No Love for the Damned

                                                


I was travelling by carriage with a group of tradesmen through Salzburg not so long ago - men shrewd and hardened by life - who told me that anything too pure has no place in the world. “Purity,” one of them was not ashamed to tell me, “is a trait to be kept as far from the mind as the moonlight from the darkest depths of the ocean floor”. They all three laughed, as drunk and defiant business-men are wont to do. But it struck me then, beyond the hilarity of their casual disdain (on which I do not pass judgement), that they were frightened. These men, and all men like them, suspect that too much softness will mar their trade. “But what about the many other avenues it opens? Surely if you are not open to the pure things, then you are closed off to life?” I replied. But they were uninterested all of a sudden, and disinclined to talk. As for me, I regard purity as a needful madness – a thing that separates men from wild beasts. I too have shrunk from honour when the cost was too great, or the temptation to tell a white lie was too profitable. That is the nature of commerce. Oh! an honorable man is rare in these days. The more honorable he is, the more painful his existence! Yet there are some men - rare beyond all measure - who seem to transcend the normal scheme of things. These souls have wedded themselves to a kind of destitution, and for it they are rewarded with those perfect, though brief moments, whereby their physical hardships are instantaneously forgotten. They are of a more spiritual nature than anything comprehensible to us ordinary ones. I knew an individual like this once – his name was Jean Henri Lavaud, and it was towards the middle of the year 1793 in the town of Colmar.

Colmar is an remarkable place by any measure. It is half-French and half-German and this is nowhere more apparent than in the architecture of its bright half-timber houses. These marvellous constructions of pastel yellow and red have always stirred a sense of wonder in me – not least, I suppose, because of the memories of my youth. As a young man I would often rollick through its streets arm in arm with a beautiful girl, and I have kept up friendships with many old Colmarians. In the night, the windows of Colmar glow fervently from the use of more candles than most towns are accustomed to. In the day, its dazzling canals reflect their light on their old walls. What is there not to like about Colmar? The streets are never still, for the people are equally serious about drinking during the day as they are about working in their many vocations. There is throughout the year a fresh stream of itinerant workers and faraway travelers. It is a place, therefore, for living, and without the need for serious introspection – its business has always been to impress outsiders, like the other former cities of the Décapole. And amidst all of this surge and strife there was Lavaud, and a more ill-suited denizen to Colmar could scarcely be found! He existed in a state of prolonged and crippling isolation – if not of the physical kind then at least in his emotional being. It extended far beyond the scope and intensity of any ordinary men – and indeed even then, I believe it went still deeper, past the concerns of that age, into the most haunting corners of the human heart .

When I first came upon Lavaud, it was on account of a business arrangement I had planned with his employer, Monsieur Allaire. What struck me most about him were his eyes, for though he could have been no older than 28, his gaze was so intense, it made him appear as if he were 40. His skin too, was decidedly pallid – It seemed to be coated with a thin layer of dust, or extraordinarily fine greyish powder, part-immaterial and part real, clinging to the wrinkles of his eyes, the furrows of his brow, and the pores of his prodigious French nose. Allaire was out of the shop that afternoon and I had come in pouring with sweat and breathing a florrid bout of curses because of the heat of that afternoon's trip from Paris. Lavaud had failed to give the condescending reply that I had expected. Instead he looked over a bronze pair of spectacles and offered a truly soulful remark – the sincerity of which won me over to his nature immediately. He quoted Voltaire: "The real voyage" he said, in an spirited voice that belied his complexion "consists not in seeking out new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” I knew the author well enough. It was an unexpected remark indeed! Especially in the helter-skelter of busy Colmar.

I was suddenly enthused.

 But wasn't it dangerous to be quoting such authors in such a time as this? I had asked him, with the grin of a madman in the confidence of another. You see, I am always drawn to unusual conversations, and to make this one more alluring, there was the shadow of Robespierre hanging over us. It was looming over every town in fact. The flash his guilotine was an image at once terrible, and - at least for me, comical - and even the public discussion of Voltaire was not safe. Suddenly however, a bell rang behind me. I shuddered. It was Allaire who had entered his shop. We two fell to the business at hand - our mercantile efforts, to which Allaire was ever keen to attend. This brought my conversation with Lavaud to an end almost as soon as it had began and so I took little notice of him for the rest of that afternoon - except when Allaire barked his name over his shoulder to confirm that he had completed some or other task. Lavaud, had slunk back into his former state of timidity, which was how I saw him when I entered the shop. He was working away on an order of bridles and saddles with some other plebeian leatherworkers when my business with Allaire was over.



I would not have thought of Lavaud again but for the fact that a few days later and very early in the morning, I saw him making his way to Allaire's shop door. His eyes looked swollen and red, merging into dark purple at the edges, from lack of sleep I presumed. But his ludicrous hair had not changed a bit, and this was how I recognised him. It was a dry, straw-coloured mop which danced on a his tall, seemingly underfed frame like a dandelion on a dry stalk. I caught a glimpse of his crooked bronze spectacles and then there was no doubt – I would talk to him once more! Through a crowd of people who were making their way to work, I began to approach this odd fellow. I saw him fumbling in his pocket, seemingly for the shop keys – Only, it occurred to me then that he wasn't looking for the key at all. He engaged with something else - wrestling with a notion perhaps - for the keys were jangling in his left upheld hand and he was utterly bemused. He glanced up toward me and froze for a second, like a great composer. Then he blinked and abruptly looked down again. “He has not seen me!” I realised. I thought to call his name and make light of the situation, but he was too distant in reverie. It rather frightened me to see such an intelligent man in such profound disarray – A man who looked so stately in spirit, and yet so unwholesome in his physicality. So, instead of greeting him, I turned away and carried on with the business of the morning. “How quickly the dignified can fall!” I considered.

I did not to see Lavaud for close on a week after that. When I did, I was out on a stroll along the Lauch where it breaks up into its many smaller canals. This is where I gained some apprehension of what troubled him. He was ambling along the canal near the artizans district and I was on my way from an old friend's home, a well-to-do businessman. It was Lavaud who noticed me first. “Bonjour!” He called, from across a bridge, with the same affability as the time I had first met him. I approached and he burst into a flurry of talk before I had an opportunity to return the greeting. “It's one the few which joys I permit myself - to take a stroll along these canals after a day at the workshop,” I listened as he told me with such trust and startling openness how he had relished this walk since he was a boy. He was gazing intently into the rushing waters below us, for we had both come to a stop by the bridge. Underneath his weary appearance, there shone a look of true contentment – I could see that he still had the joy of a child in him. With a tragic smile he breathed in the exquisite air of the evening, as if drinking in the sun's ethereal beauty itself. I mentioned that I had never seen a man more grateful for a sunset.



Somehow, we began to talk about literature – To my astonishment he was more knowledgeable on that subject of Immanuel Kant than any studied person I had before met. I was intrigued with the ethics of Kant. He seemed to have a more visceral awareness of the topic than any person I had before, or have since meet. It came in bright bursts, which he transmitted in the most eloquent yet simple style of language. We continued walking, scaling a slight hill and making our way out of the town to an open field where the public often came to escape the town – among them, were young ladies and their beaus, some of whom were evidently travellers. It was at this point that I saw Lavaud's placid demeanor change. He looked at a couple with a kind of fierceness, and then turned away from them just as quickly. At first I thought it was something I had said. “Do you know them?” I asked, when I was able to recognise the source of his discomposure. He did not reply. He gazed right through me and it was exactly the look he had given the morning I had seen him outside Allaire's shop – The stately composer, caught in a maelstrom of thought. The sun was beginning to set, however and it seemed that the night was absorbing our conversation as quickly as the last heat of the day. We wended back toward the town and did not speak a word for the rest of the way, aside from wishing each other a good evening.

That same night, I found myself at a street table outside Madame Raoult's drinking establishment with a party of seven other people who had invited me there. I was looking up at the stars and savouring the fresh summer air of Alsace. It was a more soft and delicate air than Paris. But then Madame Coquelin, who was there with her husband, brought me out of my pensiveniss. I told her it was on account of Lavaud. I did not know his story, yet it seemed a pity that such a cultured young man had sunk to so low a station at the prime of his life. “In fact, more than that” I exclaimed, “it was utterly lamentable!” With that explosion of words, there was a lull around the table, as if I was raising a new item for conversation, which I had not the slightest intention of doing. A well-known master joiner who had retired, a Monsieur Vivvone, spoke in a slow, languid tone: "Ah, Lavaud! A genius of a man! Would he but try to be sociable, things would turn out quite differently for him. Instead of living in poverty, he would find himself thriving in this merchant's town. I have seen his work- it is of an exquisite quality. More and more do we see the talented people of this world become wastrels!" Another keen-eyed gentleman whom I knew only by his first name of Ignace, was working on filling his pipe and listening attentively. He broke in energetically: “Lavaud has become such a stranger to the drinking houses of Colmar that he is more a ghost than a member of the living public. A very odd man indeed, and he has probably brought it on himself in my opinion.” There was a pause, before I heard another man speak:“This was not always the case.” interjected a Monsoir Poiret, who owned a tannery and I suspected, would be just the man to enlighten us all. “At one time he had been quite sociable character, it is true! and he looked the picture of health. People have always respected him for his intelligence. In fact, the people with whom he stays work for me. They say Lavaud prefers to take his wine into his garret and read his books alone like some of our great writers. And as for the quality of his workmanship, I hear it is excellent– he once supervised a team of the finest tanners and leatherworkers. But, now he has lost all of that. He has not the mind for supervising – he is scattered in all directions.”

I wanted to know more. “Well what's the trouble with him then?” I asked restively. I was certain he had become a pawn in another man's business. Monsieur Allaire was - if not cruel - then starkly business-minded . I hadn't the slightest bit of liking for him. He had no heart. but I didn't tell the others this of course.

“I believe it has something to do with a woman,” Replied Poiret.
“Go on, what rumours are there?” - Madame Coquelin again
“ Well, I remember he fell in love with a girl from a rich family two years ago.”
“All the better” Said Vivvone
“Not so – it did not sit well with one of Colmar's great hatmakers – Monsieur Pfister. Their son has pledged his hand in marriage to the girl. The two families are eager to merge their fortunes”
“And what of this Lavaud?” Spoke one of the ladies.
“The family would not have him lingering about their daughter's home any longer.”

The poor man! I thought. It made such sense. What it was that brought me to feel that way, I am not sure. Much of my compassion hinged upon his eyes. If it wasn't for Lavaud's expression, at once tragic and altogether happy, I am not sure I would be writing about him, much less have taken such interest in his situation. It seemed clear to me then that the twin evils of a philosophical mind and a soft heart had landed Monsieur Lavaud in this state. He was now in a place where he was neither successful, nor with any prospects of becoming so, and all because of this devotion to a lady. I saw him several times since, walking to and fro, along the Rue des Merchands, but I was too embarassed for his sake to greet him – as probably most of that town was. He was a tall gaunt figure when I saw him last, ambling from his home and workshop on the Lauch, to the entrance of that large, dull tanner's shop near the Mason Pfister house which belonged to Allaire. But I soon left Colmar, and was not to return to Alsace over a year. During that time I often wondered what had come of him.

On my return to Alsace, I stayed in a stately mansion in Kayserberg belonging to a close friend of the Pfisters, whom I will not name for their own sake. It was by complete that chance I heard news of Lavaud through a conversation solicited by this man's daugher who was on friendly terms with all the servants. It was the maid of that household who divulged the information on Lavaud. She had worked for the Pfister's daughter-in-law but was of the opinion that she should have married Lavaud instead. The daughter had laughed subversively and inquired what she meant with a glance of complete confidence. She began to tell the tale I had heard before, of a man who had loved a girl but was not rich enough to marry her. Then she told of another who was simply wealthy and had picked her out as a kind of trophy-wife.
“Surely it isn't that simple, Isabella!” tittered my host's daughter.
“No, but it is. He has quite stolen her from Lavaud”And not only that – she was now wearing a smile of mock-defiance -“She loved him too! She still does.”
“Is that really so?” replied the daughter, whose expression suddenly mirrored a deep concern.

“I know as much.” She returned. “Since she first met him, she would sing his praises 'Oh, he is remarkable mama. I know he is not rich but he is kind and intelligent and above all, honorable! He has been working hard all his life, tanning and burnishing leather. He was born with the heart of an artist, not a rich merchant. Do not despise him for that!'



It was all true. He had loved her for five whole years and she had been visiting the shop he owned for five years before she realised his kindness was more than kindness, and was actually love. It was such a pure friendship, the two of them shared. But when it came out that Lavaud loved her, it was her father who wouldn't have it. He wanted her to marry the Pfister's son. That was when Lavaud became the derelict he was known for. No one remembers ones' small successes so much as their failures.

I was there on the day Lavaud passed away too, for her mother had asked me to tend to him in his home when he was at his end. They all knew the reason for it. He was dying of a broken heart. It was not for his sake that he felt this way either. It was because he knew that no other man could love her as much as he. He told me as much. We were all three there the afternoon when he drew his last breath – Charlotte, her mother and I. His dying request was an embrace and a kiss from her. This naturally came as a shock to Charlotte, for they had only ever held hands – she being a proprietous lady, and he a true gentleman. But her mother convinced her to do as he had said. She thought it fitting, given the pain he had been put through on her family's account. So Charlotte did. And even though she is married, it is still Lavaud whom she loves, not Monsieur Pfister.”