Seraphita

by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To Madame Eveline de Hanska, nee Comtesse Rzewuska.

Madame,--Here is the work which you asked of me. I am happy, in
thus dedicating it, to offer you a proof of the respectful

affection you allow me to bear you. If I am reproached for
impotence in this attempt to draw from the depths of mysticism a

book which seeks to give, in the lucid transparency of our
beautiful language, the luminous poesy of the Orient, to you the

blame! Did you not command this struggle (resembling that of
Jacob) by telling me that the most imperfectsketch of this

Figure, dreamed of by you, as it has been by me since childhood,
would still be something to you?

Here, then, it is,--that something. Would that this book could
belong exclusively to noble spirits, preserved like yours from

worldly pettiness by solitude! THEY would know how to give to it
the melodious rhythm that it lacks, which might have made it, in

the hands of a poet, the glorious epic that France still awaits.
But from me they must accept it as one of those sculptured

balustrades, carved by a hand of faith, on which the pilgrims
lean, in the choir of some glorious church, to think upon the end

of man.
I am, madame, with respect,

Your devoted servant,
De Balzac.

SERAPHITA
CHAPTER I

SERAPHITUS
As the eye glances over a map of the coasts of Norway, can the

imagination fail to marvel at their fantastic indentations and
serrated edges, like a granite lace, against which the surges of the

North Sea roar incessantly? Who has not dreamed of the majestic sights
to be seen on those beachless shores, of that multitude of creeks and

inlets and little bays, no two of them alike, yet all trackless
abysses? We may almost fancy that Nature took pleasure in recording by

ineffaceable hieroglyphics the symbol of Norwegian life, bestowing on
these coasts the conformation of a fish's spine, fishery being the

staple commerce of the country, and well-nigh the only means of living
of the hardy men who cling like tufts of lichen to the arid cliffs.

Here, through fourteen degrees of longitude, barely seven hundred
thousand souls maintainexistence. Thanks to perils devoid of glory,

to year-long snows which clothe the Norway peaks and guard them from
profaning foot of traveller, these sublime beauties are virgin still;

they will be seen to harmonize with human phenomena, also virgin--at
least to poetry--which here took place, the history of which it is our

purpose to relate.
If one of these inlets, mere fissures to the eyes of the eider-ducks,

is wide enough for the sea not to freeze between the prison-walls of
rock against which it surges, the country-people call the little bay a

"fiord,"--a word which geographers of every nation have adopted into
their respective languages. Though a certain resemblance exists among

all these fiords, each has its own characteristics. The sea has
everywhere forced its way as through a breach, yet the rocks about

each fissure are diversely rent, and their tumultuous precipices defy
the rules of geometric law. Here the scarp is dentelled like a saw;

there the narrow ledges barely allow the snow to lodge or the noble
crests of the Northern pines to spread themselves; farther on, some

convulsion of Nature may have rounded a coquettish curve into a lovely
valley flanked in rising terraces with black-plumed pines. Truly we

are tempted to call this land the Switzerland of Ocean.
Midway between Trondhjem and Christiansand lies an inlet called the

Strom-fiord. If the Strom-fiord is not the loveliest of these rocky
landscapes, it has the merit of displaying the terrestrial grandeurs

of Norway, and of enshrining the scenes of a history that is indeed
celestial.

The general outline of the Strom-fiord seems at first sight to be that
of a funnel washed out by the sea. The passage which the waves have

forced present to the eye an image of the eternal struggle between old
Ocean and the granite rock,--two creations of equal power, one through

inertia, the other by ceaselessmotion. Reefs of fantastic shape run
out on either side, and bar the way of ships and forbid their

entrance. The intrepid sons of Norway cross these reefs on foot,
springing from rock to rock, undismayed at the abyss--a hundred

fathoms deep and only six feet wide--which yawns beneath them. Here a
tottering block of gneiss falling athwart two rocks gives an uncertain

footway; there the hunters or the fishermen, carrying their loads,
have flung the stems of fir-trees in guise of bridges, to join the

projecting reefs, around and beneath which the surges roar
incessantly. This dangerous entrance to the little bay bears obliquely

to the right with a serpentine movement, and there encounters a
mountain rising some twenty-five hundred feet above sea-level, the

base of which is a vertical palisade of solid rock more than a mile
and a half long, the inflexible granitenowhere yielding to clefts or

undulations until it reaches a height of two hundred feet above the
water. Rushing violently in, the sea is driven back with equal

violence by the inert force of the mountain to the opposite shore,
gently curved by the spent force of the retreating waves.

The fiord is closed at the upper end by a vast gneiss formation
crowned with forests, down which a river plunges in cascades, becomes

a torrent when the snows are melting, spreads into a sheet of waters,
and then falls with a roar into the bay,--vomiting as it does so the

hoary pines and the aged larches washed down from the forests and
scarce seen amid the foam. These trees plungeheadlong into the fiord

and reappear after a time on the surface, clinging together and
forming islets which float ashore on the beaches, where the

inhabitants of a village on the left bank of the Strom-fiord gather
them up, split, broken (though sometimes whole), and always stripped

of bark and branches. The mountain which receives at its base the
assaults of Ocean, and at its summit the buffeting of the wild North

wind, is called the Falberg. Its crest, wrapped at all seasons in a
mantle of snow and ice, is the sharpest peak of Norway; its proximity

to the pole produces, at the height of eighteen hundred feet, a degree
of cold equal to that of the highest mountains of the globe. The

summit of this rocky mass, rising sheer from the fiord on one side,
slopes gradually downward to the east, where it joins the declivities

of the Sieg and forms a series of terraced valleys, the chilly
temperature of which allows no growth but that of shrubs and stunted

trees.
The upper end of the fiord, where the waters enter it as they come

down from the forest, is called the Siegdahlen,--a word which may be
held to mean "the shedding of the Sieg,"--the river itself receiving

that name. The curving shore opposite to the face of the Falberg is
the valley of Jarvis,--a smiling scene overlooked by hills clothed

with firs, birch-trees, and larches, mingled with a few oaks and
beeches, the richest coloring of all the varied tapestries which

Nature in these northern regions spreads upon the surface of her
rugged rocks. The eye can readily mark the line where the soil, warmed

by the rays of the sun, bears cultivation and shows the native growth
of the Norwegian flora. Here the expanse of the fiord is broad enough

to allow the sea, dashed back by the Falberg, to spend its expiring
force in gentle murmurs upon the lower slope of these hills,--a shore

bordered with finest sand, strewn with mica and sparkling pebbles,
porphyry, and marbles of a thousand tints, brought from Sweden by the

river floods, together with ocean waifs, shells, and flowers of the
sea driven in by tempests, whether of the Pole or Tropics.

At the foot of the hills of Jarvis lies a village of some two hundred
wooden houses, where an isolated population lives like a swarm of bees

in a forest, without increasing or diminishing; vegetating happily,
while wringing their means of living from the breast of a stern

Nature. The almost unknown existence of the little hamlet is readily
accounted for. Few of its inhabitants were bold enough to risk their

lives among the reefs to reach the deep-sea fishing,--the staple
industry of Norwegians on the least dangerous portions of their coast.

The fish of the fiord were numerous enough to suffice, in part at
least, for the sustenance of the inhabitants; the valley pastures