose from the mossy ground； trailing over the grass。
We seemed to be in Paradise。〃
So the boy twisted a wreath for this new enchantress； the daughter of a
line of nobles with king's blood in her veins。 And little brown； deserted
Sylvie cried。
All this Gerard remembered； and remembering； hurried down to the
old country place； and met Sylvie； now a woman grown； beautiful；
unspoiled； still remembering the primitive songs and fairy tales。 They
walked together through the woods to the cottage of the aunt of Sylvie； an
old peasant woman of the richer class。 She prepared dinner