James Tadd Adcox
1.
This is not how it ends, nasty bump on the crown from a fallen log, fifteen years after the death of my other me. Perhaps it was an assassination attempt, my carriage surrounded, my family attacked—treachery, an attempt by my brother (did I have a brother?) to swipe the family fortune. And yet I lived another year, even so, for him to machinate in. I can almost imagine my brother now, in fact—I am creating his face before mine, it is floating, let's say, somewhere between three and five paces before my eyes, almost a mirror and yet nowhere near as ugly as mine (even in this he was runner-up, and as in most things hardly a close finish). Abel de Bergerac—great God in heaven, that can't be right, it's far too Biblical. First victim of first murder, come to claim his own. Jesus! Better to pretend, assume, he never was. Better death by log than anything so on-the-nose.
And so I find myself on the grounds of the convent, underneath chestnuts, Roxane guilt-ridden and furious that I have risen from the near-dead to keep our final appointment. Oh, Roxane, yes, I am feeling fine now, only a little pale, this cut on my head a triviality; here, let me cover my bandages with my hat once more. I haven't finished giving you your news for the day, I, your little gazette, your point of contact, your medium. Let me see:
—A new moon was discovered in March by the Dutchman Christiaan Huygens, who, I understand, is also working on a theory of games of chance. One day his science will be able to predict, each time a coin is flipped or a die rolled, the precise result, and there will be no more daring in this world, only choices among predetermined outcomes;
—In Rome, just this month, the Jesuit Athanasius Kircher has presented for public view an automata capable of language. A little tube stretches from the back of its head to an adjoining room filled with bellows, pistons, and cranks, all the machinery of speech. One asks it questions and it answers, so I have heard, with voice like Demosthenes and the wisdom of Solomon;
—And finally today, Saturday the twenty-sixth, an hour before dinnertime, Monsieur de Bergerac was (I suppose) murdered, by kindling tipped from a window. Pure slapstick.
Although what matter the means of death? I have already died once, haven't I, on the field of battle, seen the lips that had spoken my words tremble with their last shallow breath, seen the eyes that had once gazed on my beloved glaze and unfocus. My other and more beautiful self, that blond boy with his perfect mustache. I remember the nights underneath our beloved's balcony, your hair and white face, Roxane, floating somewhere above us like a dream or a ghost, Christian so tense with feeling that I thought he might pop, and then, relief, for both of us: my words spilling from his mouth. How practiced we were! What a smooth and pleasant vessel Christian turned out to be, a thousand times more believable than any actor I ever had to chase off-stage. I whispered: "My cruel love," and his lips formed the words. I whispered, "My love, even just born, had the strength of Hercules," and in his mouth it becomes credible. From my mouth, the word love becomes twisted, an impossibility; from his, something holy. How can the ugly love? I asked myself, looking on at him. For us, it is only possible to desire.
When I first told Christian my plan, he said I frightened him. Perhaps he understood then what I did not, that our experiment meant his death.
But then too, seeing him say my words so prettily, it was hard not to think that I was watching myself, that it was me in the light beneath your window, Roxane. And that other thing, hiding in the bushes, conniving in whispered verse—what was that? Some demon, some bad spirit to be driven out once my true self, with my lovely blond mustache and locks, had spoken my part. What a beautiful doublet I wore! What a manly figure I cut! Do not claim you knew he was speaking my words, Roxane, when I myself in those moments could not tell us apart.
When we were sent to war, my other self and I, we faced it bravely, his beauty giving a glow to each of my accomplishments. Oh, but give the boy his due: he was a good soldier, uncomplaining, valorous when valor was called for, free—unlike some of us—from the Gascon need for glory. He was happy knowing he was loved, and I was happily loved through him. The ring on his finger that he never played with, which he wore as though he had been born wearing it, began to haunt me. Alone in my tent, composing my next letter, I would fidget with the naked joint just below the knuckle on my ring finger, absentmindedly twisting at it this way and that, in the manner I have observed of new grooms unused to jewelry.
Twice a day I slipped the Spanish lines to deliver my letters, written in an idealized version of my other self's hand, signed with his name and, in moments of particular passion, my tears. I had found a place where the Spanish soldiers gathered to carouse—a sort of makeshift tavern, a tent hastily assembled and capable of hasty disassembly should any of their superior officers take it amiss. But the captains, for the most part, were not above indulging themselves.
I had made myself known to one cadet, a Señor Hernando, who was involved in the transport of spirits to and from this tavern. The night of my first attempted crossing, I discovered him relieving himself on a tree just beyond the light; I caught him thus with pants down, the point of my sword at his neck. "Not a sound," I told him, "or you'll be wetting this trunk above as well as below." He smiled at me, inebriated. He was not afraid, though he had clearly weighed the options in his mind, and settled on keeping neck intact.
"What service may I provide the Garçon this evening?" he asked, steadying himself with a hand upon the tree.
I told him of my situation: that it was imperative I deliver this letter to the lady I loved, and I had no wish to do anything other than that; that I had no fear of death, but I had promised my love I would write her routinely, and that to break my word to her was more fearsome to me than any battalion. He was a Spanish gentleman, which is to say, he understood the value of romance and the heroic gesture. By the time I finished my tale, he was crying along with me, each of us hugging the other like brothers, my sword once more in my scabbard. To his credit, never once did he ask how a man with a face like mine could be loved, nor did he do me the dishonor of blanching when I told him how beautiful you were, are. "I can only imagine the perfection of a dona who inspires such poetry, Garçon!" he cried; and I replied with vehemence, "What you imagine, Señor, is but the beauty of her little finger, or a single eyelash, her full beauty being so far beyond the comprehension of even those who have seen it."
Together we devised a plan: he would keep hidden in the woods near the tavern a doublet and jerkin bearing the Spanish insignia, with which I could disguise myself. With his supervision, I would pass through the tavern each night to deliver my letter; in return, I would act as conduit between him and a Frenchman running a similar operation beyond the Spanish lines, ferrying French Burgundy to the Spanish and Spanish Amontillado to the French.
Having outlined the plan, however, Hernando fell silent a moment, such that I was forced to ask him what was the matter. "It is—it is a horrible thing to ask of any soldier, Garçon, and yet I must! Having told me such a beautiful story, it seems a sin to put the question so baldly to you. But how much worse, now that you have told me, if I did not lay out frankly what weighs on my heart!"
"Have no fear, brother Hernando, and tell me your concern."
"If I were to help you in this way, Garçon, and it came to pass you were a spy—"
His eyes wandered to the hilt of my sword, calculating whether what he had said would lead to his skewering. And yet, though somewhat hurt, I could not but acknowledge the justice of his question. I knew that the colonel in charge of our unit, a Count De Guiche, employed agents among the Spanish, and even (so rumors would have it) among the French themselves. But the members of my unit, cadets and captain alike, scorned him for this. I assured Hernando I was no spy, that in fact—as was the case—I detested such men, who lived and died under the sign of betrayal. "I am a Gascon and a man of honor, Señor Hernando, and neither the former nor the latter would allow me to live the life of a spy."
"I am relieved to hear it, Garçon," he said. "I have known men of your region before—a Gascon's word, I know, is as good as a king's."
And yet, though the words that I had spoken were true, I wondered: if I was incapable of being a spy, who was that man crouching in the bushes beneath his beautiful cousin's balcony?
2.
Hernando's double beyond the Spanish lines was a red-faced cadet named Fernand, who upon seeing me emerge from the woods each night with my casks of Jerez would break into a smile and throw his arms wide. "Christian!" he would call out (I had given this name to both Hernando and Fernand, to deflect suspicion had either felt the need to open my letters). "I am so pleased to see you safe!"
"And you, my friend," I would say. "It is wonderful to see a French face so well fed!"
At this he would offer me something to eat, bread, cheese, duck confit or liver pate, which my honor would not allow me to accept while my fellow Gascon cadets, encircled by the Spanish, starved.
Having given my word to Señor Hernando that I was no spy, I made it a rule never to ask Fernand for news from behind the blockade, no matter how desperately I desired it. But one night as I passed him my letter Fernand said, as if such a thing were a subject of light conversation, "There is a caravan on its way, you know."
"Oh?" I said.
"Sent by the king himself, who has taken a personal interest in the siege of Arras. Along with the food and supplies, he sends a message to the commanders of the French army: If Arras is not captured for our country, you will answer with your heads."
That night I remarked upon the wine he had given me to take back to Hernando: usually some combination of red and white, that night he had given me only bottles of white. He waved his hand dismissively. "Market fluctuations," he said. "Exceedingly common in wartime."
It is painful to think how the body can betray the mind—perhaps had I been less hungry (though the saints can testify, Roxane, I have never been one to complain of hunger) I would have understood the importance of those five bottles of white wine I transported back to the Spanish!
The following day began with a miracle and ended, as you know, in tragedy. My blessed, beautiful Roxane, never have I been more in love with you than on that day! Flirting your way through the Spanish lines, telling each soldier that approached your carriage that you were on your way to visit a lover marked for death—if you had known how right you were, would you have said it aloud and tempted the gods?—showing your ankle to men longing to see your thighs, displaying for them, in your supplications, the shapeliness of your arms, a hint (never more!) of your bosom. "With all due respect to the French," you told us, alighting from your carriage, "Spanish gentlemen are the most gallant gentlemen in the world."
What bravery and what intelligence you showed that day, Roxane, smuggling not only yourself but a feast for the Gascon cadets! I hardly ate, I was sated merely looking on you in admiration. I was well practiced at hiding my feelings, having spent so many years at it. Still, at some moment or other my face must have betrayed me. Christian, my other self, the body through whom for so long I spoke to you, pulled me aside.
"She thanked me for her letters. How often have I been writing her? Every week?"
"Every day," I said.
"Every day?"
"Twice."
"She said she would love me even if I had a face like yours," he spat, and stalked off.
The tragedy you know: our monstrous blowhard of a colonel De Guiche graced us with his presence in camp that day, to inform our captain that the Gascon cadets had been selected to die for the good of France. "Last night a spy ferried the details, in code, to my man on the other side," he told us. (Did he smile at all of us, or particularly me?) "He now awaits only my signal." With that De Guiche waved his white scarf high in the air; the attack began within the hour. Christian was the first hit and the first to die. It was then, looking at the red of his blood spreading across his white doublet, that I realized the importance of those five white bottles that I had carried to the Spanish the night before.
Other details of that day occurred to me only later. Is it possible the Spanish intended to kill Christian first, believing he was the spy? Surely no one would confuse his face with mine. But if one of our cadets had happened to call out his name?
3.
Listen—I am pale and the red across my bandage grows each moment redder, but there is one more thing that I need to tell you. This was several years ago. Famed atheist that I am, I sought out a priest. I imagine you are laughing at me. I hope it's with affection, Roxane.
Perhaps you have suspected how I have lived these past fifteen years, my pride refusing me the insults of patrons and charity alike. I continue to write my poems on borrowed paper, and others continue to steal them from me—sometimes whole scenes, sometimes a line here or there, sometimes the barest gesture. How many stages have I leapt upon, sword drawn on some watery scribbler in the midst of his glory? How many of that dishonored lot have simply refused to fight, lifting up their arms with a sly smile and abandoning me to the ridicule of the audience? It has become (so I have heard) something of an honor among the playwrights of Paris to be challenged to a duel for plagiarism by the once-feared Bergerac. And yet how many of them have afterwards appeared at the doorway to my poor room, offering bribes?
It was not guilt that led me to seek out that priest, though at the time I imagined it might be. Nor was it the wounded pride I felt, misused as I was by De Guiche. Rather it was a suspicion, something that had been growing in me that I, for all my words, could not yet give words to.
He was a young man, quite attractive, famed among the ladies of his parish for his black eyes and honeyed voice. I could not, in good faith, accept the superstition of Catholic confession, but he agreed to speak with me on a little path on the grounds just outside the chapel. He was charming, I admit it—he went so far as to confess his own pride at having been sought out by so great an unbeliever as myself. The day was much like this one: warm in the sun, crisp in the shade, the remains of the dew still wetting the grass.
"Can I trust, Father"—how strange to call such a young man "Father"—"that we are speaking in confidence, though without the trappings of confession?"
He nodded his ascent. We walked some time in silence, my secret beating in my chest, before I ventured to speak of my love for you, Roxane (I did not call you by name). When I hit upon the subject of love, the young priest seemed to become more animated, to speak elegantly, even poetically.
"First love," he said, "has so sacred a hold on a lofty mind, that it would rather lose greatness and abandon life itself, than incline to a second love."
"Never in my life have I loved another, Father."
"A heart that is in love can never offend, and finds excuses for whatever love may do."
"How I oft I have prayed that be so!"
"If love is said to be an excuse for a crime, it may well serve for a slight piece of imposture, which love's ardor compels."
"It is as if you speak words from my deepest self!"
Now we walked a while longer, the young priest gazing up into the clouds, and he said, "Love for the beauty of eternal things cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty."
"What was that?" I asked, halting in the road.
"Love for the beauty—" he began, and I cut him short:
"—of eternal things / Cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty. / Our mortal senses well may be entranced / By perfect works that Heaven has fashioned here."
He turned to me and smiled, his hands held in front of him, fingers interlaced. "Do you know it? A marvelous play."
"Do I know it?" I asked, feeling a rage and sickness gather inside myself. "Do I know it? Moliere, isn't it?" I took off from him at once, so quickly that he had no time to follow. Of course I knew it. I had written the speech myself, and Moliere had not only stolen it, he had put it in the mouth of one of his most despicable characters.
I returned to my poor room greatly distressed. Through the long night I paced boards already long worn with my pacing. "That marionette! That stooge!" I yelled out. "Every word, nothing more than theater! Each verse cribbed from scribblers no more capable of originality than a parakeet!" I rattled my sword in its scabbard, I kicked at the side of my longsuffering mattress. "'I feel, Father, as if you are speaking from my deepest self'—bah! Plagiary from plariarizers! Theft from thieves!"
As the night stretched on into morning, my raging gave way to an exhaustion like none I had experienced, not even during those days of privation in the siege of Arras. Seated on my mattress, the first tentative light of morning graying my window, I was seized by something like a vision of infinity, or perhaps the void (I believe now that they are the same). I replayed to myself that first night when Christian stood outside your balcony and I whispered his words to him from the shrubbery, words which you believed were his, Roxane. If such an experiment could succeed once, why not a thousand times? And if as poor a wit as mine could fool the likes of Roxane, what defense hath poor Cyrano against wit far greater? It seemed to me then that each set of lips—Christian's, Moliere's, De Guiche's, the priest's, even yours, Roxane—might operate as a sort of automaton, each repeating words from some other mouth, an infinite echo repeating itself.
And if that echo had no original?
Oh Roxane, you would say—I would have you say—that this is but my own self-love, Cyrano the tragedian convinced, at his end, that he is the author of the most extravagant tragedy of all. "And what," you ask (I have you ask) "is to happen when you finally stumble forward, say your final lines, and expire, Cyrano? Do the lights go out? Do the rest of us vanish into mist? Or do we pack up the props, sweep the stage, and go home?" But I must tell you: each moment of these past several years I have had my eye out for Cyranos in the bushes or hiding behind the curtain, I have dreamed of devices capable of transmitting words to a thousand Christians' ears. And it has seemed to me that not even I am a Cyrano, but am only a voice given words by other voices. Somewhere someone is penning my lines, an actor is donning my hideous face.
Am I raving? Has any of this occurred? Or did I only hear about it somewhere, and take it to be truth? Who whispered the details of this life to me? Was there ever such a man as Cyrano? Did he live on the Earth or was he, perhaps, an inhabitant of the moon, from which he once pretended to fall? When my brother (do I have a brother?) comes to see the results of his work, tell him: Here lies Hercule Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac, scientist and dupe, swordsman and puppet, plagiarist and plagiarists' muse, a voice and nothing more, now silent.