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The Magic Skin

In no other work is the special quality of Balzac’s genius displayed so completely as in “La Peau de Chagrin,” which we render as “The Magic Skin.”  Published in 1831, it is the earliest in date of his veritable masterpieces, and the finest in conception.  There is no novel more soberly true to life than this strange fairy tale.  His hero, the Marquis de Valentin, is a young aristocrat of the Byronic type.  He rejects the simple joys and stern realities of human existence; he wants more than life can give.  He gets what he wants.  He obtains a magic skin which enables him to fulfil his every wish.  But in so doing he uses up his vital powers.  Such is the idea which makes this fantastic story a profound philosophical study.

I.—­The Seal of Solomon

On a dull morning towards the end of October, 1830, a tall, pale, and rather handsome young man came to the Pont Royal, and leaned over the bridge, and gazed with wild and yet resolute eyes at the swirling waters below.  Just as he was preparing to leap down, a ragged old woman passed by.

“Wretched weather for drowning oneself, isn’t it?” she said, with a grin.  “How cold and dirty the Seine looks!”

The young man turned and smiled at her in the delirium of his courage.  Then, suddenly he shuddered.  On a shed by the Tuileries he saw, written in large letters:  “Help for the drowned.”  He foresaw the whole thing.  A boat would put off to the rescue.  If the rowers did not smash his skull in with their oars as he came to the surface, he would be taken to the shed and revived.  If he were dead, a crowd would collect, newspaper men would come; his body would be recognised; and the Press would publish the news of the suicide of Raphael de Valentin.  No!  He would wait till nightfall, and then in a decent, private manner bequeath an unrecognizable corpse to a world that had disregarded his genius.

With the air of a wealthy man of leisure sauntering about the streets to kill time, the young marquis strolled down the Quai Voltaire, and followed the line of shops, looking listlessly at every window.  But as he thought of the fate awaiting him at nightfall, men and houses swam in a mist before his eyes.  To recover himself he entered a curiosity shop.  “If you care to go through our galleries,” said the red-haired shop-boy, “you will find something worth looking at.”

Raphael climbed up a dark staircase lined with mummies, Indian idols, stuffed crocodiles, and goggle-eyed monsters.  They all seemed to grin at him as he passed.  Haunted by these strange shapes belonging to the borderland between life and death, he walked in a kind of dream through a series of long, dimly lighted galleries, in which was piled, in mad confusion, the work of every age and every clime.  Here was a lovely statue by Michael Angelo, from which dangled