Le Roi Candaule

by Théophile Gautier

Le Roi Candaule
Théophile Gautier, poète, romancier, peintre et critique d'art français (1811-1872)

Ce livre numérique présente «Le Roi Candaule», de Théophile Gautier, édité en texte intégral. Une table des matières dynamique permet d'accéder directement aux différentes sections.

Table des Matières
-01- Présentation
-02- Chapitre I
-03- Chapitre II
-04- Chapitre III
-05- Chapitre IV
-06- Chapitre V

Genres: France, Fiction, Middle East, Classics, Romanticism

41 pages, Kindle Edition

First published February 9, 2015

About the author

Pierre Jules Théophile Gautier was a French poet, dramatist, novelist, journalist, and literary critic. In the 1830 Revolution, he chose to stay with friends in the Doyenné district of Paris, living a rather pleasant bohemian life. He began writing poetry as early as 1826 but the majority of his life was spent as a contributor to various journals, mainly for La Presse, which also gave him the opportunity for foreign travel and meeting many influential contacts in high society and in the world of the arts, which inspired many of his writings including Voyage en Espagne (1843), Trésors d'Art de la Russie (1858), and Voyage en Russie (1867). He was a celebrated abandonnée of the Romantic Ballet, writing several scenarios, the most famous of which is Giselle. His prestige was confirmed by his role as director of Revue de Paris from 1851-1856. During this time, he became a journalist for Le Moniteur universel, then the editorship of influential review L'Artiste in 1856. His works include: Albertus (1830), La Comédie de la Mort (1838), Une Larme du Diable (1839), Constantinople (1853) and L'Art Moderne (1856)

Reviews

[Bill Kerwin · Rating 4 out of 5]

This novella, taken from One of Cleopatra’s Nights and other Fantastic Romances, a selection from the tales of Theophile Gautier translated by Lafcadio Hearn, benefits from a fortunate coincidence: it is the work of a fine literary stylist translated by another fine literary stylist who thoroughly comprehends what the original writer was trying to do.

The next tale in Hearns’ volume is “Omphale: a Rococo Story,” and its subtitle could be equally applied to King Candaules. Like the paintings of the Rococo period, Gautier’s style—and Hearn’s—is filled with ebullient ornamentation, often in excess, disproportionate to the importance of the narrative incident.

It is true that the legend of Candaules possesses an exciting narrative at its core. The King, inordinately proud of his wife Nyssia’s beauty, orders Gyges to conceal himself in the royal bedroom, so that, having seen her naked, he may testify to the uniqueness of her loveliness, but Nyssia—who quickly catches on and is angered at the shame both these men have brought upon her—confronts Gyges and gives him a choice: either be killed by my servants immediately or kill my husband, become king yourself, and enjoy my favors as your own.

As I said, it is an exciting story, but narrative excitement is not really the point. Instead, the reader’s joy is to be found in the gorgeous details crammed into every long, languorous pararaph, whether it be describe the elephant Nyssia rode in procession and the profusion of her jewels, or the exquisite beauty of Nyssia’s feet, observed by Gyges while hidden in the royal chamber.

First the elephant, and the jeweled Nyssia:

The daughter of Megabazus was mounted upon an elephant, with wrinkled skin and immense ears which seemed like flags, who advanced with a heavy but rapid gait, like a vessel in the midst of the waves. His tusks and his trunk were encircled with silver rings, and around the pillars of his limbs were entwined necklaces of enormous pearls. Upon his back, which was covered with a magnificent Persian carpet of striped pattern, stood a sort of estrade overlaid with gold finely chased, and constellated with onyx stones, carnelians, chrysolites, lapis-lazuli, and girasols; upon this estrade sat the young queen, so covered with precious stones as to dazzle the eyes of the beholders. A mitre, shaped like a helmet, on which pearls formed flower designs and letters after the Oriental manner, was placed upon her head; her ears, both the lobes and rims of which had been pierced, were adorned with ornaments in the form of little cups, crescents, and balls; necklaces of gold and silver beads, which had been hollowed out and carved, thrice encircled her neck and descended with a metallic tinkling upon her bosom; emerald serpents with topaz or ruby eyes coiled themselves in many folds about her arms, and clasped themselves by biting their own tails. These bracelets were connected by chains of precious stones, and so great was their weight that two attendants were required to kneel beside Nyssia and support her elbows. She was clad in a robe embroidered by Syrian workmen with shining designs of golden foliage and diamond fruits, and over this she wore the short tunic of Persepolis, which hardly descended to the knee, and of which the sleeves were slit and fastened by sapphire clasps. Her waist was encircled from hip to loins by a girdle wrought of narrow material, variegated with stripes and flowered designs, which formed themselves into symmetrical patterns as they were brought together by a certain arrangement of the folds which Indian girls alone know how to make. Her trousers of byssus, which the Phoenicians called syndon were confined at the ankles by anklets adorned with gold and silver bells, and completed this toilet so fantastically rich and wholly opposed to Greek taste. But, alas! a saffron-coloured flammeum pitilessly masked the face of Nyssia, who seemed embarrassed, veiled though she was, at finding so many eyes fixed upon her, and frequently signed to a slave behind her to lower the parasol of ostrich plumes, and thus conceal her yet more from the curious gaze of the crowd.

And Nyssia’s feet:

. . . . she seated herself upon the edge of the ivory footstool and commenced to untie the little bands which fastened her buskins. We moderns, owing to our horrible system of footgear, which is hardly less absurd than the Chinese shoe, no longer know what a foot is. That of Nyssia was of a perfection rare even in Greece and antique Asia. The great toe, a little apart like the thumb of a bird, the other toes, slightly long, and all ranged in charming symmetry, the nails well shaped and brilliant as agates, the ankles well rounded and supple, the heel slightly tinted with a rosy hue—nothing was wanting to the perfection of the little member. The leg attached to this foot, and which gleamed like polished marble under the lamp-light, was irreproachable in the purity of its outlines and the grace of its curves.

Gyges, lost in contemplation, though all the while fully comprehending the madness of Candaules, said to himself that had the gods bestowed such a treasure upon him he would have known how to keep it to himself.

[Kelly · Rating 3 out of 5]

Sort of a perverted fairy tale, reminiscent of Arabian Nights. Not my favorite Gautier, but just enough weirdness to keep me awake for the final twist.

[Ct.Ln · Rating 4 out of 5]

Where Herodotus used the fall of King Candaules as a historical warning on the fragility of power, Gautier, the father of Parnassianism, departs from Balzac, and uses language to disrobe the story of its history, thus painting eternal beauty that is independent of any moral or social lesson.
Art is no longer here to teach us, art is here to entertain us, art no longer "improves” the reader, it is here to impress the reader, and this it does perfectly.

Beauty serves as an aesthetic alibi for a work rife with unapologetic voyeurism, where the reader is invited to join the characters in their illicit, predatory gaze.
It renders the flesh of the subject into a static, glistening object. The eye thus claims its rightful title as the most aggressive of organs. To see is to possess, to conquer; to be seen is to be raped.

And, on an ending note, my favourite passage, by far:
“In those orbs of phosphoric lightning the rays of suns extinguished, the splendours of vanished worlds, the glories of Olympus eclipsed—all seemed to have concentrated their reflections. When contemplating them one thought of eternity, and felt himself seized with a mighty giddiness, as though he were leaning over the verge of the Infinite.”

[Marti Martinson · Rating 3 out of 5]

Damn. You heterosexual monarchists sure are tightly wound.

The text:

"Women so like unto goddesses could only work evil to feeble mortals; they are formed for divine adulteries, and even the most courageous men never risk themselves in such amours without trembling."

Misogyny much, Theopile? It takes two to screw.

[Eric · Rating 4 out of 5]

At best adequate translation by Hearn but good adaptation by Gautier.