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The Man Who Laughs
By
Victor Hugo
Cont=
ents
ANOTHER PRELIMINARY C=
HAPTER. =
PART I. =
BOOK THE FIRST - NIGH=
T NOT SO
BLACK AS MAN.
CHAPTER I - PORTLAND =
BILL. =
CHAPTER V - THE TREE =
OF HUMAN
INVENTION.
CHAPTER VI - STRUGGLE=
BETWEEN
DEATH AND LIFE.
CHAPTER VII - THE NOR=
TH POINT
OF PORTLAND.
BOOK THE SECOND - THE=
HOOKER
AT SEA.
CHAPTER I - SUPERHUMA=
N LAWS. =
CHAPTER II - OUR FIRS=
T ROUGH
SKETCHES FILLED IN.
CHAPTER III - TROUBLE=
D MEN ON
THE TROUBLED SEA.
CHAPTER IV - A CLOUD
DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS ENTERS ON THE SCENE.
CHAPTER VI - THEY THI=
NK THAT
HELP IS AT HAND.
CHAPTER VII - SUPERHU=
MAN
HORRORS.
CHAPTER IX - THE CHAR=
GE
CONFIDED TO A RAGING SEA.
CHAPTER X - THE COLOS=
SAL
SAVAGE, THE STORM.
CHAPTER XII - FACE TO=
FACE
WITH THE ROCK.
CHAPTER XIII - FACE T=
O FACE
WITH NIGHT.
CHAPTER XV - PORTENTO=
SUM
MARE.
CHAPTER XVI - THE PRO=
BLEM
SUDDENLY WORKS IN SILENCE.
CHAPTER XVII - THE LA=
ST
RESOURCE.
CHAPTER XVIII - THE H=
IGHEST
RESOURCE.
BOOK THE THIRD - THE =
CHILD IN
THE SHADOW.
CHAPTER II - THE EFFE=
CT OF
SNOW.
CHAPTER III - A BURDE=
N MAKES
A ROUGH ROAD ROUGHER.
CHAPTER IV - ANOTHER =
FORM OF
DESERT.
CHAPTER V - MISANTHRO=
PY PLAYS
ITS PRANKS.
PART II. =
BOOK THE FIRST - THE
EVERLASTING PRESENCE OF THE PAST: MAN REFLECTS MAN.
CHAPTER I - LORD CLAN=
CHARLIE. =
CHAPTER II - LORD DAV=
ID
DIRRY-MOIR.
CHAPTER III - THE DUC=
HESS
JOSIANA.
CHAPTER IV - THE LEAD=
ER OF
FASHION.
CHAPTER VI - BARKILPH=
EDRO. =
CHAPTER VII - BARKILP=
HEDRO
GNAWS HIS WAY.
CHAPTER IX - HATE IS =
AS
STRONG AS LOVE.
CHAPTER X - THE FLAME=
WHICH
WOULD BE SEEN IF MAN WERE TRANSPARENT.
CHAPTER XI - BARKILPH=
EDRO IN
AMBUSCADE.
CHAPTER XII - SCOTLAN=
D,
IRELAND, AND ENGLAND.
BOOK THE SECOND - GWY=
NPLAINE
AND DEA.
CHAPTER I - WHEREIN W=
E SEE
THE FACE OF HIM OF WHOM WE HAVE HITHERTO SEEN ONLY THE ACTS.
CHAPTER III - "O=
CULOS
NON HABET, ET VIDET."
CHAPTER IV - WELL-MAT=
CHED
LOVERS.
CHAPTER V - THE BLUE =
SKY
THROUGH THE BLACK CLOUD.
CHAPTER VI - URSUS AS=
TUTOR,
AND URSUS AS GUARDIAN.
CHAPTER VII - BLINDNE=
SS GIVES
LESSONS IN CLAIRVOYANCE.
CHAPTER VIII - NOT ON=
LY
HAPPINESS, BUT PROSPERITY.
CHAPTER IX - ABSURDIT=
IES
WHICH FOLKS WITHOUT TASTE CALL POETRY.
CHAPTER X - AN OUTSID=
ER'S
VIEW OF MEN AND THINGS.
CHAPTER XII - URSUS T=
HE POET
DRAGS ON URSUS THE PHILOSOPHER.
BOOK THE THIRD =3D THE
BEGINNING OF THE FISSURE.
CHAPTER I - THE TADCA=
STER
INN.
CHAPTER III - WHERE T=
HE
PASSER-BY REAPPEARS.
CHAPTER IV - CONTRARI=
ES
FRATERNIZE IN HATE.
CHAPTER V - THE WAPEN=
TAKE. =
CHAPTER VI - THE MOUSE
EXAMINED BY THE CATS.
CHAPTER VII - WHY SHO=
ULD A
GOLD PIECE LOWER ITSELF BY MIXING WITH A HEAP OF PENNIES?
CHAPTER VIII - SYMPTO=
MS OF
POISONING.
CHAPTER IX - ABYSSUS =
ABYSSUM
VOCAT.
BOOK THE FOURTH - THE=
CELL OF
TORTURE.
CHAPTER I - THE TEMPT=
ATION OF
ST. GWYNPLAINE.
CHAPTER II - FROM GAY=
TO
GRAVE.
CHAPTER III - LEX, RE=
X, FEX. =
CHAPTER IV - URSUS SP=
IES THE
POLICE.
CHAPTER V - A FEARFUL=
PLACE. =
CHAPTER VI - THE KIND=
OF
MAGISTRACY UNDER THE WIGS OF FORMER DAYS.
CHAPTER VIII - LAMENT=
ATION. =
BOOK THE FIFTH - THE =
SEA AND
FATE ARE MOVED BY THE SAME BREATH.
CHAPTER I - THE DURAB=
ILITY OF
FRAGILE THINGS.
CHAPTER II - THE WAIF=
KNOWS
ITS OWN COURSE.
CHAPTER III - AN AWAK=
ENING. =
CHAPTER V - WE THINK =
WE
REMEMBER; WE FORGET.
BOOK THE SIXTH - URSU=
S UNDER
DIFFERENT ASPECTS.
CHAPTER I - WHAT THE
MISANTHROPE SAID.
CHAPTER III - COMPLIC=
ATIONS. =
CHAPTER IV - MOENIBUS=
SURDIS
CAMPANA MUTA.
CHAPTER V - STATE POL=
ICY
DEALS WITH LITTLE MATTERS AS WELL AS WITH GREAT.
BOOK THE SEVENTH - THE
TITANESS.
CHAPTER I - THE AWAKE=
NING. =
CHAPTER II - THE RESE=
MBLANCE
OF A PALACE TO A WOOD.
CHAPTER V - THEY RECO=
GNIZE,
BUT DO NOT KNOW, EACH OTHER.
BOOK THE EIGHTH - THE=
CAPITOL
AND THINGS AROUND IT.
CHAPTER I ANALYSIS OF
MAJESTIC MATTERS.
CHAPTER II - IMPARTIA=
LITY. =
CHAPTER III - THE OLD=
HALL. =
CHAPTER IV - THE OLD =
CHAMBER. =
CHAPTER V - ARISTOCRA=
TIC
GOSSIP.
CHAPTER VI - THE HIGH=
AND THE
LOW.
CHAPTER VIII - HE WOU=
LD BE A
GOOD BROTHER, WERE HE NOT A GOOD SON.
BOOK THE NINTH - IN R=
UINS. =
CHAPTER I - IT IS THR=
OUGH
EXCESS OF GREATNESS THAT MAN REACHES EXCESS OF MISERY.
CONCLUSION - THE NIGH=
T AND
THE SEA.
CHAPTER I - A WATCH-D=
OG MAY
BE A GUARDIAN ANGEL.
CHAPTER II - BARKILPH=
EDRO,
HAVING AIMED AT THE EAGLE, BRINGS DOWN THE DOVE.
CHAPTER III - PARADISE
REGAINED BELOW.
I.
Ursus and Homo were fast friends. U=
rsus
was a man, Homo a wolf. Their dispositions tallied. It was the man who had
christened the wolf: probably he had also chosen his own name. Having found
Ursus fit for himself, he had found Homo fit for the beast. Man and wolf tu=
rned
their partnership to account at fairs, at village fêtes, at the corne=
rs of
streets where passers-by throng, and out of the need which people seem to f=
eel
everywhere to listen to idle gossip and to buy quack medicine. The wolf, ge=
ntle
and courteously subordinate, diverted the crowd. It is a pleasant thing to
behold the tameness of animals. Our greatest delight is to see all the
varieties of domestication parade before us. This it is which collects so m=
any
folks on the road of royal processions.
Ursus and Homo we=
nt
about from cross-road to cross-road, from the High Street of Aberystwith to=
the
High Street of Jedburgh, from country-side to country-side, from shire to
shire, from town to town. One market exhausted, they went on to another. Ur=
sus
lived in a small van upon wheels, which Homo was civilized enough to draw by
day and guard by night. On bad roads, up hills, and where there were too ma=
ny
ruts, or there was too much mud, the man buckled the trace round his neck a=
nd pulled
fraternally, side by side with the wolf. They had thus grown old together. =
They
encamped at haphazard on a common, in the glade of a wood, on the waste pat=
ch
of grass where roads intersect, at the outskirts of villages, at the gates =
of
towns, in market-places, in public walks, on the borders of parks, before t=
he
entrances of churches. When the cart drew up on a fair green, when the goss=
ips
ran up open-mouthed and the curious made a circle round the pair, Ursus har=
angued
and Homo approved. Homo, with a bowl in his mouth, politely made a collecti=
on
among the audience. They gained their livelihood. The wolf was lettered,
likewise the man. The wolf had been trained by the man, or had trained hims=
elf
unassisted, to divers wolfish arts, which swelled the receipts. "Above=
all
things, do not degenerate into a man," his friend would say to him.
Never did the wolf
bite: the man did now and then. At least, to bite was the intent of Ursus. =
He
was a misanthrope, and to italicize his misanthropy he had made himself a
juggler. To live, also; for the stomach has to be consulted. Moreover, this
juggler-misanthrope, whether to add to the complexity of his being or to
perfect it, was a doctor. To be a doctor is little: Ursus was a ventriloqui=
st.
You heard him speak without his moving his lips. He counterfeited, so as to
deceive you, any one's accent or pronunciation. He imitated voices so exact=
ly
that you believed you heard the people themselves. All alone he simulated t=
he murmur
of a crowd, and this gave him a right to the title of Engastrimythos, which=
he
took. He reproduced all sorts of cries of birds, as of the thrush, the wren,
the pipit lark, otherwise called the gray cheeper, and the ring ousel, all
travellers like himself: so that at times when the fancy struck him, he made
you aware either of a public thoroughfare filled with the uproar of men, or=
of
a meadow loud with the voices of beasts--at one time stormy as a multitude,=
at
another fresh and serene as the dawn. Such gifts, although rare, exist. In =
the
last century a man called Touzel, who imitated the mingled utterances of me=
n and
animals, and who counterfeited all the cries of beasts, was attached to the
person of Buffon--to serve as a menagerie.
Ursus was sagacio=
us,
contradictory, odd, and inclined to the singular expositions which we term
fables. He had the appearance of believing in them, and this impudence was a
part of his humour. He read people's hands, opened books at random and drew
conclusions, told fortunes, taught that it is perilous to meet a black mare,
still more perilous, as you start for a journey, to hear yourself accosted =
by
one who knows not whither you are going; and he called himself a dealer in
superstitions. He used to say: "There is one difference between me and=
the
Archbishop of Canterbury: I avow what I am." Hence it was that the
archbishop, justly indignant, had him one day before him; but Ursus cleverl=
y disarmed
his grace by reciting a sermon he had composed upon Christmas Day, which the
delighted archbishop learnt by heart, and delivered from the pulpit as his =
own.
In consideration thereof the archbishop pardoned Ursus.
As a doctor, Ursus
wrought cures by some means or other. He made use of aromatics; he was vers=
ed
in simples; he made the most of the immense power which lies in a heap of
neglected plants, such as the hazel, the catkin, the white alder, the white
bryony, the mealy-tree, the traveller's joy, the buckthorn. He treated phth=
isis
with the sundew; at opportune moments he would use the leaves of the spurge=
, which
plucked at the bottom are a purgative and plucked at the top, an emetic. He=
cured
sore throat by means of the vegetable excrescence called Jew's ear. He knew=
the
rush which cures the ox and the mint which cures the horse. He was well
acquainted with the beauties and virtues of the herb mandragora, which, as
every one knows, is of both sexes. He had many recipes. He cured burns with=
the
salamander wool, of which, according to Pliny, Nero had a napkin. Ursus
possessed a retort and a flask; he effected transmutations; he sold panacea=
s.
It was said of him that he had once been for a short time in Bedlam; they h=
ad
done him the honour to take him for a madman, but had set him free on
discovering that he was only a poet. This story was probably not true; we h=
ave
all to submit to some such legend about us.
The fact is, Ursus
was a bit of a savant, a man of taste, and an old Latin poet. He was learne=
d in
two forms; he Hippocratized and he Pindarized. He could have vied in bombast
with Rapin and Vida. He could have composed Jesuit tragedies in a style not
less triumphant than that of Father Bouhours. It followed from his familiar=
ity
with the venerable rhythms and metres of the ancients, that he had peculiar
figures of speech, and a whole family of classical metaphors. He would say =
of a
mother followed by her two daughters, There is a dactyl; of a father preced=
ed
by his two sons, There is an anapæst; and of a little child walking
between its grandmother and grandfather, There is an amphimacer. So much
knowledge could only end in starvation. The school of Salerno says, "E=
at
little and often." Ursus ate little and seldom, thus obeying one half =
the
precept and disobeying the other; but this was the fault of the public, who=
did
not always flock to him, and who did not often buy.
Ursus was wont to
say: "The expectoration of a sentence is a relief. The wolf is comfort=
ed
by its howl, the sheep by its wool, the forest by its finch, woman by her l=
ove,
and the philosopher by his epiphonema." Ursus at a pinch composed
comedies, which, in recital, he all but acted; this helped to sell the drug=
s.
Among other works, he had composed an heroic pastoral in honour of Sir Hugh
Middleton, who in 1608 brought a river to London. The river was lying
peacefully in Hertfordshire, twenty miles from London: the knight came and =
took
possession of it. He brought a brigade of six hundred men, armed with shove=
ls
and pickaxes; set to breaking up the ground, scooping it out in one place,
raising it in another--now thirty feet high, now twenty feet deep; made woo=
den aqueducts
high in air; and at different points constructed eight hundred bridges of
stone, bricks, and timber. One fine morning the river entered London, which=
was
short of water. Ursus transformed all these vulgar details into a fine Eclo=
gue
between the Thames and the New River, in which the former invited the latte=
r to
come to him, and offered her his bed, saying, "I am too old to please
women, but I am rich enough to pay them"--an ingenious and gallant con=
ceit
to indicate how Sir Hugh Middleton had completed the work at his own expens=
e.
Ursus was great in
soliloquy. Of a disposition at once unsociable and talkative, desiring to s=
ee
no one, yet wishing to converse with some one, he got out of the difficulty=
by
talking to himself. Any one who has lived a solitary life knows how deeply
seated monologue is in one's nature. Speech imprisoned frets to find a vent=
. To
harangue space is an outlet. To speak out aloud when alone is as it were to
have a dialogue with the divinity which is within. It was, as is well known=
, a
custom of Socrates; he declaimed to himself. Luther did the same. Ursus took
after those great men. He had the hermaphrodite faculty of being his own au=
dience.
He questioned himself, answered himself, praised himself, blamed himself. Y=
ou
heard him in the street soliloquizing in his van. The passers-by, who have
their own way of appreciating clever people, used to say: He is an idiot. A=
s we
have just observed, he abused himself at times; but there were times also w=
hen
he rendered himself justice. One day, in one of these allocutions addressed=
to
himself, he was heard to cry out, "I have studied vegetation in all its
mysteries--in the stalk, in the bud, in the sepal, in the stamen, in the
carpel, in the ovule, in the spore, in the theca, and in the apothecium. I =
have
thoroughly sifted chromatics, osmosy, and chymosy--that is to say, the form=
ation
of colours, of smell, and of taste." There was something fatuous,
doubtless, in this certificate which Ursus gave to Ursus; but let those who=
have
not thoroughly sifted chromatics, osmosy, and chymosy cast the first stone =
at
him.
Fortunately Ursus=
had
never gone into the Low Countries; there they would certainly have weighed =
him,
to ascertain whether he was of the normal weight, above or below which a ma=
n is
a sorcerer. In Holland this weight was sagely fixed by law. Nothing was sim=
pler
or more ingenious. It was a clear test. They put you in a scale, and the
evidence was conclusive if you broke the equilibrium. Too heavy, you were
hanged; too light, you were burned. To this day the scales in which sorcere=
rs
were weighed may be seen at Oudewater, but they are now used for weighing c=
heeses;
how religion has degenerated! Ursus would certainly have had a crow to pluck
with those scales. In his travels he kept away from Holland, and he did wel=
l.
Indeed, we believe that he used never to leave the United Kingdom.
However this may =
have
been, he was very poor and morose, and having made the acquaintance of Homo=
in
a wood, a taste for a wandering life had come over him. He had taken the wo=
lf
into partnership, and with him had gone forth on the highways, living in the
open air the great life of chance. He had a great deal of industry and of
reserve, and great skill in everything connected with healing operations,
restoring the sick to health, and in working wonders peculiar to himself. He
was considered a clever mountebank and a good doctor. As may be imagined, he
passed for a wizard as well--not much indeed; only a little, for it was
unwholesome in those days to be considered a friend of the devil. To tell t=
he
truth, Ursus, by his passion for pharmacy and his love of plants, laid hims=
elf open
to suspicion, seeing that he often went to gather herbs in rough thickets w=
here
grew Lucifer's salads, and where, as has been proved by the Counsellor De
l'Ancre, there is a risk of meeting in the evening mist a man who comes out=
of
the earth, "blind of the right eye, barefooted, without a cloak, and a
sword by his side." But for the matter of that, Ursus, although eccent=
ric
in manner and disposition, was too good a fellow to invoke or disperse hail=
, to
make faces appear, to kill a man with the torment of excessive dancing, to
suggest dreams fair or foul and full of terror, and to cause the birth of c=
ocks
with four wings. He had no such mischievous tricks. He was incapable of cer=
tain
abominations, such as, for instance, speaking German, Hebrew, or Greek, wit=
hout
having learned them, which is a sign of unpardonable wickedness, or of a
natural infirmity proceeding from a morbid humour. If Ursus spoke Latin, it=
was
because he knew it. He would never have allowed himself to speak Syriac, wh=
ich
he did not know. Besides, it is asserted that Syriac is the language spoken=
in
the midnight meetings at which uncanny people worship the devil. In medicin=
e he
justly preferred Galen to Cardan; Cardan, although a learned man, being but=
an
earthworm to Galen.
To sum up, Ursus =
was
not one of those persons who live in fear of the police. His van was long
enough and wide enough to allow of his lying down in it on a box containing=
his
not very sumptuous apparel. He owned a lantern, several wigs, and some uten=
sils
suspended from nails, among which were musical instruments. He possessed,
besides, a bearskin with which he covered himself on his days of grand
performance. He called this putting on full dress. He used to say, "I =
have
two skins; this is the real one," pointing to the bearskin.
The little house =
on
wheels belonged to himself and to the wolf. Besides his house, his retort, =
and
his wolf, he had a flute and a violoncello on which he played prettily. He
concocted his own elixirs. His wits yielded him enough to sup on sometimes.=
In
the top of his van was a hole, through which passed the pipe of a cast-iron
stove; so close to his box as to scorch the wood of it. The stove had two
compartments; in one of them Ursus cooked his chemicals, and in the other h=
is
potatoes. At night the wolf slept under the van, amicably secured by a chai=
n.
Homo's hair was black, that of Ursus, gray; Ursus was fifty, unless, indeed=
, he
was sixty. He accepted his destiny, to such an extent that, as we have just=
seen,
he ate potatoes, the trash on which at that time they fed pigs and convicts=
. He
ate them indignant, but resigned. He was not tall--he was long. He was bent=
and
melancholy. The bowed frame of an old man is the settlement in the architec=
ture
of life. Nature had formed him for sadness. He found it difficult to smile,=
and
he had never been able to weep, so that he was deprived of the consolation =
of
tears as well as of the palliative of joy. An old man is a thinking ruin; a=
nd
such a ruin was Ursus. He had the loquacity of a charlatan, the leanness of=
a prophet,
the irascibility of a charged mine: such was Ursus. In his youth he had bee=
n a
philosopher in the house of a lord.
This was 180 years
ago, when men were more like wolves than they are now.
Not so very much
though.
II.
Homo was no ordinary wolf. From his
appetite for medlars and potatoes he might have been taken for a prairie wo=
lf;
from his dark hide, for a lycaon; and from his howl prolonged into a bark, =
for
a dog of Chili. But no one has as yet observed the eyeball of a dog of Chili
sufficiently to enable us to determine whether he be not a fox, and Homo wa=
s a
real wolf. He was five feet long, which is a fine length for a wolf, even i=
n Lithuania;
he was very strong; he looked at you askance, which was not his fault; he h=
ad a
soft tongue, with which he occasionally licked Ursus; he had a narrow brush=
of
short bristles on his backbone, and he was lean with the wholesome leanness=
of
a forest life. Before he knew Ursus and had a carriage to draw, he thought
nothing of doing his fifty miles a night. Ursus meeting him in a thicket ne=
ar a
stream of running water, had conceived a high opinion of him from seeing th=
e skill
and sagacity with which he fished out crayfish, and welcomed him as an hone=
st
and genuine Koupara wolf of the kind called crab-eater.
As a beast of bur=
den,
Ursus preferred Homo to a donkey. He would have felt repugnance to having h=
is
hut drawn by an ass; he thought too highly of the ass for that. Moreover he=
had
observed that the ass, a four-legged thinker little understood by men, has a
habit of cocking his ears uneasily when philosophers talk nonsense. In life=
the
ass is a third person between our thoughts and ourselves, and acts as a res=
traint.
As a friend, Ursus preferred Homo to a dog, considering that the love of a =
wolf
is more rare.
Hence it was that
Homo sufficed for Ursus. Homo was for Ursus more than a companion, he was an
analogue. Ursus used to pat the wolf's empty ribs, saying: "I have fou=
nd
the second volume of myself!" Again he said, "When I am dead, any=
one
wishing to know me need only study Homo. I shall leave a true copy behind
me."
The English law, =
not
very lenient to beasts of the forest, might have picked a quarrel with the
wolf, and have put him to trouble for his assurance in going freely about t=
he
towns: but Homo took advantage of the immunity granted by a statute of Edwa=
rd
IV. to servants: "Every servant in attendance on his master is free to
come and go." Besides, a certain relaxation of the law had resulted wi=
th
regard to wolves, in consequence of its being the fashion of the ladies of =
the
Court, under the later Stuarts, to have, instead of dogs, little wolves, ca=
lled
adives, about the size of cats, which were brought from Asia at great cost.=
Ursus had
communicated to Homo a portion of his talents: such as to stand upright, to
restrain his rage into sulkiness, to growl instead of howling, etc.; and on=
his
part, the wolf had taught the man what he knew--to do without a roof, witho=
ut
bread and fire, to prefer hunger in the woods to slavery in a palace.
The van, hut, and
vehicle in one, which traversed so many different roads, without, however,
leaving Great Britain, had four wheels, with shafts for the wolf and a
splinter-bar for the man. The splinter-bar came into use when the roads were
bad. The van was strong, although it was built of light boards like a dove-=
cot.
In front there was a glass door with a little balcony used for orations, wh=
ich
had something of the character of the platform tempered by an air of the
pulpit. At the back there was a door with a practicable panel. By lowering =
the
three steps which turned on a hinge below the door, access was gained to the
hut, which at night was securely fastened with bolt and lock. Rain and snow=
had
fallen plentifully on it; it had been painted, but of what colour it was
difficult to say, change of season being to vans what changes of reign are =
to
courtiers. In front, outside, was a board, a kind of frontispiece, on which=
the
following inscription might once have been deciphered; it was in black lett=
ers
on a white ground, but by degrees the characters had become confused and
blurred:--
"By friction
gold loses every year a fourteen hundredth part of its bulk. This is what is
called the Wear. Hence it follows that on fourteen hundred millions of gold=
in
circulation throughout the world, one million is lost annually. This million
dissolves into dust, flies away, floats about, is reduced to atoms, charges,
drugs, weighs down consciences, amalgamates with the souls of the rich whom=
it
renders proud, and with those of the poor whom it renders brutish."
The inscription,
rubbed and blotted by the rain and by the kindness of nature, was fortunate=
ly
illegible, for it is possible that its philosophy concerning the inhalation=
of
gold, at the same time both enigmatical and lucid, might not have been to t=
he
taste of the sheriffs, the provost-marshals, and other big-wigs of the law.
English legislation did not trifle in those days. It did not take much to m=
ake
a man a felon. The magistrates were ferocious by tradition, and cruelty was=
a matter
of routine. The judges of assize increased and multiplied. Jeffreys had bec=
ome
a breed.
III.
In the interior of
the van there were two other inscriptions. Above the box, on a whitewashed
plank, a hand had written in ink as follows:--
"THE ONLY THINGS
NECESSARY TO KNOW.
"The Baron, =
peer
of England, wears a cap with six pearls. The coronet begins with the rank of
Viscount. The Viscount wears a coronet of which the pearls are without numb=
er.
The Earl a coronet with the pearls upon points, mingled with strawberry lea=
ves
placed low between. The Marquis, one with pearls and leaves on the same lev=
el.
The Duke, one with strawberry leaves alone--no pearls. The Royal Duke, a
circlet of crosses and fleurs de lys. The Prince of Wales, crown like that =
of
the King, but unclosed.
"The Duke is=
a
most high and most puissant prince, the Marquis and Earl most noble and pui=
ssant
lord, the Viscount noble and puissant lord, the Baron a trusty lord. The Du=
ke
is his Grace; the other Peers their Lordships. Most honourable is higher th=
an
right honourable.
"Lords who a=
re
peers are lords in their own right. Lords who are not peers are lords by
courtesy:--there are no real lords, excepting such as are peers.
"The House of
Lords is a chamber and a court, Concilium et Curia, legislature and court of
justice. The Commons, who are the people, when ordered to the bar of the Lo=
rds,
humbly present themselves bareheaded before the peers, who remain covered. =
The
Commons send up their bills by forty members, who present the bill with thr=
ee
low bows. The Lords send their bills to the Commons by a mere clerk. In cas=
e of
disagreement, the two Houses confer in the Painted Chamber, the Peers seated
and covered, the Commons standing and bareheaded.
"Peers go to
parliament in their coaches in file; the Commons do not. Some peers go to
Westminster in open four-wheeled chariots. The use of these and of coaches
emblazoned with coats of arms and coronets is allowed only to peers, and fo=
rms
a portion of their dignity.
"Barons have=
the
same rank as bishops. To be a baron peer of England, it is necessary to be =
in
possession of a tenure from the king per Baroniam integram, by full barony.=
The
full barony consists of thirteen knights' fees and one third part, each
knight's fee being of the value of £20 sterling, which makes in all 4=
00
marks. The head of a barony (Caput baroniæ) is a castle disposed by
inheritance, as England herself, that is to say, descending to daughters if
there be no sons, and in that case going to the eldest daughter, cæte=
ris
filiabus aliundè satisfactis.[1]
"Barons have=
the
degree of lord: in Saxon, laford; dominus in high Latin; Lordus in low Lati=
n.
The eldest and younger sons of viscounts and barons are the first esquires =
in
the kingdom. The eldest sons of peers take precedence of knights of the gar=
ter.
The younger sons do not. The eldest son of a viscount comes after all baron=
s,
and precedes all baronets. Every daughter of a peer is a Lady. Other English
girls are plain Mistress.
"All judges =
rank
below peers. The serjeant wears a lambskin tippet; the judge one of patchwo=
rk,
de minuto vario, made up of a variety of little white furs, always excepting
ermine. Ermine is reserved for peers and the king.
"A lord never
takes an oath, either to the crown or the law. His word suffices; he says, =
Upon
my honour.
"By a law of
Edward the Sixth, peers have the privilege of committing manslaughter. A pe=
er
who kills a man without premeditation is not prosecuted.
"The persons=
of
peers are inviolable.
"A peer cann=
ot
be held in durance, save in the Tower of London.
"A writ of
supplicavit cannot be granted against a peer.
"A peer sent=
for
by the king has the right to kill one or two deer in the royal park.
"A peer hold=
s in
his castle a baron's court of justice.
"It is unwor= thy of a peer to walk the street in a cloak, followed by two footmen. He should only show himself attended by a great train of gentlemen of his household.<= o:p>
"A peer can =
be
amerced only by his peers, and never to any greater amount than five pounds,
excepting in the case of a duke, who can be amerced ten.
"A peer may
retain six aliens born, any other Englishman but four.
"A peer can =
have
wine custom-free; an earl eight tuns.
"A peer is a=
lone
exempt from presenting himself before the sheriff of the circuit.
"A peer cann=
ot
be assessed towards the militia.
"When it ple=
ases
a peer he raises a regiment and gives it to the king; thus have done their
graces the Dukes of Athol, Hamilton, and Northumberland.
"A peer can =
hold
only of a peer.
"In a civil
cause he can demand the adjournment of the case, if there be not at least o=
ne
knight on the jury.
"A peer
nominates his own chaplains. A baron appoints three chaplains; a viscount f=
our;
an earl and a marquis five; a duke six.
"A peer cann= ot be put to the rack, even for high treason. A peer cannot be branded on the hand. A peer is a clerk, though he knows not how to read. In law he knows.<= o:p>
"A duke has a
right to a canopy, or cloth of state, in all places where the king is not
present; a viscount may have one in his house; a baron has a cover of assay,
which may be held under his cup while he drinks. A baroness has the right to
have her train borne by a man in the presence of a viscountess.
"Eighty-six
tables, with five hundred dishes, are served every day in the royal palace =
at
each meal.
"If a plebei=
an
strike a lord, his hand is cut off.
"A lord is v=
ery
nearly a king.
"The king is
very nearly a god.
"The earth i=
s a
lordship.
"The English
address God as my lord!"
Opposite this wri=
ting
was written a second one, in the same fashion, which ran thus:--
"SATISFACTION
WHICH MUST SUFFICE THOSE WHO HAVE NOTHING.
"Henry
Auverquerque, Earl of Grantham, who sits in the House of Lords between the =
Earl
of Jersey and the Earl of Greenwich, has a hundred thousand a year. To his
lordship belongs the palace of Grantham Terrace, built all of marble and fa=
mous
for what is called the labyrinth of passages--a curiosity which contains the
scarlet corridor in marble of Sarancolin, the brown corridor in lumachel of
Astracan, the white corridor in marble of Lani, the black corridor in marbl=
e of
Alabanda, the gray corridor in marble of Staremma, the yellow corridor in
marble of Hesse, the green corridor in marble of the Tyrol, the red corrido=
r, half
cherry-spotted marble of Bohemia, half lumachel of Cordova, the blue corrid=
or
in turquin of Genoa, the violet in granite of Catalonia, the mourning-hued
corridor veined black and white in slate of Murviedro, the pink corridor in
cipolin of the Alps, the pearl corridor in lumachel of Nonetta, and the
corridor of all colours, called the courtiers' corridor, in motley.
"Richard
Lowther, Viscount Lonsdale, owns Lowther in Westmorland, which has a
magnificent approach, and a flight of entrance steps which seem to invite t=
he
ingress of kings.
"Richard, Ea=
rl
of Scarborough, Viscount and Baron Lumley of Lumley Castle, Viscount Lumley=
of
Waterford in Ireland, and Lord Lieutenant and Vice-Admiral of the county of
Northumberland and of Durham, both city and county, owns the double castlew=
ard
of old and new Sandbeck, where you admire a superb railing, in the form of a
semicircle, surrounding the basin of a matchless fountain. He has, besides,=
his
castle of Lumley.
"Robert Darc=
y,
Earl of Holderness, has his domain of Holderness, with baronial towers, and
large gardens laid out in French fashion, where he drives in his coach-and-=
six,
preceded by two outriders, as becomes a peer of England.
"Charles Beauclerc, Duke of St. Albans, Earl of Burford, Baron Hedington, Grand Falc= oner of England, has an abode at Windsor, regal even by the side of the king's.<= o:p>
"Charles
Bodville Robartes, Baron Robartes of Truro, Viscount Bodmin and Earl of Rad=
nor,
owns Wimpole in Cambridgeshire, which is as three palaces in one, having th=
ree
façades, one bowed and two triangular. The approach is by an avenue =
of
trees four deep.
"The most no=
ble
and most puissant Lord Philip, Baron Herbert of Cardiff, Earl of Montgomery=
and
of Pembroke, Ross of Kendall, Parr, Fitzhugh, Marmion, St. Quentin, and Her=
bert
of Shurland, Warden of the Stannaries in the counties of Cornwall and Devon,
hereditary visitor of Jesus College, possesses the wonderful gardens at Wil=
ton,
where there are two sheaf-like fountains, finer than those of his most
Christian Majesty King Louis XIV. at Versailles.
"Charles
Somerset, Duke of Somerset, owns Somerset House on the Thames, which is equ=
al
to the Villa Pamphili at Rome. On the chimney-piece are seen two porcelain
vases of the dynasty of the Yuens, which are worth half a million in French
money.
"In Yorkshir=
e,
Arthur, Lord Ingram, Viscount Irwin, has Temple Newsain, which is entered u=
nder
a triumphal arch and which has large wide roofs resembling Moorish terraces=
.
"Robert, Lord
Ferrers of Chartly, Bourchier, and Lonvaine, has Staunton Harold in
Leicestershire, of which the park is geometrically planned in the shape of a
temple with a façade, and in front of the piece of water is the grea=
t church
with the square belfry, which belongs to his lordship.
"In the coun=
ty
of Northampton, Charles Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, member of his Majesty's
Privy Council, possesses Althorp, at the entrance of which is a railing with
four columns surmounted by groups in marble.
"Laurence Hy=
de,
Earl of Rochester, has, in Surrey, New Park, rendered magnificent by its
sculptured pinnacles, its circular lawn belted by trees, and its woodland, =
at
the extremity of which is a little mountain, artistically rounded, and
surmounted by a large oak, which can be seen from afar.
"Philip
Stanhope, Earl of Chesterfield, possesses Bretby Hall in Derbyshire, with a
splendid clock tower, falconries, warrens, and very fine sheets of water, l=
ong,
square, and oval, one of which is shaped like a mirror, and has two jets, w=
hich
throw the water to a great height.
"Charles
Cornwallis, Baron Cornwallis of Eye, owns Broome Hall, a palace of the
fourteenth century.
"The most no=
ble
Algernon Capel, Viscount Maiden, Earl of Essex, has Cashiobury in
Hertfordshire, a seat which has the shape of a capital H, and which rejoices
sportsmen with its abundance of game.
"Charles, Lo=
rd
Ossulston, owns Darnley in Middlesex, approached by Italian gardens.
"James Cecil,
Earl of Salisbury, has, seven leagues from London, Hatfield House, with its
four lordly pavilions, its belfry in the centre, and its grand courtyard of
black and white slabs, like that of St. Germain. This palace, which has a
frontage 272 feet in length, was built in the reign of James I. by the Lord
High Treasurer of England, the great-grandfather of the present earl. To be
seen there is the bed of one of the Countesses of Salisbury: it is of
inestimable value and made entirely of Brazilian wood, which is a panacea
against the bites of serpents, and which is called milhombres--that is to s=
ay,
a thousand men. On this bed is inscribed, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
"Edward Rich,
Earl of Warwick and Holland, is owner of Warwick Castle, where whole oaks a=
re
burnt in the fireplaces.
"In the pari=
sh
of Sevenoaks, Charles Sackville, Baron Buckhurst, Baron Cranfield, Earl of
Dorset and Middlesex, is owner of Knowle, which is as large as a town and is
composed of three palaces standing parallel one behind the other, like rank=
s of
infantry. There are six covered flights of steps on the principal frontage,=
and
a gate under a keep with four towers.
"Thomas Thyn=
ne,
Baron Thynne of Warminster, and Viscount Weymouth, possesses Longleat, in w=
hich
there are as many chimneys, cupolas, pinnacles, pepper-boxes pavilions, and
turrets as at Chambord, in France, which belongs to the king.
"Henry Howar=
d,
Earl of Suffolk, owns, twelve leagues from London, the palace of Audley End=
in
Essex, which in grandeur and dignity scarcely yields the palm to the Escori=
al
of the King of Spain.
"In
Bedfordshire, Wrest House and Park, which is a whole district, enclosed by
ditches, walls, woodlands, rivers, and hills, belongs to Henry, Marquis of
Kent.
"Hampton Cou=
rt,
in Herefordshire, with its strong embattled keep, and its gardens bounded b=
y a
piece of water which divides them from the forest, belongs to Thomas, Lord
Coningsby.
"Grimsthorp,=
in
Lincolnshire, with its long façade intersected by turrets in pale, i=
ts
park, its fish-ponds, its pheasantries, its sheepfolds, its lawns, its grou=
nds
planted with rows of trees, its groves, its walks, its shrubberies, its
flower-beds and borders, formed in square and lozenge-shape, and resembling
great carpets; its racecourses, and the majestic sweep for carriages to tur=
n in
at the entrance of the house--belongs to Robert, Earl Lindsey, hereditary l=
ord of
the forest of Waltham.
"Up Park, in
Sussex, a square house, with two symmetrical belfried pavilions on each sid=
e of
the great courtyard, belongs to the Right Honourable Forde, Baron Grey of
Werke, Viscount Glendale and Earl of Tankerville.
"Newnham Pad=
dox,
in Warwickshire, which has two quadrangular fish-ponds and a gabled archway
with a large window of four panes, belongs to the Earl of Denbigh, who is a=
lso
Count von Rheinfelden, in Germany.
"Wytham Abbe=
y,
in Berkshire, with its French garden in which there are four curiously trim=
med
arbours, and its great embattled towers, supported by two bastions, belongs=
to
Montague, Earl of Abingdon, who also owns Rycote, of which he is Baron, and=
the
principal door of which bears the device Virtus ariete fortior.
"William
Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, has six dwelling-places, of which Chatsworth
(two storied, and of the finest order of Grecian architecture) is one.
"The Viscoun=
t of
Kinalmeaky, who is Earl of Cork, in Ireland, is owner of Burlington House,
Piccadilly, with its extensive gardens, reaching to the fields outside Lond=
on;
he is also owner of Chiswick, where there are nine magnificent lodges; he a=
lso
owns Londesborough, which is a new house by the side of an old palace.
"The Duke of
Beaufort owns Chelsea, which contains two Gothic buildings, and a Florentine
one; he has also Badminton, in Gloucestershire, a residence from which a nu=
mber
of avenues branch out like rays from a star. The most noble and puissant Pr=
ince
Henry, Duke of Beaufort, is also Marquis and Earl of Worcester, Earl of
Glamorgan, Viscount Grosmont, and Baron Herbert of Chepstow, Ragland, and
Gower, Baron Beaufort of Caldecott Castle, and Baron de Bottetourt.
"John Holies,
Duke of Newcastle, and Marquis of Clare, owns Bolsover, with its majestic
square keeps; his also is Haughton, in Nottinghamshire, where a round pyram=
id,
made to imitate the Tower of Babel, stands in the centre of a basin of wate=
r.
"William, Ea=
rl
of Craven, Viscount Uffington, and Baron Craven of Hamstead Marshall, owns
Combe Abbey in Warwickshire, where is to be seen the finest water-jet in
England; and in Berkshire two baronies, Hamstead Marshall, on the faç=
;ade
of which are five Gothic lanterns sunk in the wall, and Ashdown Park, which=
is
a country seat situate at the point of intersection of cross-roads in a for=
est.
"Linnæ=
us,
Lord Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in
Sicily, derives his title from the castle of Clancharlie, built in 912 by
Edward the Elder, as a defence against the Danes. Besides Hunkerville House=
, in
London, which is a palace, he has Corleone Lodge at Windsor, which is anoth=
er,
and eight castlewards, one at Burton-on-Trent, with a royalty on the carria=
ge
of plaster of Paris; then Grumdaith Humble, Moricambe, Trewardraith,
Hell-Kerters (where there is a miraculous well), Phillinmore, with its turf
bogs, Reculver, near the ancient city Vagniac, Vinecaunton, on the Moel-eul=
le
Mountain; besides nineteen boroughs and villages with reeves, and the whole=
of Penneth
chase, all of which bring his lordship £40,000 a year.
"The 172 pee=
rs
enjoying their dignities under James II. possess among them altogether a
revenue of £1,272,000 sterling a year, which is the eleventh part of =
the
revenue of England."
In the margin,
opposite the last name (that of Linnæus, Lord Clancharlie), there was=
a
note in the handwriting of Ursus: Rebel; in exile; houses, lands, and chatt=
els
sequestrated. It is well.
IV.
Ursus admired Homo. One admires one=
's
like. It is a law. To be always raging inwardly and grumbling outwardly was=
the
normal condition of Ursus. He was the malcontent of creation. By nature he =
was
a man ever in opposition. He took the world unkindly; he gave his satisfeci=
t to
no one and to nothing. The bee did not atone, by its honey-making, for its =
sting;
a full-blown rose did not absolve the sun for yellow fever and black vomit.=
It
is probable that in secret Ursus criticized Providence a good deal.
"Evidently," he would say, "the devil works by a spring, and=
the
wrong that God does is having let go the trigger." He approved of none=
but
princes, and he had his own peculiar way of expressing his approbation. One
day, when James II. made a gift to the Virgin in a Catholic chapel in Irela=
nd
of a massive gold lamp, Ursus, passing that way with Homo, who was more
indifferent to such things, broke out in admiration before the crowd, and
exclaimed, "It is certain that the blessed Virgin wants a lamp much mo=
re
than these barefooted children there require shoes."
Such proofs of his
loyalty, and such evidences of his respect for established powers, probably
contributed in no small degree to make the magistrates tolerate his vagabond
life and his low alliance with a wolf. Sometimes of an evening, through the
weakness of friendship, he allowed Homo to stretch his limbs and wander at
liberty about the caravan. The wolf was incapable of an abuse of confidence,
and behaved in society, that is to say among men, with the discretion of a =
poodle.
All the same, if bad-tempered officials had to be dealt with, difficulties
might have arisen; so Ursus kept the honest wolf chained up as much as
possible.
From a political
point of view, his writing about gold, not very intelligible in itself, and=
now
become undecipherable, was but a smear, and gave no handle to the enemy. Ev=
en
after the time of James II., and under the "respectable" reign of
William and Mary, his caravan might have been seen peacefully going its rou=
nds
of the little English country towns. He travelled freely from one end of Gr=
eat
Britain to the other, selling his philtres and phials, and sustaining, with=
the
assistance of his wolf, his quack mummeries; and he passed with ease through
the meshes of the nets which the police at that period had spread all over =
England
in order to sift wandering gangs, and especially to stop the progress of the
Comprachicos.
This was right
enough. Ursus belonged to no gang. Ursus lived with Ursus, a
tête-à-tête, into which the wolf gently thrust his nose.=
If Ursus
could have had his way, he would have been a Caribbee; that being impossibl=
e,
he preferred to be alone. The solitary man is a modified savage, accepted by
civilization. He who wanders most is most alone; hence his continual change=
of
place. To remain anywhere long suffocated him with the sense of being tamed=
. He
passed his life in passing on his way. The sight of towns increased his tas=
te
for brambles, thickets, thorns, and holes in the rock. His home was the for=
est.
He did not feel himself much out of his element in the murmur of crowded
streets, which is like enough to the bluster of trees. The crowd to some ex=
tent
satisfies our taste for the desert. What he disliked in his van was its hav=
ing
a door and windows, and thus resembling a house. He would have realized his
ideal, had he been able to put a cave on four wheels and travel in a den.
He did not smile,=
as
we have already said, but he used to laugh; sometimes, indeed frequently, a
bitter laugh. There is consent in a smile, while a laugh is often a refusal=
.
His great business
was to hate the human race. He was implacable in that hate. Having made it
clear that human life is a dreadful thing; having observed the superpositio=
n of
evils, kings on the people, war on kings, the plague on war, famine on the
plague, folly on everything; having proved a certain measure of chastisemen=
t in
the mere fact of existence; having recognized that, death is a
deliverance--when they brought him a sick man he cured him; he had cordials=
and
beverages to prolong the lives of the old. He put lame cripples on their le=
gs
again, and hurled this sarcasm at them, "There, you are on your paws o=
nce
more; may you walk long in this valley of tears!" When he saw a poor m=
an
dying of hunger, he gave him all the pence he had about him, growling out,
"Live on, you wretch! eat! last a long time! It is not I who would sho=
rten
your penal servitude." After which, he would rub his hands and say,
"I do men all the harm I can."
Through the little
window at the back, passers-by could read on the ceiling of the van these
words, written within, but visible from without, inscribed with charcoal, in
big letters,--
=
URSUS, PHILOSOPHER.
I.
Who now knows the word Comprachicos=
, and
who knows its meaning?
The Comprachicos,=
or
Comprapequeños, were a hideous and nondescript association of wander=
ers,
famous in the 17th century, forgotten in the 18th, unheard of in the 19th. =
The
Comprachicos are like the "succession powder," an ancient social
characteristic detail. They are part of old human ugliness. To the great ey=
e of
history, which sees everything collectively, the Comprachicos belong to the
colossal fact of slavery. Joseph sold by his brethren is a chapter in their
story. The Comprachicos have left their traces in the penal laws of Spain a=
nd England.
You find here and there in the dark confusion of English laws the impress of
this horrible truth, like the foot-print of a savage in a forest.
Comprachicos, the
same as Comprapequeños, is a compound Spanish word signifying
Child-buyers.
The Comprachicos
traded in children. They bought and sold them. They did not steal them. The
kidnapping of children is another branch of industry. And what did they mak=
e of
these children?
Monsters.
Why monsters?
To laugh at.
The populace must
needs laugh, and kings too. The mountebank is wanted in the streets, the je=
ster
at the Louvre. The one is called a Clown, the other a Fool.
The efforts of ma=
n to
procure himself pleasure are at times worthy of the attention of the
philosopher.
What are we sketc=
hing
in these few preliminary pages? A chapter in the most terrible of books; a =
book
which might be entitled--The farming of the unhappy by the happy.
II.
A child destined to be a plaything =
for
men--such a thing has existed; such a thing exists even now. In simple and
savage times such a thing constituted an especial trade. The 17th century,
called the great century, was of those times. It was a century very Byzanti=
ne
in tone. It combined corrupt simplicity with delicate ferocity--a curious
variety of civilization. A tiger with a simper. Madame de Sevigné mi=
nces
on the subject of the fagot and the wheel. That century traded a good deal =
in children.
Flattering historians have concealed the sore, but have divulged the remedy,
Vincent de Paul.
In order that a h=
uman
toy should succeed, he must be taken early. The dwarf must be fashioned when
young. We play with childhood. But a well-formed child is not very amusing;=
a
hunchback is better fun.
Hence grew an art.
There were trainers who took a man and made him an abortion; they took a fa=
ce
and made a muzzle; they stunted growth; they kneaded the features. The
artificial production of teratological cases had its rules. It was quite a
science--what one can imagine as the antithesis of orthopedy. Where God had=
put
a look, their art put a squint; where God had made harmony, they made disco=
rd;
where God had made the perfect picture, they re-established the sketch; and=
, in
the eyes of connoisseurs, it was the sketch which was perfect. They debased=
animals
as well; they invented piebald horses. Turenne rode a piebald horse. In our=
own
days do they not dye dogs blue and green? Nature is our canvas. Man has alw=
ays
wished to add something to God's work. Man retouches creation, sometimes for
better, sometimes for worse. The Court buffoon was nothing but an attempt to
lead back man to the monkey. It was a progress the wrong way. A masterpiece=
in
retrogression. At the same time they tried to make a man of the monkey.
Barbara, Duchess of Cleveland and Countess of Southampton, had a marmoset f=
or a
page. Frances Sutton, Baroness Dudley, eighth peeress in the bench of baron=
s, had
tea served by a baboon clad in cold brocade, which her ladyship called My
Black. Catherine Sedley, Countess of Dorchester, used to go and take her se=
at
in Parliament in a coach with armorial bearings, behind which stood, their
muzzles stuck up in the air, three Cape monkeys in grand livery. A Duchess =
of
Medina-Celi, whose toilet Cardinal Pole witnessed, had her stockings put on=
by
an orang-outang. These monkeys raised in the scale were a counterpoise to m=
en
brutalized and bestialized. This promiscuousness of man and beast, desired =
by
the great, was especially prominent in the case of the dwarf and the dog. T=
he
dwarf never quitted the dog, which was always bigger than himself. The dog =
was
the pair of the dwarf; it was as if they were coupled with a collar. This
juxtaposition is authenticated by a mass of domestic records--notably by the
portrait of Jeffrey Hudson, dwarf of Henrietta of France, daughter of Henri
IV., and wife of Charles I.
To degrade man te=
nds
to deform him. The suppression of his state was completed by disfigurement.
Certain vivisectors of that period succeeded marvellously well in effacing =
from
the human face the divine effigy. Doctor Conquest, member of the Amen Street
College, and judicial visitor of the chemists' shops of London, wrote a boo=
k in
Latin on this pseudo-surgery, the processes of which he describes. If we ar=
e to
believe Justus of Carrickfergus, the inventor of this branch of surgery was=
a
monk named Avonmore--an Irish word signifying Great River.
The dwarf of the
Elector Palatine, Perkeo, whose effigy--or ghost--springs from a magical bo=
x in
the cave of Heidelberg, was a remarkable specimen of this science, very var=
ied
in its applications. It fashioned beings the law of whose existence was
hideously simple: it permitted them to suffer, and commanded them to amuse.=
III.
The manufacture of monsters was pra=
ctised
on a large scale, and comprised various branches.
The Sultan requir=
ed
them, so did the Pope; the one to guard his women, the other to say his
prayers. These were of a peculiar kind, incapable of reproduction. Scarcely
human beings, they were useful to voluptuousness and to religion. The serag=
lio
and the Sistine Chapel utilized the same species of monsters; fierce in the
former case, mild in the latter.
They knew how to
produce things in those days which are not produced now; they had talents w=
hich
we lack, and it is not without reason that some good folk cry out that the
decline has come. We no longer know how to sculpture living human flesh; th=
is
is consequent on the loss of the art of torture. Men were once virtuosi in =
that
respect, but are so no longer; the art has become so simplified that it will
soon disappear altogether. In cutting the limbs of living men, in opening t=
heir
bellies and in dragging out their entrails, phenomena were grasped on the
moment and discoveries made. We are obliged to renounce these experiments n=
ow, and
are thus deprived of the progress which surgery made by aid of the executio=
ner.
The vivisection of
former days was not limited to the manufacture of phenomena for the
market-place, of buffoons for the palace (a species of augmentative of the
courtier), and eunuchs for sultans and popes. It abounded in varieties. One=
of
its triumphs was the manufacture of cocks for the king of England.
It was the custom=
, in
the palace of the kings of England, to have a sort of watchman, who crowed =
like
a cock. This watcher, awake while all others slept, ranged the palace, and
raised from hour to hour the cry of the farmyard, repeating it as often as =
was
necessary, and thus supplying a clock. This man, promoted to be cock, had in
childhood undergone the operation of the pharynx, which was part of the art
described by Dr. Conquest. Under Charles II. the salivation inseparable to =
the
operation having disgusted the Duchess of Portsmouth, the appointment was
indeed preserved, so that the splendour of the crown should not be tarnishe=
d, but
they got an unmutilated man to represent the cock. A retired officer was
generally selected for this honourable employment. Under James II. the
functionary was named William Sampson, Cock, and received for his crow
£9, 2s. 6d. annually.
The memoirs of
Catherine II. inform us that at St. Petersburg, scarcely a hundred years si=
nce,
whenever the czar or czarina was displeased with a Russian prince, he was
forced to squat down in the great antechamber of the palace, and to remain =
in
that posture a certain number of days, mewing like a cat, or clucking like a
sitting hen, and pecking his food from the floor.
These fashions ha=
ve
passed away; but not so much, perhaps, as one might imagine. Nowadays,
courtiers slightly modify their intonation in clucking to please their mast=
ers.
More than one picks up from the ground--we will not say from the mud--what =
he
eats.
It is very fortun=
ate
that kings cannot err. Hence their contradictions never perplex us. In
approving always, one is sure to be always right--which is pleasant. Louis =
XIV.
would not have liked to see at Versailles either an officer acting the cock=
, or
a prince acting the turkey. That which raised the royal and imperial dignit=
y in
England and Russia would have seemed to Louis the Great incompatible with t=
he
crown of St. Louis. We know what his displeasure was when Madame Henriette =
forgot
herself so far as to see a hen in a dream--which was, indeed, a grave breac=
h of
good manners in a lady of the court. When one is of the court, one should n=
ot
dream of the courtyard. Bossuet, it may be remembered, was nearly as
scandalized as Louis XIV.
IV.
The commerce in children in the 17th
century, as we have explained, was connected with a trade. The Comprachicos
engaged in the commerce, and carried on the trade. They bought children, wo=
rked
a little on the raw material, and resold them afterwards.
The venders were =
of
all kinds: from the wretched father, getting rid of his family, to the mast=
er,
utilizing his stud of slaves. The sale of men was a simple matter. In our o=
wn
time we have had fighting to maintain this right. Remember that it is less =
than
a century ago since the Elector of Hesse sold his subjects to the King of
England, who required men to be killed in America. Kings went to the Electo=
r of
Hesse as we go to the butcher to buy meat. The Elector had food for powder =
in
stock, and hung up his subjects in his shop. Come buy; it is for sale. In E=
ngland,
under Jeffreys, after the tragical episode of Monmouth, there were many lor=
ds
and gentlemen beheaded and quartered. Those who were executed left wives and
daughters, widows and orphans, whom James II. gave to the queen, his wife. =
The
queen sold these ladies to William Penn. Very likely the king had so much p=
er
cent. on the transaction. The extraordinary thing is, not that James II. sh=
ould
have sold the women, but that William Penn should have bought them. Penn's
purchase is excused, or explained, by the fact that having a desert to sow =
with
men, he needed women as farming implements.
Her Gracious Maje=
sty
made a good business out of these ladies. The young sold dear. We may imagi=
ne,
with the uneasy feeling which a complicated scandal arouses, that probably =
some
old duchesses were thrown in cheap.
The Comprachicos =
were
also called the Cheylas, a Hindu word, which conveys the image of harrying a
nest.
For a long time t=
he
Comprachicos only partially concealed themselves. There is sometimes in the
social order a favouring shadow thrown over iniquitous trades, in which they
thrive. In our own day we have seen an association of the kind in Spain, un=
der
the direction of the ruffian Ramon Selles, last from 1834 to 1866, and hold
three provinces under terror for thirty years--Valencia, Alicante, and Murc=
ia.
Under the Stuarts,
the Comprachicos were by no means in bad odour at court. On occasions they =
were
used for reasons of state. For James II. they were almost an instrumentum
regni. It was a time when families, which were refractory or in the way, we=
re
dismembered; when a descent was cut short; when heirs were suddenly suppres=
sed.
At times one branch was defrauded to the profit of another. The Comprachicos
had a genius for disfiguration which recommended them to state policy. To
disfigure is better than to kill. There was, indeed, the Iron Mask, but that
was a mighty measure. Europe could not be peopled with iron masks, while de=
formed
tumblers ran about the streets without creating any surprise. Besides, the =
iron
mask is removable; not so the mask of flesh. You are masked for ever by your
own flesh--what can be more ingenious? The Comprachicos worked on man as the
Chinese work on trees. They had their secrets, as we have said; they had tr=
icks
which are now lost arts. A sort of fantastic stunted thing left their hands=
; it
was ridiculous and wonderful. They would touch up a little being with such
skill that its father could not have known it. Et que
méconnaîtrait l'oeil même de son père, as Racine =
says
in bad French. Sometimes they left the spine straight and remade the face. =
They
unmarked a child as one might unmark a pocket-handkerchief. Products, desti=
ned
for tumblers, had their joints dislocated in a masterly manner--you would h=
ave
said they had been boned. Thus gymnasts were made.
Not only did the
Comprachicos take away his face from the child, they also took away his mem=
ory.
At least they took away all they could of it; the child had no consciousnes=
s of
the mutilation to which he had been subjected. This frightful surgery left =
its
traces on his countenance, but not on his mind. The most he could recall was
that one day he had been seized by men, that next he had fallen asleep, and
then that he had been cured. Cured of what? He did not know. Of burnings by
sulphur and incisions by the iron he remembered nothing. The Comprachicos
deadened the little patient by means of a stupefying powder which was thoug=
ht
to be magical, and suppressed all pain. This powder has been known from time
immemorial in China, and is still employed there in the present day. The
Chinese have been beforehand with us in all our inventions--printing,
artillery, aerostation, chloroform. Only the discovery which in Europe at o=
nce
takes life and birth, and becomes a prodigy and a wonder, remains a chrysal=
is
in China, and is preserved in a deathlike state. China is a museum of embry=
os.
Since we are in
China, let us remain there a moment to note a peculiarity. In China, from t=
ime
immemorial, they have possessed a certain refinement of industry and art. I=
t is
the art of moulding a living man. They take a child, two or three years old=
, put
him in a porcelain vase, more or less grotesque, which is made without top =
or bottom,
to allow egress for the head and feet. During the day the vase is set uprig=
ht,
and at night is laid down to allow the child to sleep. Thus the child thick=
ens
without growing taller, filling up with his compressed flesh and distorted
bones the reliefs in the vase. This development in a bottle continues many
years. After a certain time it becomes irreparable. When they consider that
this is accomplished, and the monster made, they break the vase. The child
comes out--and, behold, there is a man in the shape of a mug!
This is convenien=
t:
by ordering your dwarf betimes you are able to have it of any shape you wis=
h.
V.
James II. tolerated the Comprachico=
s for
the good reason that he made use of them; at least it happened that he did =
so
more than once. We do not always disdain to use what we despise. This low
trade, an excellent expedient sometimes for the higher one which is called
state policy, was willingly left in a miserable state, but was not persecut=
ed.
There was no surveillance, but a certain amount of attention. Thus much mig=
ht
be useful--the law closed one eye, the king opened the other.
Sometimes the king
went so far as to avow his complicity. These are audacities of monarchical
terrorism. The disfigured one was marked with the fleur-de-lis; they took f=
rom
him the mark of God; they put on him the mark of the king. Jacob Astley, kn=
ight
and baronet, lord of Melton Constable, in the county of Norfolk, had in his=
family
a child who had been sold, and upon whose forehead the dealer had imprinted=
a fleur-de-lis
with a hot iron. In certain cases in which it was held desirable to register
for some reason the royal origin of the new position made for the child, th=
ey
used such means. England has always done us the honour to utilize, for her
personal service, the fleur-de-lis.
The Comprachicos,
allowing for the shade which divides a trade from a fanaticism, were analog=
ous
to the Stranglers of India. They lived among themselves in gangs, and to
facilitate their progress, affected somewhat of the merry-andrew. They enca=
mped
here and there, but they were grave and religious, bearing no affinity to o=
ther
nomads, and incapable of theft. The people for a long time wrongly confound=
ed
them with the Moors of Spain and the Moors of China. The Moors of Spain were
coiners, the Moors of China were thieves. There was nothing of the sort abo=
ut
the Comprachicos; they were honest folk. Whatever you may think of them, th=
ey
were sometimes sincerely scrupulous. They pushed open a door, entered,
bargained for a child, paid, and departed. All was done with propriety.
They were of all
countries. Under the name of Comprachicos fraternized English, French,
Castilians, Germans, Italians. A unity of idea, a unity of superstition, the
pursuit of the same calling, make such fusions. In this fraternity of
vagabonds, those of the Mediterranean seaboard represented the East, those =
of
the Atlantic seaboard the West. Many Basques conversed with many Irishmen. =
The
Basque and the Irishman understand each other--they speak the old Punic jar=
gon;
add to this the intimate relations of Catholic Ireland with Catholic
Spain--relations such that they terminated by bringing to the gallows in Lo=
ndon
one almost King of Ireland, the Celtic Lord de Brany; from which resulted t=
he
conquest of the county of Leitrim.
The Comprachicos =
were
rather a fellowship than a tribe; rather a residuum than a fellowship. It w=
as
all the riffraff of the universe, having for their trade a crime. It was a =
sort
of harlequin people, all composed of rags. To recruit a man was to sew on a
tatter.
To wander was the
Comprachicos' law of existence--to appear and disappear. What is barely
tolerated cannot take root. Even in the kingdoms where their business suppl=
ied
the courts, and, on occasions, served as an auxiliary to the royal power, t=
hey
were now and then suddenly ill-treated. Kings made use of their art, and se=
nt
the artists to the galleys. These inconsistencies belong to the ebb and flo=
w of
royal caprice. "For such is our pleasure."
A rolling stone a=
nd a
roving trade gather no moss. The Comprachicos were poor. They might have sa=
id
what the lean and ragged witch observed, when she saw them setting fire to =
the
stake, "Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle." It is possible, nay
probable (their chiefs remaining unknown), that the wholesale contractors in
the trade were rich. After the lapse of two centuries, it would be difficul=
t to
throw any light on this point.
It was, as we have
said, a fellowship. It had its laws, its oaths, its formulæ--it had
almost its cabala. Any one nowadays wishing to know all about the Comprachi=
cos
need only go into Biscaya or Galicia; there were many Basques among them, a=
nd
it is in those mountains that one hears their history. To this day the
Comprachicos are spoken of at Oyarzun, at Urbistondo, at Leso, at Astigarra=
ga.
Aguardate niño, que voy a llamar al Comprachicos--Take care, child, =
or
I'll call the Comprachicos--is the cry with which mothers frighten their
children in that country.
The Comprachicos,
like the Zigeuner and the Gipsies, had appointed places for periodical
meetings. From time to time their leaders conferred together. In the
seventeenth century they had four principal points of rendezvous: one in
Spain--the pass of Pancorbo; one in Germany--the glade called the Wicked Wo=
man,
near Diekirsch, where there are two enigmatic bas-reliefs, representing a w=
oman
with a head and a man without one; one in France--the hill where was the
colossal statue of Massue-la-Promesse in the old sacred wood of Borvo Tomon=
a,
near Bourbonne les Bains; one in England--behind the garden wall of William=
Challoner,
Squire of Gisborough in Cleveland, Yorkshire, behind the square tower and t=
he
great wing which is entered by an arched door.
VI.
The laws against vagabonds have alw=
ays
been very rigorous in England. England, in her Gothic legislation, seemed t=
o be
inspired with this principle, Homo errans fera errante pejor. One of the
special statutes classifies the man without a home as "more dangerous =
than
the asp, dragon, lynx, or basilisk" (atrocior aspide, dracone, lynce, =
et basilico).
For a long time England troubled herself as much concerning the gipsies, of
whom she wished to be rid as about the wolves of which she had been cleared=
. In
that the Englishman differed from the Irishman, who prayed to the saints for
the health of the wolf, and called him "my godfather."
English law,
nevertheless, in the same way as (we have just seen) it tolerated the wolf,
tamed, domesticated, and become in some sort a dog, tolerated the regular
vagabond, become in some sort a subject. It did not trouble itself about ei=
ther
the mountebank or the travelling barber, or the quack doctor, or the peddle=
r,
or the open-air scholar, as long as they had a trade to live by. Further th=
an
this, and with these exceptions, the description of freedom which exists in=
the
wanderer terrified the law. A tramp was a possible public enemy. That moder=
n thing,
the lounger, was then unknown; that ancient thing, the vagrant, was alone
understood. A suspicious appearance, that indescribable something which all
understand and none can define, was sufficient reason that society should t=
ake
a man by the collar. "Where do you live? How do you get your living?&q=
uot;
And if he could not answer, harsh penalties awaited him. Iron and fire were=
in
the code: the law practised the cauterization of vagrancy.
Hence, throughout
English territory, a veritable "loi des suspects" was applicable =
to
vagrants (who, it must be owned, readily became malefactors), and particula=
rly
to gipsies, whose expulsion has erroneously been compared to the expulsion =
of
the Jews and the Moors from Spain, and the Protestants from France. As for =
us,
we do not confound a battue with a persecution.
The Comprachicos,=
we
insist, had nothing in common with the gipsies. The gipsies were a nation; =
the
Comprachicos were a compound of all nations--the lees of a horrible vessel =
full
of filthy waters. The Comprachicos had not, like the gipsies, an idiom of t=
heir
own; their jargon was a promiscuous collection of idioms: all languages were
mixed together in their language; they spoke a medley. Like the gipsies, th=
ey had
come to be a people winding through the peoples; but their common tie was
association, not race. At all epochs in history one finds in the vast liquid
mass which constitutes humanity some of these streams of venomous men exudi=
ng
poison around them. The gipsies were a tribe; the Comprachicos a freemasonr=
y--a
masonry having not a noble aim, but a hideous handicraft. Finally, their
religions differ--the gipsies were Pagans, the Comprachicos were Christians,
and more than that, good Christians, as became an association which, althou=
gh a
mixture of all nations, owed its birth to Spain, a devout land.
They were more th=
an
Christians, they were Catholics; they were more than Catholics, they were
Romans, and so touchy in their faith, and so pure, that they refused to
associate with the Hungarian nomads of the comitate of Pesth, commanded and=
led
by an old man, having for sceptre a wand with a silver ball, surmounted by =
the
double-headed Austrian eagle. It is true that these Hungarians were
schismatics, to the extent of celebrating the Assumption on the 29th August,
which is an abomination.
In England, so lo=
ng
as the Stuarts reigned, the confederation of the Comprachicos was (for moti=
ves
of which we have already given you a glimpse) to a certain extent protected.
James II., a devout man, who persecuted the Jews and trampled out the gipsi=
es,
was a good prince to the Comprachicos. We have seen why. The Comprachicos w=
ere
buyers of the human wares in which he was dealer. They excelled in
disappearances. Disappearances are occasionally necessary for the good of t=
he
state. An inconvenient heir of tender age whom they took and handled lost h=
is shape.
This facilitated confiscation; the tranfer of titles to favourites was
simplified. The Comprachicos were, moreover, very discreet and very tacitur=
n.
They bound themselves to silence, and kept their word, which is necessary in
affairs of state. There was scarcely an example of their having betrayed the
secrets of the king. This was, it is true, for their interest; and if the k=
ing
had lost confidence in them, they would have been in great danger. They were
thus of use in a political point of view. Moreover these artists furnished
singers for the Holy Father. The Comprachicos were useful for the Miserere =
of Allegri.
They were particularly devoted to Mary. All this pleased the papistry of the
Stuarts. James II. could not be hostile to holy men who pushed their devoti=
on
to the Virgin to the extent of manufacturing eunuchs. In 1688 there was a
change of dynasty in England: Orange supplanted Stuart. William III. replac=
ed
James II.
James II. went aw=
ay
to die in exile, miracles were performed on his tomb, and his relics cured =
the
Bishop of Autun of fistula--a worthy recompense of the Christian virtues of=
the
prince.
William, having
neither the same ideas nor the same practices as James, was severe to the
Comprachicos. He did his best to crush out the vermin.
A statute of the
early part of William and Mary's reign hit the association of child-buyers
hard. It was as the blow of a club to the Comprachicos, who were from that =
time
pulverized. By the terms of this statute those of the fellowship taken and =
duly
convicted were to be branded with a red-hot iron, imprinting R. on the
shoulder, signifying rogue; on the left hand T, signifying thief; and on the
right hand M, signifying man-slayer. The chiefs, "supposed to be rich,
although beggars in appearance," were to be punished in the
collistrigium--that is, the pillory--and branded on the forehead with a P,
besides having their goods confiscated, and the trees in their woods rooted=
up.
Those who did not inform against the Comprachicos were to be punished by co=
nfiscation
and imprisonment for life, as for the crime of misprision. As for the women
found among these men, they were to suffer the cucking-stool--this is a
tumbrel, the name of which is composed of the French word coquine, and the
German stuhl. English law being endowed with a strange longevity, this
punishment still exists in English legislation for quarrelsome women. The
cucking-stool is suspended over a river or a pond, the woman seated on it. =
The
chair is allowed to drop into the water, and then pulled out. This dipping =
of
the woman is repeated three times, "to cool her anger," says the
commentator, Chamberlayne.
BOOK THE FIRST - NIGHT NOT SO BLACK AS MAN.=
An obstinate north wind blew without
ceasing over the mainland of Europe, and yet more roughly over England, dur=
ing
all the month of December, 1689, and all the month of January, 1690. Hence =
the
disastrous cold weather, which caused that winter to be noted as
"memorable to the poor," on the margin of the old Bible in the
Presbyterian chapel of the Nonjurors in London. Thanks to the lasting quali=
ties
of the old monarchical parchment employed in official registers, long lists=
of
poor persons, found dead of famine and cold, are still legible in many loca=
l repositories,
particularly in the archives of the Liberty of the Clink, in the borough of
Southwark, of Pie Powder Court (which signifies Dusty Feet Court), and in t=
hose
of Whitechapel Court, held in the village of Stepney by the bailiff of the =
Lord
of the Manor. The Thames was frozen over--a thing which does not happen onc=
e in
a century, as the ice forms on it with difficulty owing to the action of the
sea. Coaches rolled over the frozen river, and a fair was held with booths,
bear-baiting, and bull-baiting. An ox was roasted whole on the ice. This th=
ick
ice lasted two months. The hard year 1690 surpassed in severity even the fa=
mous
winters at the beginning of the seventeenth century, so minutely observed by
Dr. Gideon Delane--the same who was, in his quality of apothecary to King
James, honoured by the city of London with a bust and a pedestal.
One evening, towa=
rds
the close of one of the most bitter days of the month of January, 1690,
something unusual was going on in one of the numerous inhospitable bights of
the bay of Portland, which caused the sea-gulls and wild geese to scream and
circle round its mouth, not daring to re-enter.
In this creek, the
most dangerous of all which line the bay during the continuance of certain
winds, and consequently the most lonely--convenient, by reason of its very
danger, for ships in hiding--a little vessel, almost touching the cliff, so
deep was the water, was moored to a point of rock. We are wrong in saying, =
The
night falls; we should say the night rises, for it is from the earth that
obscurity comes. It was already night at the bottom of the cliff; it was st=
ill
day at top. Any one approaching the vessel's moorings would have recognized=
a
Biscayan hooker.
The sun, concealed
all day by the mist, had just set. There was beginning to be felt that deep=
and
sombrous melancholy which might be called anxiety for the absent sun. With =
no
wind from the sea, the water of the creek was calm.
This was, especia=
lly
in winter, a lucky exception. Almost all the Portland creeks have sand-bars;
and in heavy weather the sea becomes very rough, and, to pass in safety, mu=
ch
skill and practice are necessary. These little ports (ports more in appeara=
nce
than fact) are of small advantage. They are hazardous to enter, fearful to
leave. On this evening, for a wonder, there was no danger.
The Biscay hooker=
is
of an ancient model, now fallen into disuse. This kind of hooker, which has
done service even in the navy, was stoutly built in its hull--a boat in siz=
e, a
ship in strength. It figured in the Armada. Sometimes the war-hooker attain=
ed
to a high tonnage; thus the Great Griffin, bearing a captain's flag, and
commanded by Lopez de Medina, measured six hundred and fifty good tons, and
carried forty guns. But the merchant and contraband hookers were very feebl=
e specimens.
Sea-folk held them at their true value, and esteemed the model a very sorry
one, The rigging of the hooker was made of hemp, sometimes with wire inside,
which was probably intended as a means, however unscientific, of obtaining
indications, in the case of magnetic tension. The lightness of this rigging=
did
not exclude the use of heavy tackle, the cabrias of the Spanish galleon, and
the cameli of the Roman triremes. The helm was very long, which gives the
advantage of a long arm of leverage, but the disadvantage of a small arc of
effort. Two wheels in two pulleys at the end of the rudder corrected this
defect, and compensated, to some extent, for the loss of strength. The comp=
ass was
well housed in a case perfectly square, and well balanced by its two copper
frames placed horizontally, one in the other, on little bolts, as in Cardan=
's
lamps. There was science and cunning in the construction of the hooker, but=
it
was ignorant science and barbarous cunning. The hooker was primitive, just =
like
the praam and the canoe; was kindred to the praam in stability, and to the
canoe in swiftness; and, like all vessels born of the instinct of the pirate
and fisherman, it had remarkable sea qualities: it was equally well suited =
to
landlocked and to open waters. Its system of sails, complicated in stays, a=
nd
very peculiar, allowed of its navigating trimly in the close bays of Asturi=
as (which
are little more than enclosed basins, as Pasages, for instance), and also
freely out at sea. It could sail round a lake, and sail round the world--a
strange craft with two objects, good for a pond and good for a storm. The
hooker is among vessels what the wagtail is among birds--one of the smallest
and one of the boldest. The wagtail perching on a reed scarcely bends it, a=
nd,
flying away, crosses the ocean.
These Biscay hook=
ers,
even to the poorest, were gilt and painted. Tattooing is part of the genius=
of
those charming people, savages to some degree. The sublime colouring of the=
ir
mountains, variegated by snows and meadows, reveals to them the rugged spell
which ornament possesses in itself. They are poverty-stricken and magnifice=
nt;
they put coats-of-arms on their cottages; they have huge asses, which they =
bedizen
with bells, and huge oxen, on which they put head-dresses of feathers. Their
coaches, which you can hear grinding the wheels two leagues off, are
illuminated, carved, and hung with ribbons. A cobbler has a bas-relief on h=
is
door: it is only St. Crispin and an old shoe, but it is in stone. They trim
their leathern jackets with lace. They do not mend their rags, but they
embroider them. Vivacity profound and superb! The Basques are, like the Gre=
eks,
children of the sun; while the Valencian drapes himself, bare and sad, in h=
is
russet woollen rug, with a hole to pass his head through, the natives of
Galicia and Biscay have the delight of fine linen shirts, bleached in the d=
ew.
Their thresholds and their windows teem with faces fair and fresh, laughing
under garlands of maize; a joyous and proud serenity shines out in their in=
genious
arts, in their trades, in their customs, in the dress of their maidens, in
their songs. The mountain, that colossal ruin, is all aglow in Biscay: the
sun's rays go in and out of every break. The wild Jaïzquivel is full of
idylls. Biscay is Pyrenean grace as Savoy is Alpine grace. The dangerous
bays--the neighbours of St. Sebastian, Leso, and Fontarabia--with storms, w=
ith
clouds, with spray flying over the capes, with the rages of the waves and t=
he
winds, with terror, with uproar, mingle boat-women crowned with roses. He w=
ho
has seen the Basque country wishes to see it again. It is the blessed land.=
Two
harvests a year; villages resonant and gay; a stately poverty; all Sunday t=
he
sound of guitars, dancing, castanets, love-making; houses clean and bright;=
storks
in the belfries.
Let us return to
Portland--that rugged mountain in the sea.
The peninsula of
Portland, looked at geometrically, presents the appearance of a bird's head=
, of
which the bill is turned towards the ocean, the back of the head towards
Weymouth; the isthmus is its neck.
Portland, greatly=
to
the sacrifice of its wildness, exists now but for trade. The coasts of Port=
land
were discovered by quarrymen and plasterers towards the middle of the
seventeenth century. Since that period what is called Roman cement has been
made of the Portland stone--a useful industry, enriching the district, and
disfiguring the bay. Two hundred years ago these coasts were eaten away as a
cliff; to-day, as a quarry. The pick bites meanly, the wave grandly; hence =
a diminution
of beauty. To the magnificent ravages of the ocean have succeeded the measu=
red
strokes of men. These measured strokes have worked away the creek where the
Biscay hooker was moored. To find any vestige of the little anchorage, now
destroyed, the eastern side of the peninsula should be searched, towards the
point beyond Folly Pier and Dirdle Pier, beyond Wakeham even, between the p=
lace
called Church Hope and the place called Southwell.
The creek, walled=
in
on all sides by precipices higher than its width, was minute by minute beco=
ming
more overshadowed by evening. The misty gloom, usual at twilight, became
thicker; it was like a growth of darkness at the bottom of a well. The open=
ing
of the creek seaward, a narrow passage, traced on the almost night-black
interior a pallid rift where the waves were moving. You must have been quite
close to perceive the hooker moored to the rocks, and, as it were, hidden by
the great cloaks of shadow. A plank thrown from on board on to a low and le=
vel projection
of the cliff, the only point on which a landing could be made, placed the
vessel in communication with the land. Dark figures were crossing and
recrossing each other on this tottering gangway, and in the shadow some peo=
ple
were embarking.
It was less cold =
in
the creek than out at sea, thanks to the screen of rock rising over the nor=
th
of the basin, which did not, however, prevent the people from shivering. Th=
ey
were hurrying. The effect of the twilight defined the forms as though they =
had
been punched out with a tool. Certain indentations in their clothes were
visible, and showed that they belonged to the class called in England the
ragged.
The twisting of t=
he
pathway could be distinguished vaguely in the relief of the cliff. A girl w=
ho
lets her stay-lace hang down trailing over the back of an armchair, describ=
es,
without being conscious of it, most of the paths of cliffs and mountains. T=
he
pathway of this creek, full of knots and angles, almost perpendicular, and
better adapted for goats than men, terminated on the platform where the pla=
nk
was placed. The pathways of cliffs ordinarily imply a not very inviting
declivity; they offer themselves less as a road than as a fall; they sink
rather than incline. This one--probably some ramification of a road on the =
plain
above--was disagreeable to look at, so vertical was it. From underneath you=
saw
it gain by zigzag the higher layer of the cliff where it passed out through
deep passages on to the high plateau by a cutting in the rock; and the
passengers for whom the vessel was waiting in the creek must have come by t=
his
path.
Excepting the
movement of embarkation which was being made in the creek, a movement visib=
ly
scared and uneasy, all around was solitude; no step, no noise, no breath was
heard. At the other side of the roads, at the entrance of Ringstead Bay, you
could just perceive a flotilla of shark-fishing boats, which were evidently=
out
of their reckoning. These polar boats had been driven from Danish into Engl=
ish
waters by the whims of the sea. Northerly winds play these tricks on fisher=
men.
They had just taken refuge in the anchorage of Portland--a sign of bad weat=
her expected
and danger out at sea. They were engaged in casting anchor: the chief boat,
placed in front after the old manner of Norwegian flotillas, all her rigging
standing out in black, above the white level of the sea; and in front might=
be
perceived the hook-iron, loaded with all kinds of hooks and harpoons, desti=
ned
for the Greenland shark, the dogfish, and the spinous shark, as well as the
nets to pick up the sunfish.
Except a few other
craft, all swept into the same corner, the eye met nothing living on the va=
st
horizon of Portland--not a house, not a ship. The coast in those days was n=
ot
inhabited, and the roads, at that season, were not safe.
Whatever may have
been the appearance of the weather, the beings who were going to sail away =
in
the Biscayan urca pressed on the hour of departure all the same. They forme=
d a
busy and confused group, in rapid movement on the shore. To distinguish one=
from
another was difficult; impossible to tell whether they were old or young. T=
he
indistinctness of evening intermixed and blurred them; the mask of shadow w=
as
over their faces. They were sketches in the night. There were eight of them,
and there were seemingly among them one or two women, hard to recognize und=
er
the rags and tatters in which the group was attired--clothes which were no
longer man's or woman's. Rags have no sex.
A smaller shadow,
flitting to and fro among the larger ones, indicated either a dwarf or a ch=
ild.
It was a child.
This is what an observer close at h=
and
might have noted.
All wore long clo=
aks,
torn and patched, but covering them, and at need concealing them up to the
eyes; useful alike against the north wind and curiosity. They moved with ea=
se
under these cloaks. The greater number wore a handkerchief rolled round the
head--a sort of rudiment which marks the commencement of the turban in Spai=
n.
This headdress was nothing unusual in England. At that time the South was in
fashion in the North; perhaps this was connected with the fact that the Nor=
th
was beating the South. It conquered and admired. After the defeat of the Ar=
mada,
Castilian was considered in the halls of Elizabeth to be elegant court talk=
. To
speak English in the palace of the Queen of England was held almost an
impropriety. Partially to adopt the manners of those upon whom we impose our
laws is the habit of the conquering barbarian towards conquered civilizatio=
n.
The Tartar contemplates and imitates the Chinese. It was thus Castilian
fashions penetrated into England; in return, English interests crept into
Spain.
One of the men in=
the
group embarking appeared to be a chief. He had sandals on his feet, and was
bedizened with gold lace tatters and a tinsel waistcoat, shining under his
cloak like the belly of a fish. Another pulled down over his face a huge pi=
ece
of felt, cut like a sombrero; this felt had no hole for a pipe, thus indica=
ting
the wearer to be a man of letters.
On the principle =
that
a man's vest is a child's cloak, the child was wrapped over his rags in a
sailor's jacket, which descended to his knees.
By his height you
would have guessed him to be a boy of ten or eleven; his feet were bare.
The crew of the
hooker was composed of a captain and two sailors.
The hooker had
apparently come from Spain, and was about to return thither. She was beyond=
a
doubt engaged in a stealthy service from one coast to the other.
The persons embar=
king
in her whispered among themselves.
The whispering
interchanged by these creatures was of composite sound--now a word of Spani=
sh,
then of German, then of French, then of Gaelic, at times of Basque. It was
either a patois or a slang. They appeared to be of all nations, and yet of =
the
same band.
The motley group
appeared to be a company of comrades, perhaps a gang of accomplices.
The crew was prob=
ably
of their brotherhood. Community of object was visible in the embarkation.
Had there been a
little more light, and if you could have looked at them attentively, you mi=
ght
have perceived on these people rosaries and scapulars half hidden under the=
ir
rags; one of the semi-women mingling in the group had a rosary almost equal=
for
the size of its beads to that of a dervish, and easy to recognize for an Ir=
ish
one made at Llanymthefry, which is also called Llanandriffy.
You might also ha=
ve
observed, had it not been so dark, a figure of Our Lady and Child carved and
gilt on the bow of the hooker. It was probably that of the Basque Notre Dam=
e, a
sort of Panagia of the old Cantabri. Under this image, which occupied the
position of a figurehead, was a lantern, which at this moment was not
lighted--an excess of caution which implied an extreme desire of concealmen=
t.
This lantern was evidently for two purposes. When alight it burned before t=
he
Virgin, and at the same time illumined the sea--a beacon doing duty as a ta=
per.
Under the bowsprit
the cutwater, long, curved, and sharp, came out in front like the horn of a
crescent. At the top of the cutwater, and at the feet of the Virgin, a knee=
ling
angel, with folded wings, leaned her back against the stem, and looked thro=
ugh
a spyglass at the horizon. The angel was gilded like Our Lady. In the cutwa=
ter
were holes and openings to let the waves pass through, which afforded an op=
portunity
for gilding and arabesques.
Under the figure =
of
the Virgin was written, in gilt capitals, the word Matutina--the name of the
vessel, not to be read just now on account of the darkness.
Amid the confusio=
n of
departure there were thrown down in disorder, at the foot of the cliff, the
goods which the voyagers were to take with them, and which, by means of a p=
lank
serving as a bridge across, were being passed rapidly from the shore to the
boat. Bags of biscuit, a cask of stock fish, a case of portable soup, three
barrels--one of fresh water, one of malt, one of tar--four or five bottles =
of
ale, an old portmanteau buckled up by straps, trunks, boxes, a ball of tow =
for torches
and signals--such was the lading. These ragged people had valises, which se=
emed
to indicate a roving life. Wandering rascals are obliged to own something; =
at
times they would prefer to fly away like birds, but they cannot do so witho=
ut
abandoning the means of earning a livelihood. They of necessity possess box=
es
of tools and instruments of labour, whatever their errant trade may be. Tho=
se
of whom we speak were dragging their baggage with them, often an encumbranc=
e.
It could not have
been easy to bring these movables to the bottom of the cliff. This, however,
revealed the intention of a definite departure.
No time was lost;
there was one continued passing to and fro from the shore to the vessel, and
from the vessel to the shore; each one took his share of the work--one carr=
ied
a bag, another a chest. Those amidst the promiscuous company who were possi=
bly
or probably women worked like the rest. They overloaded the child.
It was doubtful if
the child's father or mother were in the group; no sign of life was vouchsa=
fed
him. They made him work, nothing more. He appeared not a child in a family,=
but
a slave in a tribe. He waited on every one, and no one spoke to him.
However, he made
haste, and, like the others of this mysterious troop, he seemed to have but=
one
thought--to embark as quickly as possible. Did he know why? probably not: he
hurried mechanically because he saw the others hurry.
The hooker was
decked. The stowing of the lading in the hold was quickly finished, and the
moment to put off arrived. The last case had been carried over the gangway,=
and
nothing was left to embark but the men. The two objects among the group who
seemed women were already on board; six, the child among them, were still on
the low platform of the cliff. A movement of departure was made in the vess=
el:
the captain seized the helm, a sailor took up an axe to cut the hawser--to =
cut
is an evidence of haste; when there is time it is unknotted.
"Andamos,&qu=
ot;
said, in a low voice, he who appeared chief of the six, and who had the
spangles on his tatters. The child rushed towards the plank in order to be =
the
first to pass. As he placed his foot on it, two of the men hurried by, at t=
he
risk of throwing him into the water, got in before him, and passed on; the
fourth drove him back with his fist and followed the third; the fifth, who =
was
the chief, bounded into rather than entered the vessel, and, as he jumped i=
n,
kicked back the plank, which fell into the sea, a stroke of the hatchet cut=
the
moorings, the helm was put up, the vessel left the shore, and the child
remained on land.
The child remained motionless on the
rock, with his eyes fixed--no calling out, no appeal. Though this was
unexpected by him, he spoke not a word. The same silence reigned in the ves=
sel.
No cry from the child to the men--no farewell from the men to the child. Th=
ere
was on both sides a mute acceptance of the widening distance between them. =
It
was like a separation of ghosts on the banks of the Styx. The child, as if
nailed to the rock, which the high tide was beginning to bathe, watched the=
departing
bark. It seemed as if he realized his position. What did he realize? Darkne=
ss.
A moment later the
hooker gained the neck of the crook and entered it. Against the clear sky t=
he
masthead was visible, rising above the split blocks between which the strait
wound as between two walls. The truck wandered to the summit of the rocks, =
and
appeared to run into them. Then it was seen no more--all was over--the bark=
had
gained the sea.
The child watched=
its
disappearance--he was astounded but dreamy. His stupefaction was complicate=
d by
a sense of the dark reality of existence. It seemed as if there were experi=
ence
in this dawning being. Did he, perchance, already exercise judgment? Experi=
ence
coming too early constructs, sometimes, in the obscure depths of a child's
mind, some dangerous balance--we know not what--in which the poor little so=
ul weighs
God.
Feeling himself
innocent, he yielded. There was no complaint--the irreproachable does not
reproach.
His rough expulsi=
on
drew from him no sign; he suffered a sort of internal stiffening. The child=
did
not bow under this sudden blow of fate, which seemed to put an end to his
existence ere it had well begun; he received the thunderstroke standing.
It would have been
evident to any one who could have seen his astonishment unmixed with deject=
ion,
that in the group which abandoned him there was nothing which loved him,
nothing which he loved.
Brooding, he forg=
ot
the cold. Suddenly the wave wetted his feet--the tide was flowing; a gust
passed through his hair--the north wind was rising. He shivered. There came
over him, from head to foot, the shudder of awakening.
He cast his eyes
about him.
He was alone.
Up to this day th=
ere
had never existed for him any other men than those who were now in the hook=
er.
Those men had just stolen away.
Let us add what s=
eems
a strange thing to state. Those men, the only ones he knew, were unknown to
him.
He could not have
said who they were. His childhood had been passed among them, without his
having the consciousness of being of them. He was in juxtaposition to them,
nothing more.
He had just
been--forgotten--by them.
He had no money a=
bout
him, no shoes to his feet, scarcely a garment to his body, not even a piece=
of
bread in his pocket.
It was winter--it=
was
night. It would be necessary to walk several leagues before a human habitat=
ion
could be reached.
He did not know w=
here
he was.
He knew nothing,
unless it was that those who had come with him to the brink of the sea had =
gone
away without him.
He felt himself p=
ut
outside the pale of life.
He felt that man
failed him.
He was ten years =
old.
The child was in a
desert, between depths where he saw the night rising and depths where he he=
ard
the waves murmur.
He stretched his
little thin arms and yawned.
Then suddenly, as=
one
who makes up his mind, bold, and throwing off his numbness--with the agilit=
y of
a squirrel, or perhaps of an acrobat--he turned his back on the creek, and =
set
himself to climb up the cliff. He escaladed the path, left it, returned to =
it,
quick and venturous. He was hurrying landward, just as though he had a
destination marked out; nevertheless he was going nowhere.
He hastened witho=
ut
an object--a fugitive before Fate.
To climb is the
function of a man; to clamber is that of an animal--he did both. As the slo=
pes
of Portland face southward, there was scarcely any snow on the path; the
intensity of cold had, however, frozen that snow into dust very troublesome=
to
the walker. The child freed himself of it. His man's jacket, which was too =
big
for him, complicated matters, and got in his way. Now and then on an
overhanging crag or in a declivity he came upon a little ice, which caused =
him
to slip down. Then, after hanging some moments over the precipice, he would
catch hold of a dry branch or projecting stone. Once he came on a vein of s=
late,
which suddenly gave way under him, letting him down with it. Crumbling slat=
e is
treacherous. For some seconds the child slid like a tile on a roof; he roll=
ed
to the extreme edge of the decline; a tuft of grass which he clutched at the
right moment saved him. He was as mute in sight of the abyss as he had been=
in
sight of the men; he gathered himself up and re-ascended silently. The slope
was steep; so he had to tack in ascending. The precipice grew in the darkne=
ss;
the vertical rock had no ending. It receded before the child in the distanc=
e of
its height. As the child ascended, so seemed the summit to ascend. While he=
clambered
he looked up at the dark entablature placed like a barrier between heaven a=
nd
him. At last he reached the top.
He jumped on the
level ground, or rather landed, for he rose from the precipice.
Scarcely was he on
the cliff when he began to shiver. He felt in his face that bite of the nig=
ht,
the north wind. The bitter north-wester was blowing; he tightened his rough
sailor's jacket about his chest.
It was a good coa=
t,
called in ship language a sou-'wester, because that sort of stuff allows li=
ttle
of the south-westerly rain to penetrate.
The child, having
gained the tableland, stopped, placed his feet firmly on the frozen ground,=
and
looked about him.
Behind him was the
sea; in front the land; above, the sky--but a sky without stars; an opaque =
mist
masked the zenith.
On reaching the
summit of the rocky wall he found himself turned towards the land, and look=
ed
at it attentively. It lay before him as far as the sky-line, flat, frozen, =
and
covered with snow. Some tufts of heather shivered in the wind. No roads were
visible--nothing, not even a shepherd's cot. Here and there pale spiral
vortices might be seen, which were whirls of fine snow, snatched from the
ground by the wind and blown away. Successive undulations of ground, become
suddenly misty, rolled themselves into the horizon. The great dull plains w=
ere
lost under the white fog. Deep silence. It spread like infinity, and was hu=
sh
as the tomb.
The child turned
again towards the sea.
The sea, like the
land, was white--the one with snow, the other with foam. There is nothing so
melancholy as the light produced by this double whiteness.
Certain lights of
night are very clearly cut in their hardness; the sea was like steel, the c=
liff
like ebony. From the height where the child was the bay of Portland appeared
almost like a geographical map, pale, in a semicircle of hills. There was
something dreamlike in that nocturnal landscape--a wan disc belted by a dark
crescent. The moon sometimes has a similar appearance. From cape to cape, a=
long
the whole coast, not a single spark indicating a hearth with a fire, not a
lighted window, not an inhabited house, was to be seen. As in heaven, so on=
earth--no
light. Not a lamp below, not a star above. Here and there came sudden risin=
gs
in the great expanse of waters in the gulf, as the wind disarranged and
wrinkled the vast sheet. The hooker was still visible in the bay as she fle=
d.
It was a black
triangle gliding over the livid waters.
Far away the wast=
e of
waters stirred confusedly in the ominous clear-obscure of immensity. The
Matutina was making quick way. She seemed to grow smaller every minute. Not=
hing
appears so rapid as the flight of a vessel melting into the distance of oce=
an.
Suddenly she lit =
the
lantern at her prow. Probably the darkness falling round her made those on
board uneasy, and the pilot thought it necessary to throw light on the wave=
s.
This luminous point, a spark seen from afar, clung like a corpse light to t=
he
high and long black form. You would have said it was a shroud raised up and
moving in the middle of the sea, under which some one wandered with a star =
in
his hand.
A storm threatene=
d in
the air; the child took no account of it, but a sailor would have trembled.=
It
was that moment of preliminary anxiety when it seems as though the elements=
are
changing into persons, and one is about to witness the mysterious
transfiguration of the wind into the wind-god. The sea becomes Ocean: its p=
ower
reveals itself as Will: that which one takes for a thing is a soul. It will
become visible; hence the terror. The soul of man fears to be thus confront=
ed
with the soul of nature.
Chaos was about to
appear. The wind rolling back the fog, and making a stage of the clouds beh=
ind,
set the scene for that fearful drama of wave and winter which is called a
Snowstorm. Vessels putting back hove in sight. For some minutes past the ro=
ads
had no longer been deserted. Every instant troubled barks hastening towards=
an
anchorage appeared from behind the capes; some were doubling Portland Bill,=
the
others St. Alban's Head. From afar ships were running in. It was a race for
refuge. Southwards the darkness thickened, and clouds, full of night, borde=
red on
the sea. The weight of the tempest hanging overhead made a dreary lull on t=
he
waves. It certainly was no time to sail. Yet the hooker had sailed.
She had made the
south of the cape. She was already out of the gulf, and in the open sea.
Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The Matutina, which was still clearly in
sight, made all sail, as if resolved to profit by the hurricane. It was the
nor'-wester, a wind sullen and angry. Its weight was felt instantly. The
hooker, caught broadside on, staggered, but recovering held her course to s=
ea.
This indicated a flight rather than a voyage, less fear of sea than of land,
and greater heed of pursuit from man than from wind.
The hooker, passi=
ng
through every degree of diminution, sank into the horizon. The little star =
which
she carried into shadow paled. More and more the hooker became amalgamated =
with
the night, then disappeared.
This time for good
and all.
At least the child
seemed to understand it so: he ceased to look at the sea. His eyes turned b=
ack
upon the plains, the wastes, the hills, towards the space where it might no=
t be
impossible to meet something living.
Into this unknown=
he
set out.
What kind of band was it which had =
left
the child behind in its flight?
Were those fugiti=
ves Comprachicos?
We have already s=
een
the account of the measures taken by William III. and passed by Parliament
against the malefactors, male and female, called Comprachicos, otherwise
Comprapequeños, otherwise Cheylas.
There are laws wh=
ich
disperse. The law acting against the Comprachicos determined, not only the
Comprachicos, but vagabonds of all sorts, on a general flight.
It was the devil =
take
the hindmost. The greater number of the Comprachicos returned to Spain--man=
y of
them, as we have said, being Basques.
The law for the
protection of children had at first this strange result: it caused many
children to be abandoned.
The immediate eff=
ect
of the penal statute was to produce a crowd of children, found or rather lo=
st.
Nothing is easier to understand. Every wandering gang containing a child was
liable to suspicion. The mere fact of the child's presence was in itself a
denunciation.
"They are ve=
ry
likely Comprachicos." Such was the first idea of the sheriff, of the
bailiff, of the constable. Hence arrest and inquiry. People simply unfortun=
ate,
reduced to wander and to beg, were seized with a terror of being taken for
Comprachicos although they were nothing of the kind. But the weak have grave
misgivings of possible errors in justice. Besides, these vagabond families =
are
very easily scared. The accusation against the Comprachicos was that they
traded in other people's children. But the promiscuousness caused by poverty
and indigence is such that at times it might have been difficult for a fath=
er
and mother to prove a child their own.
How came you by t=
his
child? how were they to prove that they held it from God? The child became a
peril--they got rid of it. To fly unencumbered was easier; the parents reso=
lved
to lose it--now in a wood, now on a strand, now down a well.
Children were fou=
nd
drowned in cisterns.
Let us add that, =
in
imitation of England, all Europe henceforth hunted down the Comprachicos. T=
he
impulse of pursuit was given. There is nothing like belling the cat. From t=
his
time forward the desire to seize them made rivalry and emulation among the
police of all countries, and the alguazil was not less keenly watchful than=
the
constable.
One could still r=
ead,
twenty-three years ago, on a stone of the gate of Otero, an untranslatable
inscription--the words of the code outraging propriety. In it, however, the
shade of difference which existed between the buyers and the stealers of
children is very strongly marked. Here is part of the inscription in somewh=
at
rough Castillan, Aqui quedan las orejas de los Comprachicos, y las bolsas de
los robaniños, mientras que se van ellos al trabajo de mar. You see =
the
confiscation of ears, etc., did not prevent the owners going to the galleys.
Whence followed a general rout among all vagabonds. They started frightened;
they arrived trembling. On every shore in Europe their furtive advent was
watched. Impossible for such a band to embark with a child, since to disemb=
ark with
one was dangerous.
To lose the child=
was
much simpler of accomplishment.
And this child, o=
f whom
we have caught a glimpse in the shadow of the solitudes of Portland, by whom
had he been cast away?
To all appearance=
by
Comprachicos.
CHAPTER V - THE TREE OF HUMAN INVENTION.
It might be about seven o'clock in =
the
evening. The wind was now diminishing--a sign, however, of a violent recurr=
ence
impending. The child was on the table-land at the extreme south point of
Portland.
Portland is a
peninsula; but the child did not know what a peninsula is, and was ignorant
even of the name of Portland. He knew but one thing, which is, that one can
walk until one drops down. An idea is a guide; he had no idea. They had bro=
ught
him there and left him there. They and there--these two enigmas represented=
his
doom. They were humankind. There was the universe. For him in all creation
there was absolutely no other basis to rest on but the little piece of grou=
nd where
he placed his heel, ground hard and cold to his naked feet. In the great
twilight world, open on all sides, what was there for the child? Nothing.
He walked towards
this Nothing. Around him was the vastness of human desertion.
He crossed the fi=
rst
plateau diagonally, then a second, then a third. At the extremity of each
plateau the child came upon a break in the ground. The slope was sometimes
steep, but always short; the high, bare plains of Portland resemble great
flagstones overlapping each other. The south side seems to enter under the
protruding slab, the north side rises over the next one; these made ascents,
which the child stepped over nimbly. From time to time he stopped, and seem=
ed
to hold counsel with himself. The night was becoming very dark. His radius =
of
sight was contracting. He now only saw a few steps before him.
All of a sudden he
stopped, listened for an instant, and with an almost imperceptible nod of
satisfaction turned quickly and directed his steps towards an eminence of
moderate height, which he dimly perceived on his right, at the point of the
plain nearest the cliff. There was on the eminence a shape which in the mist
looked like a tree. The child had just heard a noise in this direction, whi=
ch
was the noise neither of the wind nor of the sea, nor was it the cry of
animals. He thought that some one was there, and in a few strides he was at=
the
foot of the hillock.
In truth, some one
was there.
That which had be=
en
indistinct on the top of the eminence was now visible. It was something lik=
e a
great arm thrust straight out of the ground; at the upper extremity of the =
arm
a sort of forefinger, supported from beneath, by the thumb, pointed out
horizontally; the arm, the thumb, and the forefinger drew a square against =
the
sky. At the point of juncture of this peculiar finger and this peculiar thu=
mb
there was a line, from which hung something black and shapeless. The line m=
oving
in the wind sounded like a chain. This was the noise the child had heard. S=
een
closely the line was that which the noise indicated, a chain--a single chain
cable.
By that mysterious
law of amalgamation which throughout nature causes appearances to exaggerat=
e realities,
the place, the hour, the mist, the mournful sea, the cloudy turmoils on the
distant horizon, added to the effect of this figure, and made it seem enorm=
ous.
The mass linked to
the chain presented the appearance of a scabbard. It was swaddled like a ch=
ild
and long like a man. There was a round thing at its summit, about which the=
end
of the chain was rolled. The scabbard was riven asunder at the lower end, a=
nd
shreds of flesh hung out between the rents.
A feeble breeze
stirred the chain, and that which hung to it swayed gently. The passive mass
obeyed the vague motions of space. It was an object to inspire indescribable
dread. Horror, which disproportions everything, blurred its dimensions while
retaining its shape. It was a condensation of darkness, which had a defined
form. Night was above and within the spectre; it was a prey of ghastly
exaggeration. Twilight and moonrise, stars setting behind the cliff, floati=
ng
things in space, the clouds, winds from all quarters, had ended by penetrat=
ing
into the composition of this visible nothing. The species of log hanging in=
the
wind partook of the impersonality diffused far over sea and sky, and the da=
rkness
completed this phase of the thing which had once been a man.
It was that which=
is
no longer.
To be naught but a
remainder! Such a thing is beyond the power of language to express. To exis=
t no
more, yet to persist; to be in the abyss, yet out of it; to reappear above
death as if indissoluble--there is a certain amount of impossibility mixed =
with
such reality. Thence comes the inexpressible. This being--was it a being? T=
his
black witness was a remainder, and an awful remainder--a remainder of what?=
Of
nature first, and then of society. Naught, and yet total.
The lawless
inclemency of the weather held it at its will; the deep oblivion of solitude
environed it; it was given up to unknown chances; it was without defence
against the darkness, which did with it what it willed. It was for ever the
patient; it submitted; the hurricane (that ghastly conflict of winds) was u=
pon
it.
The spectre was g=
iven
over to pillage. It underwent the horrible outrage of rotting in the open a=
ir;
it was an outlaw of the tomb. There was no peace for it even in annihilatio=
n:
in the summer it fell away into dust, in the winter into mud. Death should =
be
veiled, the grave should have its reserve. Here was neither veil nor reserv=
e,
but cynically avowed putrefaction. It is effrontery in death to display its
work; it offends all the calmness of shadow when it does its task outside i=
ts
laboratory, the grave.
This dead thing h=
ad
been stripped. To strip one already stripped--relentless act! His marrow wa=
s no
longer in his bones; his entrails were no longer in his body; his voice no
longer in his throat. A corpse is a pocket which death turns inside out and
empties. If he ever had a Me, where was the Me? There still, perchance, and
this was fearful to think of. Something wandering about something in
chains--can one imagine a more mournful lineament in the darkness?
Realities exist h=
ere
below which serve as issues to the unknown, which seem to facilitate the eg=
ress
of speculation, and at which hypothesis snatches. Conjecture has its compel=
le
intrare. In passing by certain places and before certain objects one cannot
help stopping--a prey to dreams into the realms of which the mind enters. In
the invisible there are dark portals ajar. No one could have met this dead =
man
without meditating.
In the vastness of
dispersion he was wearing silently away. He had had blood which had been dr=
unk,
skin which had been eaten, flesh which had been stolen. Nothing had passed =
him
by without taking somewhat from him. December had borrowed cold of him;
midnight, horror; the iron, rust; the plague, miasma; the flowers, perfume.=
His
slow disintegration was a toll paid to all--a toll of the corpse to the sto=
rm,
to the rain, to the dew, to the reptiles, to the birds. All the dark hands =
of
night had rifled the dead.
He was, indeed, an
inexpressibly strange tenant, a tenant of the darkness. He was on a plain a=
nd
on a hill, and he was not. He was palpable, yet vanished. He was a shadow
accruing to the night. After the disappearance of day into the vast of sile=
nt
obscurity, he became in lugubrious accord with all around him. By his mere
presence he increased the gloom of the tempest and the calm of stars. The
unutterable which is in the desert was condensed in him. Waif of an unknown
fate, he commingled with all the wild secrets of the night. There was in hi=
s mystery
a vague reverberation of all enigmas.
About him life se=
emed
sinking to its lowest depths. Certainty and confidence appeared to diminish=
in
his environs. The shiver of the brushwood and the grass, a desolate melanch=
oly,
an anxiety in which a conscience seemed to lurk, appropriated with tragic f=
orce
the whole landscape to that black figure suspended by the chain. The presen=
ce
of a spectre in the horizon is an aggravation of solitude.
He was a Sign. Ha=
ving
unappeasable winds around him, he was implacable. Perpetual shuddering made=
him
terrible. Fearful to say, he seemed to be a centre in space, with something
immense leaning on him. Who can tell? Perhaps that equity, half seen and se=
t at
defiance, which transcends human justice. There was in his unburied continu=
ance
the vengeance of men and his own vengeance. He was a testimony in the twili=
ght
and the waste. He was in himself a disquieting substance, since we tremble =
before
the substance which is the ruined habitation of the soul. For dead matter to
trouble us, it must once have been tenanted by spirit. He denounced the law=
of
earth to the law of Heaven. Placed there by man, he there awaited God. Above
him floated, blended with all the vague distortions of the cloud and the wa=
ve,
boundless dreams of shadow.
Who could tell wh=
at
sinister mysteries lurked behind this phantom? The illimitable, circumscrib=
ed
by naught, nor tree, nor roof, nor passer-by, was around the dead man. When=
the
unchangeable broods over us--when Heaven, the abyss, the life, grave, and
eternity appear patent--then it is we feel that all is inaccessible, all is
forbidden, all is sealed. When infinity opens to us, terrible indeed is the
closing of the gate behind.
CHAPTER VI - STRUGGLE BETWEEN DEATH AND LIFE.
The child was before this thing, du=
mb,
wondering, and with eyes fixed.
To a man it would
have been a gibbet; to the child it was an apparition.
Where a man would
have seen a corpse the child saw a spectre.
Besides, he did n=
ot
understand.
The attractions of
the obscure are manifold. There was one on the summit of that hill. The chi=
ld
took a step, then another; he ascended, wishing all the while to descend; a=
nd
approached, wishing all the while to retreat.
Bold, yet trembli=
ng,
he went close up to survey the spectre.
When he got close
under the gibbet, he looked up and examined it.
The spectre was
tarred; here and there it shone. The child distinguished the face. It was
coated over with pitch; and this mask, which appeared viscous and sticky,
varied its aspect with the night shadows. The child saw the mouth, which wa=
s a
hole; the nose, which was a hole; the eyes, which were holes. The body was
wrapped, and apparently corded up, in coarse canvas, soaked in naphtha. The
canvas was mouldy and torn. A knee protruded through it. A rent disclosed t=
he
ribs--partly corpse, partly skeleton. The face was the colour of earth; slu=
gs,
wandering over it, had traced across it vague ribbons of silver. The canvas,
glued to the bones, showed in reliefs like the robe of a statue. The skull,
cracked and fractured, gaped like a rotten fruit. The teeth were still huma=
n, for
they retained a laugh. The remains of a cry seemed to murmur in the open mo=
uth.
There were a few hairs of beard on the cheek. The inclined head had an air =
of
attention.
Some repairs had
recently been done; the face had been tarred afresh, as well as the ribs and
the knee which protruded from the canvas. The feet hung out below.
Just underneath, =
in
the grass, were two shoes, which snow and rain had rendered shapeless. These
shoes had fallen from the dead man.
The barefooted ch=
ild
looked at the shoes.
The wind, which h=
ad
become more and more restless, was now and then interrupted by those pauses
which foretell the approach of a storm. For the last few minutes it had
altogether ceased to blow. The corpse no longer stirred; the chain was as
motionless as a plumb line.
Like all newcomers
into life, and taking into account the peculiar influences of his fate, the
child no doubt felt within him that awakening of ideas characteristic of ea=
rly
years, which endeavours to open the brain, and which resembles the pecking =
of
the young bird in the egg. But all that there was in his little consciousne=
ss
just then was resolved into stupor. Excess of sensation has the effect of t=
oo
much oil, and ends by putting out thought. A man would have put himself que=
stions;
the child put himself none--he only looked.
The tar gave the =
face
a wet appearance; drops of pitch, congealed in what had once been the eyes,
produced the effect of tears. However, thanks to the pitch, the ravage of
death, if not annulled, was visibly slackened and reduced to the least poss=
ible
decay. That which was before the child was a thing of which care was taken:=
the
man was evidently precious. They had not cared to keep him alive, but they
cared to keep him dead.
The gibbet was ol=
d,
worm-eaten, although strong, and had been in use many years.
It was an immemor=
ial
custom in England to tar smugglers. They were hanged on the seaboard, coated
over with pitch and left swinging. Examples must be made in public, and tar=
red
examples last longest. The tar was mercy: by renewing it they were spared
making too many fresh examples. They placed gibbets from point to point alo=
ng
the coast, as nowadays they do beacons. The hanged man did duty as a lanter=
n.
After his fashion, he guided his comrades, the smugglers. The smugglers fro=
m far
out at sea perceived the gibbets. There is one, first warning; another, sec=
ond
warning. It did not stop smuggling; but public order is made up of such thi=
ngs.
The fashion lasted in England up to the beginning of this century. In 1822
three men were still to be seen hanging in front of Dover Castle. But, for =
that
matter, the preserving process was employed not only with smugglers. England
turned robbers, incendiaries, and murderers to the same account. Jack Paint=
er,
who set fire to the government storehouses at Portsmouth, was hanged and ta=
rred
in 1776. L'Abbé Coyer, who describes him as Jean le Peintre, saw him=
again
in 1777. Jack Painter was hanging above the ruin he had made, and was re-ta=
rred
from time to time. His corpse lasted--I had almost said lived--nearly fourt=
een
years. It was still doing good service in 1788; in 1790, however, they were
obliged to replace it by another. The Egyptians used to value the mummy of =
the
king; a plebeian mummy can also, it appears, be of service.
The wind, having
great power on the hill, had swept it of all its snow. Herbage reappeared on
it, interspersed here and there with a few thistles; the hill was covered by
that close short grass which grows by the sea, and causes the tops of cliff=
s to
resemble green cloth. Under the gibbet, on the very spot over which hung the
feet of the executed criminal, was a long and thick tuft, uncommon on such =
poor
soil. Corpses, crumbling there for centuries past, accounted for the beauty=
of the
grass. Earth feeds on man.
A dreary fascinat=
ion
held the child; he remained there open-mouthed. He only dropped his head a
moment when a nettle, which felt like an insect, stung his leg; then he loo=
ked
up again--he looked above him at the face which looked down on him. It appe=
ared
to regard him the more steadfastly because it had no eyes. It was a
comprehensive glance, having an indescribable fixedness in which there were
both light and darkness, and which emanated from the skull and teeth, as we=
ll
as the empty arches of the brow. The whole head of a dead man seems to have
vision, and this is awful. No eyeball, yet we feel that we are looked at. A
horror of worms.
Little by little =
the
child himself was becoming an object of terror. He no longer moved. Torpor =
was
coming over him. He did not perceive that he was losing consciousness--he w=
as
becoming benumbed and lifeless. Winter was silently delivering him over to
night. There is something of the traitor in winter. The child was all but a
statue. The coldness of stone was penetrating his bones; darkness, that
reptile, was crawling over him. The drowsiness resulting from snow creeps o=
ver
a man like a dim tide. The child was being slowly invaded by a stagnation
resembling that of the corpse. He was falling asleep.
On the hand of sl=
eep
is the finger of death. The child felt himself seized by that hand. He was =
on
the point of falling under the gibbet. He no longer knew whether he was
standing upright.
The end always
impending, no transition between to be and not to be, the return into the
crucible, the slip possible every minute--such is the precipice which is
Creation.
Another instant, =
the
child and the dead, life in sketch and life in ruin, would be confounded in=
the
same obliteration.
The spectre appea=
red
to understand, and not to wish it. Of a sudden it stirred. One would have s=
aid
it was warning the child. It was the wind beginning to blow again. Nothing
stranger than this dead man in movement.
The corpse at the=
end
of the chain, pushed by the invisible gust, took an oblique attitude; rose =
to
the left, then fell back, reascended to the right, and fell and rose with s=
low
and mournful precision. A weird game of see-saw. It seemed as though one sa=
w in
the darkness the pendulum of the clock of Eternity.
This continued for
some time. The child felt himself waking up at the sight of the dead; throu=
gh
his increasing numbness he experienced a distinct sense of fear.
The chain at every
oscillation made a grinding sound, with hideous regularity. It appeared to =
take
breath, and then to resume. This grinding was like the cry of a grasshopper=
.
An approaching sq=
uall
is heralded by sudden gusts of wind. All at once the breeze increased into a
gale. The corpse emphasized its dismal oscillations. It no longer swung, it
tossed; the chain, which had been grinding, now shrieked. It appeared that =
its
shriek was heard. If it was an appeal, it was obeyed. From the depths of the
horizon came the sound of a rushing noise.
It was the noise =
of
wings.
An incident occur=
red,
a stormy incident, peculiar to graveyards and solitudes. It was the arrival=
of
a flight of ravens. Black flying specks pricked the clouds, pierced through=
the
mist, increased in size, came near, amalgamated, thickened, hastening towar=
ds
the hill, uttering cries. It was like the approach of a Legion. The winged
vermin of the darkness alighted on the gibbet; the child, scared, drew back=
.
Swarms obey words=
of
command: the birds crowded on the gibbet; not one was on the corpse. They w=
ere
talking among themselves. The croaking was frightful. The howl, the whistle=
and
the roar, are signs of life; the croak is a satisfied acceptance of
putrefaction. In it you can fancy you hear the tomb breaking silence. The c=
roak
is night-like in itself.
The child was fro=
zen
even more by terror than by cold.
Then the ravens h=
eld
silence. One of them perched on the skeleton. This was a signal: they all
precipitated themselves upon it. There was a cloud of wings, then all their
feathers closed up, and the hanged man disappeared under a swarm of black
blisters struggling in the obscurity. Just then the corpse moved. Was it the
corpse? Was it the wind? It made a frightful bound. The hurricane, which was
increasing, came to its aid. The phantom fell into convulsions.
The squall, alrea=
dy
blowing with full lungs, laid hold of it, and moved it about in all directi=
ons.
It became horribl=
e;
it began to struggle. An awful puppet, with a gibbet chain for a string. So=
me
humorist of night must have seized the string and been playing with the mum=
my.
It turned and leapt as if it would fain dislocate itself; the birds,
frightened, flew off. It was like an explosion of all those unclean creatur=
es.
Then they returned, and a struggle began.
The dead man seem=
ed
possessed with hideous vitality. The winds raised him as though they meant =
to
carry him away. He seemed struggling and making efforts to escape, but his =
iron
collar held him back. The birds adapted themselves to all his movements,
retreating, then striking again, scared but desperate. On one side a strange
flight was attempted, on the other the pursuit of a chained man. The corpse,
impelled by every spasm of the wind, had shocks, starts, fits of rage: it w=
ent,
it came, it rose, it fell, driving back the scattered swarm. The dead man w=
as a
club, the swarms were dust. The fierce, assailing flock would not leave the=
ir
hold, and grew stubborn; the man, as if maddened by the cluster of beaks,
redoubled his blind chastisement of space. It was like the blows of a stone
held in a sling. At times the corpse was covered by talons and wings; then =
it
was free. There were disappearances of the horde, then sudden furious
returns--a frightful torment continuing after life was past. The birds seem=
ed
frenzied. The air-holes of hell must surely give passage to such swarms.
Thrusting of claws, thrusting of beaks, croakings, rendings of shreds no lo=
nger
flesh, creakings of the gibbet, shudderings of the skeleton, jingling of the
chain, the voices of the storm and tumult--what conflict more fearful? A
hobgoblin warring with devils! A combat with a spectre!
At times the storm
redoubling its violence, the hanged man revolved on his own pivot, turning
every way at once towards the swarm, as if he wished to run after the birds;
his teeth seemed to try and bite them. The wind was for him, the chain agai=
nst
him. It was as if black deities were mixing themselves up in the fray. The
hurricane was in the battle. As the dead man turned himself about, the floc=
k of
birds wound round him spirally. It was a whirl in a whirlwind. A great roar=
was
heard from below. It was the sea.
The child saw this
nightmare. Suddenly he trembled in all his limbs; a shiver thrilled his fra=
me;
he staggered, tottered, nearly fell, recovered himself, pressed both hands =
to
his forehead, as if he felt his forehead a support; then, haggard, his hair
streaming in the wind, descending the hill with long strides, his eyes clos=
ed,
himself almost a phantom, he took flight, leaving behind that torment in the
night.
CHAPTER VII - THE NORTH POINT OF PORTLAND.<=
/a>
He ran until he was breathless, at
random, desperate, over the plain into the snow, into space. His flight war=
med
him. He needed it. Without the run and the fright he had died.
When his breath
failed him he stopped, but he dared not look back. He fancied that the birds
would pursue him, that the dead man had undone his chain and was perhaps
hurrying behind him, and no doubt the gibbet itself was descending the hill,
running after the dead man; he feared to see these things if he turned his
head.
When he had somew=
hat
recovered his breath he resumed his flight.
To account for fa=
cts
does not belong to childhood. He received impressions which were magnified =
by
terror, but he did not link them together in his mind, nor form any conclus=
ion
on them. He was going on, no matter how or where; he ran in agony and
difficulty as one in a dream. During the three hours or so since he had been
deserted, his onward progress, still vague, had changed its purpose. At fir=
st
it was a search; now it was a flight. He no longer felt hunger nor cold--he
felt fear. One instinct had given place to another. To escape was now his w=
hole
thought--to escape from what? From everything. On all sides life seemed to
enclose him like a horrible wall. If he could have fled from all things, he
would have done so. But children know nothing of that breaking from prison
which is called suicide. He was running. He ran on for an indefinite time; =
but
fear dies with lack of breath.
All at once, as if
seized by a sudden accession of energy and intelligence, he stopped. One wo=
uld
have said he was ashamed of running away. He drew himself up, stamped his f=
oot,
and, with head erect, looked round. There was no longer hill, nor gibbet, n=
or
flights of crows. The fog had resumed possession of the horizon. The child
pursued his way: he now no longer ran but walked. To say that meeting with a
corpse had made a man of him would be to limit the manifold and confused
impression which possessed him. There was in his impression much more and m=
uch less.
The gibbet, a mighty trouble in the rudiment of comprehension, nascent in h=
is
mind, still seemed to him an apparition; but a trouble overcome is strength
gained, and he felt himself stronger. Had he been of an age to probe self, =
he
would have detected within him a thousand other germs of meditation; but the
reflection of children is shapeless, and the utmost they feel is the bitter
aftertaste of that which, obscure to them, the man later on calls indignati=
on.
Let us add that a child has the faculty of quickly accepting the conclusion=
of
a sensation; the distant fading boundaries which amplify painful subjects
escape him. A child is protected by the limit of feebleness against emotions
which are too complex. He sees the fact, and little else beside. The diffic=
ulty
of being satisfied by half-ideas does not exist for him. It is not until la=
ter
that experience comes, with its brief, to conduct the lawsuit of life. Then=
he
confronts groups of facts which have crossed his path; the understanding,
cultivated and enlarged, draws comparisons; the memories of youth reappear
under the passions, like the traces of a palimpsest under the erasure; these
memories form the bases of logic, and that which was a vision in the child's
brain becomes a syllogism in the man's. Experience is, however, various, and
turns to good or evil according to natural disposition. With the good it
ripens, with the bad it rots.
The child had run
quite a quarter of a league, and walked another quarter, when suddenly he f=
elt
the craving of hunger. A thought which altogether eclipsed the hideous appa=
rition
on the hill occurred to him forcibly--that he must eat. Happily there is in=
man
a brute which serves to lead him back to reality.
But what to eat,
where to eat, how to eat?
He felt his pocke=
ts
mechanically, well knowing that they were empty. Then he quickened his step=
s,
without knowing whither he was going. He hastened towards a possible shelte=
r.
This faith in an inn is one of the convictions enrooted by God in man. To
believe in a shelter is to believe in God.
However, in that
plain of snow there was nothing like a roof. The child went on, and the was=
te
continued bare as far as eye could see. There had never been a human habita=
tion
on the tableland. It was at the foot of the cliff, in holes in the rocks, t=
hat,
lacking wood to build themselves huts, had dwelt long ago the aboriginal
inhabitants, who had slings for arms, dried cow-dung for firing, for a god =
the
idol Heil standing in a glade at Dorchester, and for trade the fishing of t=
hat
false gray coral which the Gauls called plin, and the Greeks isidis plocamo=
s.
The child found h=
is
way as best he could. Destiny is made up of cross-roads. An option of path =
is
dangerous. This little being had an early choice of doubtful chances.
He continued to
advance, but although the muscles of his thighs seemed to be of steel, he b=
egan
to tire. There were no tracks in the plain; or if there were any, the snow =
had
obliterated them. Instinctively he inclined eastwards. Sharp stones had wou=
nded
his heels. Had it been daylight pink stains made by his blood might have be=
en
seen in the footprints he left in the snow.
He recognized
nothing. He was crossing the plain of Portland from south to north, and it =
is
probable that the band with which he had come, to avoid meeting any one, had
crossed it from east to west; they had most likely sailed in some fisherman=
's
or smuggler's boat, from a point on the coast of Uggescombe, such as St.
Catherine's Cape or Swancry, to Portland to find the hooker which awaited t=
hem;
and they must have landed in one of the creeks of Weston, and re-embarked in
one of those of Easton. That direction was intersected by the one the child=
was
now following. It was impossible for him to recognize the road.
On the plain of
Portland there are, here and there, raised strips of land, abruptly ended by
the shore and cut perpendicular to the sea. The wandering child reached one=
of
these culminating points and stopped on it, hoping that a larger space might
reveal further indications. He tried to see around him. Before him, in plac=
e of
a horizon, was a vast livid opacity. He looked at this attentively, and und=
er
the fixedness of his glance it became less indistinct. At the base of a dis=
tant
fold of land towards the east, in the depths of that opaque lividity (a mov=
ing and
wan sort of precipice, which resembled a cliff of the night), crept and flo=
ated
some vague black rents, some dim shreds of vapour. The pale opacity was fog,
the black shreds were smoke. Where there is smoke there are men. The child
turned his steps in that direction.
He saw some dista=
nce off
a descent, and at the foot of the descent, among shapeless conformations of
rock, blurred by the mist, what seemed to be either a sandbank or a tongue =
of
land, joining probably to the plains of the horizon the tableland he had ju=
st
crossed. It was evident he must pass that way.
He had, in fact,
arrived at the Isthmus of Portland, a diluvian alluvium which is called Che=
ss
Hill.
He began to desce=
nd
the side of the plateau.
The descent was
difficult and rough. It was (with less of ruggedness, however) the reverse =
of
the ascent he had made on leaving the creek. Every ascent is balanced by a
decline. After having clambered up he crawled down.
He leapt from one
rock to another at the risk of a sprain, at the risk of falling into the va=
gue
depths below. To save himself when he slipped on the rock or on the ice, he
caught hold of handfuls of weeds and furze, thick with thorns, and their po=
ints
ran into his fingers. At times he came on an easier declivity, taking breat=
h as
he descended; then came on the precipice again, and each step necessitated =
an expedient.
In descending precipices, every movement solves a problem. One must be skil=
ful
under pain of death. These problems the child solved with an instinct which
would have made him the admiration of apes and mountebanks. The descent was
steep and long. Nevertheless he was coming to the end of it.
Little by little =
it
was drawing nearer the moment when he should land on the Isthmus, of which =
from
time to time he caught a glimpse. At intervals, while he bounded or dropped
from rock to rock, he pricked up his ears, his head erect, like a listening
deer. He was hearkening to a diffused and faint uproar, far away to the lef=
t,
like the deep note of a clarion. It was a commotion of winds, preceding that
fearful north blast which is heard rushing from the pole, like an inroad of
trumpets. At the same time the child felt now and then on his brow, on his
eyes, on his cheeks, something which was like the palms of cold hands being
placed on his face. These were large frozen flakes, sown at first softly in
space, then eddying, and heralding a snowstorm. The child was covered with =
them.
The snowstorm, which for the last hour had been on the sea, was beginning to
gain the land. It was slowly invading the plains. It was entering obliquely=
, by
the north-west, the tableland of Portland.
BOOK THE SECOND - THE HOOKER AT SEA.
The snowstorm is one of the mysteri=
es of
the ocean. It is the most obscure of things meteorological--obscure in every
sense of the word. It is a mixture of fog and storm; and even in our days we
cannot well account for the phenomenon. Hence many disasters.
We try to explain=
all
things by the action of wind and wave; yet in the air there is a force whic=
h is
not the wind, and in the waters a force which is not the wave. That force, =
both
in the air and in the water, is effluvium. Air and water are two nearly
identical liquid masses, entering into the composition of each other by
condensation and dilatation, so that to breathe is to drink. Effluvium alon=
e is
fluid. The wind and the wave are only impulses; effluvium is a current. The=
wind
is visible in clouds, the wave is visible in foam; effluvium is invisible. =
From
time to time, however, it says, "I am here." Its "I am here&=
quot;
is a clap of thunder.
The snowstorm off=
ers
a problem analogous to the dry fog. If the solution of the callina of the
Spaniards and the quobar of the Ethiopians be possible, assuredly that solu=
tion
will be achieved by attentive observation of magnetic effluvium.
Without effluvium=
a
crowd of circumstances would remain enigmatic. Strictly speaking, the chang=
es
in the velocity of the wind, varying from 3 feet per second to 220 feet, wo=
uld
supply a reason for the variations of the waves rising from 3 inches in a c=
alm
sea to 36 feet in a raging one. Strictly speaking, the horizontal direction=
of
the winds, even in a squall, enables us to understand how it is that a wave=
30
feet high can be 1,500 feet long. But why are the waves of the Pacific four=
times
higher near America than near Asia; that is to say, higher in the East than=
in
the West? Why is the contrary true of the Atlantic? Why, under the Equator,=
are
they highest in the middle of the sea? Wherefore these deviations in the sw=
ell
of the ocean? This is what magnetic effluvium, combined with terrestrial
rotation and sidereal attraction, can alone explain.
Is not this
mysterious complication needed to explain an oscillation of the wind veerin=
g,
for instance, by the west from south-east to north-east, then suddenly retu=
rning
in the same great curve from north-east to south-east, so as to make in
thirty-six hours a prodigious circuit of 560 degrees? Such was the preface =
to
the snowstorm of March 17, 1867.
The storm-waves of
Australia reach a height of 80 feet; this fact is connected with the vicini=
ty
of the Pole. Storms in those latitudes result less from disorder of the win=
ds
than from submarine electrical discharges. In the year 1866 the transatlant=
ic
cable was disturbed at regular intervals in its working for two hours in the
twenty-four--from noon to two o'clock--by a sort of intermittent fever. Cer=
tain
compositions and decompositions of forces produce phenomena, and impose the=
mselves
on the calculations of the seaman under pain of shipwreck. The day that
navigation, now a routine, shall become a mathematic; the day we shall, for
instance, seek to know why it is that in our regions hot winds come sometim=
es
from the north, and cold winds from the south; the day we shall understand =
that
diminutions of temperature are proportionate to oceanic depths; the day we
realize that the globe is a vast loadstone polarized in immensity, with two
axes--an axis of rotation and an axis of effluvium--intersecting each other=
at
the centre of the earth, and that the magnetic poles turn round the
geographical poles; when those who risk life will choose to risk it
scientifically; when men shall navigate assured from studied uncertainty; w=
hen
the captain shall be a meteorologist; when the pilot shall be a chemist; th=
en
will many catastrophes be avoided. The sea is magnetic as much as aquatic: =
an
ocean of unknown forces floats in the ocean of the waves, or, one might say=
, on
the surface. Only to behold in the sea a mass of water is not to see it at =
all:
the sea is an ebb and flow of fluid, as much as a flux and reflux of liquid=
. It
is, perhaps, complicated by attractions even more than by hurricanes; molec=
ular
adhesion, manifested among other phenomena by capillary attraction, although
microscopic, takes in ocean its place in the grandeur of immensity; and the
wave of effluvium sometimes aids, sometimes counteracts, the wave of the air
and the wave of the waters. He who is ignorant of electric law is ignorant =
of
hydraulic law; for the one intermixes with the other. It is true there is no
study more difficult nor more obscure; it verges on empiricism, just as
astronomy verges on astrology; and yet without this study there is no
navigation. Having said this much we will pass on.
One of the most
dangerous components of the sea is the snowstorm. The snowstorm is above all
things magnetic. The pole produces it as it produces the aurora borealis. I=
t is
in the fog of the one as in the light of the other; and in the flake of sno=
w as
in the streak of flame effluvium is visible.
Storms are the
nervous attacks and delirious frenzies of the sea. The sea has its ailments.
Tempests may be compared to maladies. Some are mortal, others not; some may=
be
escaped, others not. The snowstorm is supposed to be generally mortal.
Jarabija, one of the pilots of Magellan, termed it "a cloud issuing fr=
om
the devil's sore side."[2]
The old Spanish
navigators called this kind of squall la nevada, when it came with snow; la
helada, when it came with hail. According to them, bats fell from the sky, =
with
the snow.
Snowstorms are ch=
aracteristic
of polar latitudes; nevertheless, at times they glide--one might almost say
tumble--into our climates; so much ruin is mingled with the chances of the =
air.
The Matutina, as =
we
have seen, plunged resolutely into the great hazard of the night, a hazard
increased by the impending storm. She had encountered its menace with a sor=
t of
tragic audacity; nevertheless, it must be remembered that she had received =
due
warning.
CHAPTER II - OUR FIRST ROUGH SKETCHES FILLED IN.=
span>
While the hooker was in the gulf of
Portland, there was but little sea on; the ocean, if gloomy, was almost sti=
ll,
and the sky was yet clear. The wind took little effect on the vessel; the
hooker hugged the cliff as closely as possible; it served as a screen to he=
r.
There were ten on
board the little Biscayan felucca--three men in crew, and seven passengers,=
of
whom two were women. In the light of the open sea (which broadens twilight =
into
day) all the figures on board were clearly visible. Besides they were not
hiding now--they were all at ease; each one reassumed his freedom of manner,
spoke in his own note, showed his face; departure was to them a deliverance=
.
The motley nature=
of
the group shone out. The women were of no age. A wandering life produces
premature old age, and indigence is made up of wrinkles. One of them was a
Basque of the Dry-ports. The other, with the large rosary, was an Irishwoma=
n.
They wore that air of indifference common to the wretched. They had squatted
down close to each other when they got on board, on chests at the foot of t=
he
mast. They talked to each other. Irish and Basque are, as we have said, kin=
dred
languages. The Basque woman's hair was scented with onions and basil. The
skipper of the hooker was a Basque of Guipuzcoa. One sailor was a Basque of=
the
northern slope of the Pyrenees, the other was of the southern slope--that i=
s to
say, they were of the same nation, although the first was French and the la=
tter
Spanish. The Basques recognize no official country. Mi madre se llama
Montaña, my mother is called the mountain, as Zalareus, the muleteer,
used to say. Of the five men who were with the two women, one was a Frenchm=
an
of Languedoc, one a Frenchman of Provence, one a Genoese; one, an old man, =
he
who wore the sombrero without a hole for a pipe, appeared to be a German. T=
he
fifth, the chief, was a Basque of the Landes from Biscarrosse. It was he wh=
o,
just as the child was going on board the hooker, had, with a kick of his he=
el,
cast the plank into the sea. This man, robust, agile, sudden in movement,
covered, as may be remembered, with trimmings, slashings, and glistening
tinsel, could not keep in his place; he stooped down, rose up, and continua=
lly
passed to and fro from one end of the vessel to the other, as if debating
uneasily on what had been done and what was going to happen.
This chief of the
band, the captain and the two men of the crew, all four Basques, spoke
sometimes Basque, sometimes Spanish, sometimes French--these three languages
being common on both slopes of the Pyrenees. But generally speaking, except=
ing
the women, all talked something like French, which was the foundation of th=
eir
slang. The French language about this period began to be chosen by the peop=
les
as something intermediate between the excess of consonants in the north and=
the
excess of vowels in the south. In Europe, French was the language of commer=
ce,
and also of felony. It will be remembered that Gibby, a London thief,
understood Cartouche.
The hooker, a fine
sailer, was making quick way; still, ten persons, besides their baggage, we=
re a
heavy cargo for one of such light draught.
The fact of the
vessel's aiding the escape of a band did not necessarily imply that the crew
were accomplices. It was sufficient that the captain of the vessel was a
Vascongado, and that the chief of the band was another. Among that race mut=
ual
assistance is a duty which admits of no exception. A Basque, as we have sai=
d,
is neither Spanish nor French; he is Basque, and always and everywhere he m=
ust
succour a Basque. Such is Pyrenean fraternity.
All the time the
hooker was in the gulf, the sky, although threatening, did not frown enough=
to
cause the fugitives any uneasiness. They were flying, they were escaping, t=
hey
were brutally gay. One laughed, another sang; the laugh was dry but free, t=
he song
was low but careless.
The Languedocian
cried, "Caoucagno!" "Cocagne" expresses the highest pit=
ch
of satisfaction in Narbonne. He was a longshore sailor, a native of the
waterside village of Gruissan, on the southern side of the Clappe, a bargem=
an
rather than a mariner, but accustomed to work the reaches of the inlet of
Bages, and to draw the drag-net full of fish over the salt sands of St. Luc=
ie.
He was of the race who wear a red cap, make complicated signs of the cross
after the Spanish fashion, drink wine out of goat-skins, eat scraped ham, k=
neel
down to blaspheme, and implore their patron saint with threats--"Great
saint, grant me what I ask, or I'll throw a stone at thy head, ou té=
feg
un pic." He might be, at need, a useful addition to the crew.
The Provenç=
;al
in the caboose was blowing up a turf fire under an iron pot, and making bro=
th.
The broth was a kind of puchero, in which fish took the place of meat, and =
into
which the Provençal threw chick peas, little bits of bacon cut in
squares, and pods of red pimento--concessions made by the eaters of
bouillabaisse to the eaters of olla podrida. One of the bags of provisions =
was
beside him unpacked. He had lighted over his head an iron lantern, glazed w=
ith talc,
which swung on a hook from the ceiling. By its side, on another hook, swung=
the
weather-cock halcyon. There was a popular belief in those days that a dead
halcyon, hung by the beak, always turned its breast to the quarter whence t=
he
wind was blowing. While he made the broth, the Provençal put the nec=
k of
a gourd into his mouth, and now and then swallowed a draught of aguardiente=
. It
was one of those gourds covered with wicker, broad and flat, with handles,
which used to be hung to the side by a strap, and which were then called
hip-gourds. Between each gulp he mumbled one of those country songs of which
the subject is nothing at all: a hollow road, a hedge; you see in the meado=
w,
through a gap in the bushes, the shadow of a horse and cart, elongated in t=
he sunset,
and from time to time, above the hedge, the end of a fork loaded with hay
appears and disappears--you want no more to make a song.
A departure,
according to the bent of one's mind, is a relief or a depression. All seemed
lighter in spirits excepting the old man of the band, the man with the hat =
that
had no pipe.
This old man, who
looked more German than anything else, although he had one of those
unfathomable faces in which nationality is lost, was bald, and so grave that
his baldness might have been a tonsure. Every time he passed before the Vir=
gin
on the prow, he raised his felt hat, so that you could see the swollen and
senile veins of his skull. A sort of full gown, torn and threadbare, of bro=
wn
Dorchester serge, but half hid his closely fitting coat, tight, compact, and
hooked up to the neck like a cassock. His hands inclined to cross each othe=
r,
and had the mechanical junction of habitual prayer. He had what might be ca=
lled
a wan countenance; for the countenance is above all things a reflection, an=
d it
is an error to believe that idea is colourless. That countenance was eviden=
tly
the surface of a strange inner state, the result of a composition of
contradictions, some tending to drift away in good, others in evil, and to =
an
observer it was the revelation of one who was less and more than human--cap=
able
of falling below the scale of the tiger, or of rising above that of man. Su=
ch
chaotic souls exist. There was something inscrutable in that face. Its secr=
et
reached the abstract. You felt that the man had known the foretaste of evil
which is the calculation, and the after-taste which is the zero. In his imp=
assibility,
which was perhaps only on the surface, were imprinted two petrifactions--the
petrifaction of the heart proper to the hangman, and the petrifaction of the
mind proper to the mandarin. One might have said (for the monstrous has its
mode of being complete) that all things were possible to him, even emotion.=
In
every savant there is something of the corpse, and this man was a savant. O=
nly
to see him you caught science imprinted in the gestures of his body and in =
the
folds of his dress. His was a fossil face, the serious cast of which was
counteracted by that wrinkled mobility of the polyglot which verges on grim=
ace.
But a severe man withal; nothing of the hypocrite, nothing of the cynic. A
tragic dreamer. He was one of those whom crime leaves pensive; he had the b=
row of
an incendiary tempered by the eyes of an archbishop. His sparse gray locks
turned to white over his temples. The Christian was evident in him, complic=
ated
with the fatalism of the Turk. Chalkstones deformed his fingers, dissected =
by
leanness. The stiffness of his tall frame was grotesque. He had his sea-leg=
s,
he walked slowly about the deck, not looking at any one, with an air decided
and sinister. His eyeballs were vaguely filled with the fixed light of a so=
ul
studious of the darkness and afflicted by reapparitions of conscience.
From time to time=
the
chief of the band, abrupt and alert, and making sudden turns about the vess=
el,
came to him and whispered in his ear. The old man answered by a nod. It mig=
ht
have been the lightning consulting the night.
CHAPTER III - TROUBLED MEN ON THE TROUBLED SEA.
Two men on board the craft were abs=
orbed
in thought--the old man, and the skipper of the hooker, who must not be mis=
taken
for the chief of the band. The captain was occupied by the sea, the old man=
by
the sky. The former did not lift his eyes from the waters; the latter kept
watch on the firmament. The skipper's anxiety was the state of the sea; the=
old
man seemed to suspect the heavens. He scanned the stars through every break=
in
the clouds.
It was the time w=
hen
day still lingers, but some few stars begin faintly to pierce the twilight.=
The
horizon was singular. The mist upon it varied. Haze predominated on land,
clouds at sea.
The skipper, noti=
ng
the rising billows, hauled all taut before he got outside Portland Bay. He
would not delay so doing until he should pass the headland. He examined the
rigging closely, and satisfied himself that the lower shrouds were well set=
up,
and supported firmly the futtock-shrouds--precautions of a man who means to
carry on with a press of sail, at all risks.
The hooker was not
trimmed, being two feet by the head. This was her weak point.
The captain passed
every minute from the binnacle to the standard compass, taking the bearings=
of
objects on shore. The Matutina had at first a soldier's wind which was not
unfavourable, though she could not lie within five points of her course. The
captain took the helm as often as possible, trusting no one but himself to
prevent her from dropping to leeward, the effect of the rudder being influe=
nced
by the steerage-way.
The difference
between the true and apparent course being relative to the way on the vesse=
l,
the hooker seemed to lie closer to the wind than she did in reality. The br=
eeze
was not a-beam, nor was the hooker close-hauled; but one cannot ascertain t=
he
true course made, except when the wind is abaft. When you perceive long str=
eaks
of clouds meeting in a point on the horizon, you may be sure that the wind =
is
in that quarter; but this evening the wind was variable; the needle fluctua=
ted;
the captain distrusted the erratic movements of the vessel. He steered care=
fully
but resolutely, luffed her up, watched her coming to, prevented her from ya=
wing,
and from running into the wind's eye: noted the leeway, the little jerks of=
the
helm: was observant of every roll and pitch of the vessel, of the differenc=
e in
her speed, and of the variable gusts of wind. For fear of accidents, he was
constantly on the lookout for squalls from off the land he was hugging, and
above all he was cautious to keep her full; the direction of the breeze
indicated by the compass being uncertain from the small size of the instrum=
ent.
The captain's eyes, frequently lowered, remarked every change in the waves.=
Once nevertheless=
he
raised them towards the sky, and tried to make out the three stars of Orion=
's
belt. These stars are called the three magi, and an old proverb of the anci=
ent
Spanish pilots declares that, "He who sees the three magi is not far f=
rom
the Saviour."
This glance of the
captain's tallied with an aside growled out, at the other end of the vessel=
, by
the old man, "We don't even see the pointers, nor the star Antares, re=
d as
he is. Not one is distinct."
No care troubled =
the
other fugitives.
Still, when the f=
irst
hilarity they felt in their escape had passed away, they could not help
remembering that they were at sea in the month of January, and that the wind
was frozen. It was impossible to establish themselves in the cabin. It was =
much
too narrow and too much encumbered by bales and baggage. The baggage belong=
ed
to the passengers, the bales to the crew, for the hooker was no pleasure bo=
at,
and was engaged in smuggling. The passengers were obliged to settle themsel=
ves
on deck, a condition to which these wanderers easily resigned themselves.
Open-air habits make it simple for vagabonds to arrange themselves for the
night. The open air (la belle étoile) is their friend, and the cold
helps them to sleep--sometimes to die.
This night, as we
have seen, there was no belle étoile.
The Languedocian = and the Genoese, while waiting for supper, rolled themselves up near the women,= at the foot of the mast, in some tarpaulin which the sailors had thrown them.<= o:p>
The old man remai=
ned
at the bow motionless, and apparently insensible to the cold.
The captain of the
hooker, from the helm where he was standing, uttered a sort of guttural call
somewhat like the cry of the American bird called the exclaimer; at his call
the chief of the brand drew near, and the captain addressed him thus,--
"Etcheco
Jaüna." These two words, which mean "tiller of the
mountain," form with the old Cantabri a solemn preface to any subject
which should command attention.
Then the captain
pointed the old man out to the chief, and the dialogue continued in Spanish=
; it
was not, indeed, a very correct dialect, being that of the mountains. Here =
are
the questions and answers.
"Etcheco
jaüna, que es este hombre?"
"Un
hombre."
"Que lenguas
habla?"
"Todas."=
;
"Que cosas
sabe?"
"Todas."=
;
"Quai
païs?"
"Ningun, y
todos."
"Qual
dios?"
"Dios."=
"Como le
llamas?"
"El tonto.&q=
uot;
"Como dices =
que
le llamas?"
"El sabio.&q=
uot;
"En vuestre
tropa que esta?"
"Esta lo que
esta."
"El gefe?&qu=
ot;
"No."
"Pues que
esta?"
"La alma.&qu=
ot;[3]
The chief and the
captain parted, each reverting to his own meditation, and a little while
afterwards the Matutina left the gulf.
Now came the great
rolling of the open sea. The ocean in the spaces between the foam was slimy=
in
appearance. The waves, seen through the twilight in indistinct outline,
somewhat resembled plashes of gall. Here and there a wave floating flat sho=
wed
cracks and stars, like a pane of glass broken by stones; in the centre of t=
hese
stars, in a revolving orifice, trembled a phosphorescence, like that feline
reflection, of vanished light which shines in the eyeballs of owls.
Proudly, like a b=
old
swimmer, the Matutina crossed the dangerous Shambles shoal. This bank, a hi=
dden
obstruction at the entrance of Portland roads, is not a barrier; it is an
amphitheatre--a circus of sand under the sea, its benches cut out by the
circling of the waves--an arena, round and symmetrical, as high as a Jungfr=
au,
only drowned--a coliseum of the ocean, seen by the diver in the vision-like
transparency which engulfs him,--such is the Shambles shoal. There hydras
fight, leviathans meet. There, says the legend, at the bottom of the gigant=
ic shaft,
are the wrecks of ships, seized and sunk by the huge spider Kraken, also ca=
lled
the fish-mountain. Such things lie in the fearful shadow of the sea.
These spectral
realities, unknown to man, are manifested at the surface by a slight shiver=
.
In this nineteenth
century, the Shambles bank is in ruins; the breakwater recently constructed=
has
overthrown and mutilated, by the force of its surf, that high submarine
architecture, just as the jetty, built at the Croisic in 1760, changed, by a
quarter of an hour, the course of the tides. And yet the tide is eternal. B=
ut
eternity obeys man more than man imagines.
CHAPTER IV - A CLOUD DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS ENTERS ON =
THE
SCENE.<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Bookman Old Style",=
"serif"'>
The old man whom the chief of the b=
and
had named first the Madman, then the Sage, now never left the forecastle. S=
ince
they crossed the Shambles shoal, his attention had been divided between the
heavens and the waters. He looked down, he looked upwards, and above all
watched the north-east.
The skipper gave =
the
helm to a sailor, stepped over the after hatchway, crossed the gangway, and
went on to the forecastle. He approached the old man, but not in front. He
stood a little behind, with elbows resting on his hips, with outstretched
hands, the head on one side, with open eyes and arched eyebrows, and a smil=
e in
the corners of his mouth--an attitude of curiosity hesitating between mocke=
ry
and respect.
The old man, eith=
er
that it was his habit to talk to himself, or that hearing some one behind
incited him to speech, began to soliloquize while he looked into space.
"The meridia=
n,
from which the right ascension is calculated, is marked in this century by =
four
stars--the Polar, Cassiopeia's Chair, Andromeda's Head, and the star Algeni=
b,
which is in Pegasus. But there is not one visible."
These words follo=
wed
each other mechanically, confused, and scarcely articulated, as if he did n=
ot
care to pronounce them. They floated out of his mouth and dispersed. Solilo=
quy
is the smoke exhaled by the inmost fires of the soul.
The skipper broke=
in,
"My lord!"
The old man, perh=
aps
rather deaf as well as very thoughtful, went on,--
"Too few sta=
rs,
and too much wind. The breeze continually changes its direction and blows
inshore; thence it rises perpendicularly. This results from the land being
warmer than the water. Its atmosphere is lighter. The cold and dense wind of
the sea rushes in to replace it. From this cause, in the upper regions the =
wind
blows towards the land from every quarter. It would be advisable to make lo=
ng
tacks between the true and apparent parallel. When the latitude by observat=
ion
differs from the latitude by dead reckoning by not more than three minutes =
in thirty
miles, or by four minutes in sixty miles, you are in the true course."=
The skipper bowed,
but the old man saw him not. The latter, who wore what resembled an Oxford =
or
Gottingen university gown, did not relax his haughty and rigid attitude. He
observed the waters as a critic of waves and of men. He studied the billows,
but almost as if he was about to demand his turn to speak amidst their turm=
oil,
and teach them something. There was in him both pedagogue and soothsayer. He
seemed an oracle of the deep.
He continued his
soliloquy, which was perhaps intended to be heard.
"We might st=
rive
if we had a wheel instead of a helm. With a speed of twelve miles an hour, a
force of twenty pounds exerted on the wheel produces three hundred thousand
pounds' effect on the course. And more too. For in some cases, with a double
block and runner, they can get two more revolutions."
The skipper bowed=
a
second time, and said, "My lord!"
The old man's eye
rested on him; he had turned his head without moving his body.
"Call me
Doctor."
"Master Doct=
or,
I am the skipper."
"Just so,&qu=
ot;
said the doctor.
The doctor, as
henceforward we shall call him, appeared willing to converse.
"Skipper, ha=
ve
you an English sextant?"
"No."
"Without an
English sextant you cannot take an altitude at all."
"The
Basques," replied the captain, "took altitudes before there were =
any
English."
"Be careful =
you
are not taken aback."
"I keep her =
away
when necessary."
"Have you tr=
ied
how many knots she is running?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"When?"=
"Just now.&q=
uot;
"How?"<= o:p>
"By the
log."
"Did you take
the trouble to look at the triangle?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Did the sand
run through the glass in exactly thirty seconds?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Are you sure
that the sand has not worn the hole between the globes?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Have you pr=
oved
the sand-glass by the oscillations of a bullet?"
"Suspended b=
y a
rope yarn drawn out from the top of a coil of soaked hemp? Undoubtedly.&quo=
t;
"Have you wa=
xed
the yarn lest it should stretch?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Have you te=
sted
the log?"
"I tested the
sand-glass by the bullet, and checked the log by a round shot."
"Of what size
was the shot?"
"One foot in
diameter."
"Heavy
enough?"
"It is an old
round shot of our war hooker, La Casse de Par-Grand."
"Which was in
the Armada?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"And which
carried six hundred soldiers, fifty sailors, and twenty-five guns?"
"Shipwreck k=
nows
it."
"How did you
compute the resistance of the water to the shot?"
"By means of=
a
German scale."
"Have you ta=
ken
into account the resistance of the rope supporting the shot to the waves?&q=
uot;
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What was the
result?"
"The resista=
nce
of the water was 170 pounds."
"That's to s=
ay
she is running four French leagues an hour."
"And three D=
utch
leagues."
"But that is=
the
difference merely of the vessel's way and the rate at which the sea is
running?"
"Undoubtedly=
."
"Whither are=
you
steering?"
"For a creek=
I
know, between Loyola and St. Sebastian."
"Make the
latitude of the harbour's mouth as soon as possible."
"Yes, as nea=
r as
I can."
"Beware of g=
usts
and currents. The first cause the second."
"Traidores.&=
quot;[4]
"No abuse. T=
he
sea understands. Insult nothing. Rest satisfied with watching."
"I have watc=
hed,
and I do watch. Just now the tide is running against the wind; by-and-by, w=
hen
it turns, we shall be all right."
"Have you a
chart?"
"No; not for
this channel."
"Then you sa=
il
by rule of thumb?"
"Not at all.=
I
have a compass."
"The compass=
is
one eye, the chart the other."
"A man with =
one
eye can see."
"How do you
compute the difference between the true and apparent course?"
"I've got my
standard compass, and I make a guess."
"To guess is=
all
very well. To know for certain is better."
"Christopher
guessed."
"When there =
is a
fog and the needle revolves treacherously, you can never tell on which side=
you
should look out for squalls, and the end of it is that you know neither the
true nor apparent day's work. An ass with his chart is better off than a wi=
zard
with his oracle."
"There is no=
fog
in the breeze yet, and I see no cause for alarm."
"Ships are l=
ike
flies in the spider's web of the sea."
"Just now bo=
th
winds and waves are tolerably favourable."
"Black specks
quivering on the billows--such are men on the ocean."
"I dare say
there will be nothing wrong to-night."
"You may get
into such a mess that you will find it hard to get out of it."
"All goes we=
ll
at present."
The doctor's eyes
were fixed on the north-east. The skipper continued,--
"Let us once
reach the Gulf of Gascony, and I answer for our safety. Ah! I should say I =
am
at home there. I know it well, my Gulf of Gascony. It is a little basin, of=
ten
very boisterous; but there, I know every sounding in it and the nature of t=
he
bottom--mud opposite San Cipriano, shells opposite Cizarque, sand off Cape
Peñas, little pebbles off Boncaut de Mimizan, and I know the colour =
of
every pebble."
The skipper broke
off; the doctor was no longer listening.
The doctor gazed =
at
the north-east. Over that icy face passed an extraordinary expression. All =
the
agony of terror possible to a mask of stone was depicted there. From his mo=
uth
escaped this word, "Good!"
His eyeballs, whi=
ch
had all at once become quite round like an owl's, were dilated with stupor =
on
discovering a speck on the horizon. He added,--
"It is well.=
As
for me, I am resigned."
The skipper looke=
d at
him. The doctor went on talking to himself, or to some one in the deep,--
"I say,
Yes."
Then he was silen=
t,
opened his eyes wider and wider with renewed attention on that which he was
watching, and said,--
"It is coming
from afar, but not the less surely will it come."
The arc of the
horizon which occupied the visual rays and thoughts of the doctor, being
opposite to the west, was illuminated by the transcendent reflection of
twilight, as if it were day. This arc, limited in extent, and surrounded by
streaks of grayish vapour, was uniformly blue, but of a leaden rather than
cerulean blue. The doctor, having completely returned to the contemplation =
of
the sea, pointed to this atmospheric arc, and said,--
"Skipper, do=
you
see?"
"What?"=
"That."=
"What?"=
"Out
there."
"A blue spot?
Yes."
"What is
it?"
"A niche in
heaven."
"For those w=
ho
go to heaven; for those who go elsewhere it is another affair." And he
emphasized these enigmatical words with an appalling expression which was
unseen in the darkness.
A silence ensued.=
The
skipper, remembering the two names given by the chief to this man, asked
himself the question,--
"Is he a mad=
man,
or is he a sage?"
The stiff and bony
finger of the doctor remained immovably pointing, like a sign-post, to the
misty blue spot in the sky.
The skipper looke=
d at
this spot.
"In truth,&q=
uot;
he growled out, "it is not sky but clouds."
"A blue clou=
d is
worse than a black cloud," said the doctor; "and," he added,
"it's a snow-cloud."
"La nube de =
la
nieve," said the skipper, as if trying to understand the word better by
translating it.
"Do you know
what a snow-cloud is?" asked the doctor.
"No."
"You'll know
by-and-by."
The skipper again
turned his attention to the horizon.
Continuing to obs=
erve
the cloud, he muttered between his teeth,--
"One month of
squalls, another of wet; January with its gales, February with its
rains--that's all the winter we Asturians get. Our rain even is warm. We've=
no
snow but on the mountains. Ay, ay; look out for the avalanche. The avalanch=
e is
no respecter of persons. The avalanche is a brute."
"And the
waterspout is a monster," said the doctor, adding, after a pause,
"Here it comes." He continued, "Several winds are getting up=
together--a
strong wind from the west, and a gentle wind from the east."
"That last i=
s a
deceitful one," said the skipper.
*
The blue cloud was
growing larger.
"If the
snow," said the doctor, "is appalling when it slips down the moun=
tain,
think what it is when it falls from the Pole!"
His eye was glass=
y.
The cloud seemed to spread over his face and simultaneously over the horizo=
n.
He continued, in musing tones,--
"Every minute
the fatal hour draws nearer. The will of Heaven is about to be
manifested."
The skipper asked
himself again this question,--"Is he a madman?"
"Skipper,&qu=
ot;
began the doctor, without taking his eyes off the cloud, "have you oft=
en
crossed the Channel?"
"This is the
first time."
The doctor, who w=
as
absorbed by the blue cloud, and who, as a sponge can take up but a definite
quantity of water, had but a definite measure of anxiety, displayed no more
emotion at this answer of the skipper than was expressed by a slight shrug =
of
his shoulders.
"How is
that?"
"Master Doct=
or,
my usual cruise is to Ireland. I sail from Fontarabia to Black Harbour or to
the Achill Islands. I go sometimes to Braich-y-Pwll, a point on the Welsh
coast. But I always steer outside the Scilly Islands. I do not know this se=
a at
all."
"That's seri=
ous.
Woe to him who is inexperienced on the ocean! One ought to be familiar with=
the
Channel--the Channel is the Sphinx. Look out for shoals."
"We are in
twenty-five fathoms here."
"We ought to=
get
into fifty-five fathoms to the west, and avoid even twenty fathoms to the
east."
"We'll sound=
as
we get on."
"The Channel=
is
not an ordinary sea. The water rises fifty feet with the spring tides, and
twenty-five with neap tides. Here we are in slack water. I thought you look=
ed
scared."
"We'll sound
to-night."
"To sound you
must heave to, and that you cannot do."
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"On account =
of
the wind."
"We'll
try."
"The squall =
is
close on us."
"We'll sound,
Master Doctor."
"You could n=
ot
even bring to."
"Trust in
God."
"Take care w=
hat
you say. Pronounce not lightly the awful name."
"I will soun=
d, I
tell you."
"Be sensible;
you will have a gale of wind presently."
"I say that I
will try for soundings."
"The resista=
nce
of the water will prevent the lead from sinking, and the line will break. A=
h!
so this is your first time in these waters?"
"The first
time."
"Very well; =
in
that case listen, skipper."
The tone of the w=
ord
"listen" was so commanding that the skipper made an obeisance.
"Master Doct=
or,
I am all attention."
"Port your h=
elm,
and haul up on the starboard tack."
"What do you
mean?"
"Steer your
course to the west."
"Caramba!&qu=
ot;
"Steer your
course to the west."
"Impossible.=
"
"As you will.
What I tell you is for the others' sake. As for myself, I am indifferent.&q=
uot;
"But, Master
Doctor, steer west?"
"Yes,
skipper."
"The wind wi=
ll
be dead ahead."
"Yes,
skipper."
"She'll pitch
like the devil."
"Moderate yo=
ur
language. Yes, skipper."
"The vessel
would be in irons."
"Yes,
skipper."
"That means =
very
likely the mast will go."
"Possibly.&q=
uot;
"Do you wish=
me
to steer west?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"I cannot.&q=
uot;
"In that case
settle your reckoning with the sea."
"The wind ou=
ght
to change."
"It will not
change all night."
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"Because it =
is a
wind twelve hundred leagues in length."
"Make headway
against such a wind! Impossible."
"To the west=
, I
tell you."
"I'll try, b=
ut
in spite of everything she will fall off."
"That's the
danger."
"The wind se=
ts
us to the east."
"Don't go to=
the
east."
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"Skipper, do=
you
know what is for us the word of death?"
"No."
"Death is th=
e east."
"I'll steer
west."
This time the doc=
tor,
having turned right round, looked the skipper full in the face, and with his
eyes resting on him, as though to implant the idea in his head, pronounced
slowly, syllable by syllable, these words,--
"If to-night=
out
at sea we hear the sound of a bell, the ship is lost."
The skipper ponde=
red
in amaze.
"What do you
mean?"
The doctor did not
answer. His countenance, expressive for a moment, was now reserved. His eyes
became vacuous. He did not appear to hear the skipper's wondering question.=
He
was now attending to his own monologue. His lips let fall, as if mechanical=
ly,
in a low murmuring tone, these words,--
"The time has
come for sullied souls to purify themselves."
The skipper made =
that
expressive grimace which raises the chin towards the nose.
"He is more
madman than sage," he growled, and moved off.
Nevertheless he
steered west.
But the wind and =
the
sea were rising.
The mist was deformed by all sorts =
of
inequalities, bulging out at once on every point of the horizon, as if
invisible mouths were busy puffing out the bags of wind. The formation of t=
he
clouds was becoming ominous. In the west, as in the east, the sky's depths =
were
now invaded by the blue cloud: it advanced in the teeth of the wind. These
contradictions are part of the wind's vagaries.
The sea, which a
moment before wore scales, now wore a skin--such is the nature of that drag=
on.
It was no longer a crocodile: it was a boa. The skin, lead-coloured and dir=
ty,
looked thick, and was crossed by heavy wrinkles. Here and there, on its
surface, bubbles of surge, like pustules, gathered and then burst. The foam=
was
like a leprosy. It was at this moment that the hooker, still seen from afar=
by
the child, lighted her signal.
A quarter of an h=
our
elapsed.
The skipper looked
for the doctor: he was no longer on deck. Directly the skipper had left him,
the doctor had stooped his somewhat ungainly form under the hood, and had
entered the cabin; there he had sat down near the stove, on a block. He had
taken a shagreen ink-bottle and a cordwain pocket-book from his pocket; he =
had
extracted from his pocket-book a parchment folded four times, old, stained,=
and
yellow; he had opened the sheet, taken a pen out of his ink-case, placed th=
e pocket-book
flat on his knee, and the parchment on the pocket-book; and by the rays of =
the
lantern, which was lighting the cook, he set to writing on the back of the
parchment. The roll of the waves inconvenienced him. He wrote thus for some
time.
As he wrote, the
doctor remarked the gourd of aguardiente, which the Provençal tasted
every time he added a grain of pimento to the puchero, as if he were consul=
ting
it in reference to the seasoning. The doctor noticed the gourd, not because=
it
was a bottle of brandy, but because of a name which was plaited in the
wickerwork with red rushes on a background of white. There was light enough=
in
the cabin to permit of his reading the name.
The doctor paused,
and spelled it in a low voice,--
"Hardquanonn=
e."
Then he addressed=
the
cook.
"I had not
observed that gourd before; did it belong to Hardquanonne?"
"Yes," =
the
cook answered; "to our poor comrade, Hardquanonne."
The doctor went o=
n,--
"To
Hardquanonne, the Fleming of Flanders?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Who is in
prison?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"In the dung=
eon
at Chatham?"
"It is his
gourd," replied the cook; "and he was my friend. I keep it in rem=
embrance
of him. When shall we see him again? It is the bottle he used to wear slung
over his hip."
The doctor took up
his pen again, and continued laboriously tracing somewhat straggling lines =
on
the parchment. He was evidently anxious that his handwriting should be very
legible; and at length, notwithstanding the tremulousness of the vessel and=
the
tremulousness of age, he finished what he wanted to write.
It was time, for
suddenly a sea struck the craft, a mighty rush of waters besieged the hooke=
r,
and they felt her break into that fearful dance in which ships lead off with
the tempest.
The doctor arose =
and
approached the stove, meeting the ship's motion with his knees dexterously
bent, dried as best he could, at the stove where the pot was boiling, the l=
ines
he had written, refolded the parchment in the pocket-book, and replaced the
pocket-book and the inkhorn in his pocket.
The stove was not=
the
least ingenious piece of interior economy in the hooker. It was judiciously
isolated. Meanwhile the pot heaved--the Provençal was watching it.
"Fish
broth," said he.
"For the
fishes," replied the doctor. Then he went on deck again.
CHAPTER VI - THEY THINK THAT HELP IS AT HAND.
Through his growing preoccupation t=
he
doctor in some sort reviewed the situation; and any one near to him might h=
ave
heard these words drop from his lips,--
"Too much
rolling, and not enough pitching."
Then recalled to
himself by the dark workings of his mind, he sank again into thought, as a
miner into his shaft. His meditation in nowise interfered with his watch on=
the
sea. The contemplation of the sea is in itself a reverie.
The dark punishme=
nt
of the waters, eternally tortured, was commencing. A lamentation arose from=
the
whole main. Preparations, confused and melancholy, were forming in space. T=
he
doctor observed all before him, and lost no detail. There was, however, no =
sign
of scrutiny in his face. One does not scrutinize hell.
A vast commotion,=
yet
half latent, but visible through the turmoils in space, increased and
irritated, more and more, the winds, the vapours, the waves. Nothing is so
logical and nothing appears so absurd as the ocean. Self-dispersion is the
essence of its sovereignty, and is one of the elements of its redundance. T=
he
sea is ever for and against. It knots that it may unravel itself; one of its
slopes attacks, the other relieves. No apparition is so wonderful as the wa=
ves.
Who can paint the alternating hollows and promontories, the valleys, the
melting bosoms, the sketches? How render the thickets of foam, blendings of
mountains and dreams? The indescribable is everywhere there--in the rending=
, in
the frowning, in the anxiety, in the perpetual contradiction, in the chiaro=
scuro,
in the pendants of the cloud, in the keys of the ever-open vault, in the
disaggregation without rupture, in the funereal tumult caused by all that
madness!
The wind had just=
set
due north. Its violence was so favourable and so useful in driving them away
from England that the captain of the Matutina had made up his mind to set a=
ll
sail. The hooker slipped through the foam as at a gallop, the wind right af=
t,
bounding from wave to wave in a gay frenzy. The fugitives were delighted, a=
nd
laughed; they clapped their hands, applauded the surf, the sea, the wind, t=
he
sails, the swift progress, the flight, all unmindful of the future. The doc=
tor appeared
not to see them, and dreamt on.
Every vestige of =
day
had faded away. This was the moment when the child, watching from the dista=
nt
cliff, lost sight of the hooker. Up to then his glance had remained fixed, =
and,
as it were, leaning on the vessel. What part had that look in fate? When the
hooker was lost to sight in the distance, and when the child could no longer
see aught, the child went north and the ship went south.
All were plunged =
in
darkness.
CHAPTER VII - SUPERHUMAN HORRORS.
On their part it was with wild jubi=
lee
and delight that those on board the hooker saw the hostile land recede and
lessen behind them. By degrees the dark ring of ocean rose higher, dwarfing=
in
twilight Portland, Purbeck, Tineham, Kimmeridge, the Matravers, the long
streaks of dim cliffs, and the coast dotted with lighthouses.
England disappear=
ed.
The fugitives had now nothing round them but the sea.
All at once night
grew awful.
There was no long=
er
extent nor space; the sky became blackness, and closed in round the vessel.=
The
snow began to fall slowly; a few flakes appeared. They might have been ghos=
ts.
Nothing else was visible in the course of the wind. They felt as if yielded=
up.
A snare lurked in every possibility.
It is in this
cavernous darkness that in our climate the Polar waterspout makes its
appearance.
A great muddy clo=
ud,
like to the belly of a hydra, hung over ocean, and in places its lividity
adhered to the waves. Some of these adherences resembled pouches with holes,
pumping the sea, disgorging vapour, and refilling themselves with water. He=
re
and there these suctions drew up cones of foam on the sea.
The boreal storm
hurled itself on the hooker. The hooker rushed to meet it. The squall and t=
he
vessel met as though to insult each other.
In the first mad
shock not a sail was clewed up, not a jib lowered, not a reef taken in, so =
much
is flight a delirium. The mast creaked and bent back as if in fear.
Cyclones, in our
northern hemisphere, circle from left to right, in the same direction as the
hands of a watch, with a velocity which is sometimes as much as sixty miles=
an
hour. Although she was entirely at the mercy of that whirling power, the ho=
oker
behaved as if she were out in moderate weather, without any further precaut=
ion
than keeping her head on to the rollers, with the wind broad on the bow so =
as
to avoid being pooped or caught broadside on. This semi-prudence would have=
availed
her nothing in case of the wind's shifting and taking her aback.
A deep rumbling w=
as
brewing up in the distance. The roar of the abyss, nothing can be compared =
to
it. It is the great brutish howl of the universe. What we call matter, that
unsearchable organism, that amalgamation of incommensurable energies, in wh=
ich
can occasionally be detected an almost imperceptible degree of intention wh=
ich
makes us shudder, that blind, benighted cosmos, that enigmatical Pan, has a
cry, a strange cry, prolonged, obstinate, and continuous, which is less tha=
n speech
and more than thunder. That cry is the hurricane. Other voices, songs,
melodies, clamours, tones, proceed from nests, from broods, from pairings, =
from
nuptials, from homes. This one, a trumpet, comes out of the Naught, which is
All. Other voices express the soul of the universe; this one expresses the
monster. It is the howl of the formless. It is the inarticulate finding
utterance in the indefinite. A thing it is full of pathos and terror. Those
clamours converse above and beyond man. They rise, fall, undulate, determine
waves of sound, form all sorts of wild surprises for the mind, now burst cl=
ose
to the ear with the importunity of a peal of trumpets, now assail us with t=
he
rumbling hoarseness of distance. Giddy uproar which resembles a language, a=
nd
which, in fact, is a language. It is the effort which the world makes to sp=
eak.
It is the lisping of the wonderful. In this wail is manifested vaguely all =
that
the vast dark palpitation endures, suffers, accepts, rejects. For the most =
part
it talks nonsense; it is like an access of chronic sickness, and rather an
epilepsy diffused than a force employed; we fancy that we are witnessing the
descent of supreme evil into the infinite. At moments we seem to discern a
reclamation of the elements, some vain effort of chaos to reassert itself o=
ver
creation. At times it is a complaint. The void bewails and justifies itself=
. It
is as the pleading of the world's cause. We can fancy that the universe is
engaged in a lawsuit; we listen--we try to grasp the reasons given, the red=
oubtable
for and against. Such a moaning of the shadows has the tenacity of a syllog=
ism.
Here is a vast trouble for thought. Here is the raison d'être of
mythologies and polytheisms. To the terror of those great murmurs are added
superhuman outlines melting away as they appear--Eumenides which are almost
distinct, throats of Furies shaped in the clouds, Plutonian chimeras almost
defined. No horrors equal those sobs, those laughs, those tricks of tumult,
those inscrutable questions and answers, those appeals to unknown aid. Man
knows not what to become in the presence of that awful incantation. He bows
under the enigma of those Draconian intonations. What latent meaning have t=
hey?
What do they signify? What do they threaten? What do they implore? It would
seem as though all bonds were loosened. Vociferations from precipice to pre=
cipice,
from air to water, from the wind to the wave, from the rain to the rock, fr=
om
the zenith to the nadir, from the stars to the foam--the abyss unmuzzled--s=
uch
is that tumult, complicated by some mysterious strife with evil consciences=
.
The loquacity of
night is not less lugubrious than its silence. One feels in it the anger of=
the
unknown.
Night is a presen=
ce.
Presence of what?
For that matter we
must distinguish between night and the shadows. In the night there is the
absolute; in the darkness the multiple. Grammar, logic as it is, admits of =
no
singular for the shadows. The night is one, the shadows are many.[5]
This mist of
nocturnal mystery is the scattered, the fugitive, the crumbling, the fatal;=
one
feels earth no longer, one feels the other reality.
In the shadow,
infinite and indefinite, lives something or some one; but that which lives
there forms part of our death. After our earthly passage, when that shadow
shall be light for us, the life which is beyond our life shall seize us.
Meanwhile it appears to touch and try us. Obscurity is a pressure. Night is=
, as
it were, a hand placed on our soul. At certain hideous and solemn hours we =
feel
that which is beyond the wall of the tomb encroaching on us.
Never does this
proximity of the unknown seem more imminent than in storms at sea. The horr=
ible
combines with the fantastic. The possible interrupter of human actions, the=
old
Cloud compeller, has it in his power to mould, in whatsoever shape he choos=
es,
the inconsistent element, the limitless incoherence, the force diffused and
undecided of aim. That mystery the tempest every instant accepts and execut=
es
some unknown changes of will, apparent or real.
Poets have, in all
ages, called this the caprice of the waves. But there is no such thing as
caprice. The disconcerting enigmas which in nature we call caprice, and in
human life chance, are splinters of a law revealed to us in glimpses.
The characteristic of the snowstorm=
is
its blackness. Nature's habitual aspect during a storm, the earth or sea bl=
ack
and the sky pale, is reversed; the sky is black, the ocean white, foam belo=
w,
darkness above; a horizon walled in with smoke; a zenith roofed with crape.=
The
tempest resembles a cathedral hung with mourning, but no light in that cath=
edral:
no phantom lights on the crests of the waves, no spark, no phosphorescence,
naught but a huge shadow. The polar cyclone differs from the tropical cyclo=
ne,
inasmuch as the one sets fire to every light, and the other extinguishes th=
em
all. The world is suddenly converted into the arched vault of a cave. Out of
the night falls a dust of pale spots, which hesitate between sky and sea. T=
hese
spots, which are flakes of snow, slip, wander, and flow. It is like the tea=
rs
of a winding-sheet putting themselves into lifelike motion. A mad wind ming=
les
with this dissemination. Blackness crumbling into whiteness, the furious in=
to
the obscure, all the tumult of which the sepulchre is capable, a whirlwind =
under
a catafalque--such is the snowstorm. Underneath trembles the ocean, forming=
and
re-forming over portentous unknown depths.
In the polar wind,
which is electrical, the flakes turn suddenly into hailstones, and the air
becomes filled with projectiles; the water crackles, shot with grape.
No thunderstrokes:
the lightning of boreal storms is silent. What is sometimes said of the cat,
"it swears," may be applied to this lightning. It is a menace
proceeding from a mouth half open and strangely inexorable. The snowstorm i=
s a
storm blind and dumb; when it has passed, the ships also are often blind and
the sailors dumb.
To escape from su=
ch
an abyss is difficult.
It would be wrong,
however, to believe shipwreck to be absolutely inevitable. The Danish fishe=
rmen
of Disco and the Balesin; the seekers of black whales; Hearn steering towar=
ds
Behring Strait, to discover the mouth of Coppermine River; Hudson, Mackenzi=
e,
Vancouver, Ross, Dumont D'Urville, all underwent at the Pole itself the wil=
dest
hurricanes, and escaped out of them.
It was into this
description of tempest that the hooker had entered, triumphant and in full
sail--frenzy against frenzy. When Montgomery, escaping from Rouen, threw his
galley, with all the force of its oars, against the chain barring the Seine=
at
La Bouille, he showed similar effrontery.
The Matutina sail=
ed
on fast; she bent so much under her sails that at moments she made a fearful
angle with the sea of fifteen degrees; but her good bellied keel adhered to=
the
water as if glued to it. The keel resisted the grasp of the hurricane. The
lantern at the prow cast its light ahead.
The cloud, full of
winds, dragging its tumour over the deep, cramped and eat more and more into
the sea round the hooker. Not a gull, not a sea-mew, nothing but snow. The
expanse of the field of waves was becoming contracted and terrible; only th=
ree
or four gigantic ones were visible.
Now and then a
tremendous flash of lightning of a red copper colour broke out behind the
obscure superposition of the horizon and the zenith; that sudden release of
vermilion flame revealed the horror of the clouds; that abrupt conflagratio=
n of
the depths, to which for an instant the first tiers of clouds and the dista=
nt
boundaries of the celestial chaos seemed to adhere, placed the abyss in
perspective. On this ground of fire the snow-flakes showed black--they might
have been compared to dark butterflies flying about in a furnace--then all =
was extinguished.
The first explosi=
on
over, the squall, still pursuing the hooker, began to roar in thorough bass.
This phase of grumbling is a perilous diminution of uproar. Nothing is so
terrifying as this monologue of the storm. This gloomy recitative appears to
serve as a moment of rest to the mysterious combating forces, and indicates=
a
species of patrol kept in the unknown.
The hooker held
wildly on her course. Her two mainsails especially were doing fearful work.=
The
sky and sea were as of ink with jets of foam running higher than the mast.
Every instant masses of water swept the deck like a deluge, and at each rol=
l of
the vessel the hawse-holes, now to starboard, now to larboard, became as so
many open mouths vomiting back the foam into the sea. The women had taken
refuge in the cabin, but the men remained on deck; the blinding snow eddied
round, the spitting surge mingled with it. All was fury.
At that moment the
chief of the band, standing abaft on the stern frames, holding on with one =
hand
to the shrouds, and with the other taking off the kerchief he wore round his
head and waving it in the light of the lantern, gay and arrogant, with prid=
e in
his face, and his hair in wild disorder, intoxicated by all the darkness, c=
ried
out,--
"We are
free!"
"Free, free,
free," echoed the fugitives, and the band, seizing hold of the rigging,
rose up on deck.
"Hurrah!&quo=
t;
shouted the chief.
And the band shou=
ted
in the storm,--
"Hurrah!&quo=
t;
Just as this clam=
our
was dying away in the tempest, a loud solemn voice rose from the other end =
of
the vessel, saying,--
"Silence!&qu=
ot;
All turned their
heads. The darkness was thick, and the doctor was leaning against the mast =
so
that he seemed part of it, and they could not see him.
The voice spoke
again,--
"Listen!&quo=
t;
All were silent.<= o:p>
Then did they
distinctly hear through the darkness the toll of a bell.
CHAPTER IX - THE CHARGE CONFIDED TO A RAGING SEA.<=
/span>
The skipper, at the helm, burst out
laughing,--
"A bell! tha=
t's
good. We are on the larboard tack. What does the bell prove? Why, that we h=
ave
land to starboard."
The firm and meas=
ured
voice of the doctor replied,--
"You have not
land to starboard."
"But we
have," shouted the skipper.
"No!"
"But that be=
ll
tolls from the land."
"That bell,&=
quot;
said the doctor, "tolls from the sea."
A shudder passed =
over
these daring men. The haggard faces of the two women appeared above the
companion like two hobgoblins conjured up. The doctor took a step forward,
separating his tall form from the mast. From the depth of the night's darkn=
ess
came the toll of the bell.
The doctor resume=
d,--
"There is in=
the
midst of the sea, halfway between Portland and the Channel Islands, a buoy,
placed there as a caution; that buoy is moored by chains to the shoal, and =
floats
on the top of the water. On the buoy is fixed an iron trestle, and across t=
he
trestle a bell is hung. In bad weather heavy seas toss the buoy, and the be=
ll
rings. That is the bell you hear."
The doctor paused=
to
allow an extra violent gust of wind to pass over, waited until the sound of=
the
bell reasserted itself, and then went on,--
"To hear that
bell in a storm, when the nor'-wester is blowing, is to be lost. Wherefore?=
For
this reason: if you hear the bell, it is because the wind brings it to you.=
But
the wind is nor'-westerly, and the breakers of Aurigny lie east. You hear t=
he
bell only because you are between the buoy and the breakers. It is on those
breakers the wind is driving you. You are on the wrong side of the buoy. If=
you
were on the right side, you would be out at sea on a safe course, and you w=
ould
not hear the bell. The wind would not convey the sound to you. You would pa=
ss
close to the buoy without knowing it. We are out of our course. That bell is
shipwreck sounding the tocsin. Now, look out!"
As the doctor spo=
ke,
the bell, soothed by a lull of the storm, rang slowly stroke by stroke, and=
its
intermitting toll seemed to testify to the truth of the old man's words. It=
was
as the knell of the abyss.
All listened
breathless, now to the voice, now to the bell.
CHAPTER X - THE COLOSSAL SAVAGE, THE STORM.=
In the meantime the skipper had cau=
ght up
his speaking-trumpet.
"Strike every
sail, my lads; let go the sheets, man the down-hauls, lower ties and brails.
Let us steer to the west, let us regain the high sea; head for the buoy, st=
eer
for the bell--there's an offing down there. We've yet a chance."
"Try," =
said
the doctor.
Let us remark her=
e,
by the way, that this ringing buoy, a kind of bell tower on the deep, was
removed in 1802. There are yet alive very old mariners who remember hearing=
it.
It forewarned, but rather too late.
The orders of the
skipper were obeyed. The Languedocian made a third sailor. All bore a hand.=
Not
satisfied with brailing up, they furled the sails, lashed the earrings, sec=
ured
the clew-lines, bunt-lines, and leech-lines, and clapped preventer-shrouds =
on
the block straps, which thus might serve as back-stays. They fished the mas=
t.
They battened down the ports and bulls'-eyes, which is a method of walling =
up a
ship. These evolutions, though executed in a lubberly fashion, were,
nevertheless, thoroughly effective. The hooker was stripped to bare poles. =
But
in proportion as the vessel, stowing every stitch of canvas, became more he=
lpless,
the havoc of both winds and waves increased. The seas ran mountains high. T=
he
hurricane, like an executioner hastening to his victim, began to dismember =
the
craft. There came, in the twinkling of an eye, a dreadful crash: the top-sa=
ils
were blown from the bolt-ropes, the chess-trees were hewn asunder, the deck=
was
swept clear, the shrouds were carried away, the mast went by the board, all=
the
lumber of the wreck was flying in shivers. The main shrouds gave out althou=
gh
they were turned in, and stoppered to four fathoms.
The magnetic curr=
ents
common to snowstorms hastened the destruction of the rigging. It broke as m=
uch
from the effect of effluvium as the violence of the wind. Most of the chain
gear, fouled in the blocks, ceased to work. Forward the bows, aft the quart=
ers,
quivered under the terrific shocks. One wave washed overboard the compass a=
nd
its binnacle. A second carried away the boat, which, like a box slung under=
a carriage,
had been, in accordance with the quaint Asturian custom, lashed to the
bowsprit. A third breaker wrenched off the spritsail yard. A fourth swept a=
way
the figurehead and signal light. The rudder only was left.
To replace the sh=
ip's
bow lantern they set fire to, and suspended at the stem, a large block of w=
ood
covered with oakum and tar.
The mast, broken =
in
two, all bristling with quivering splinters, ropes, blocks, and yards, cumb=
ered
the deck. In falling it had stove in a plank of the starboard gunwale. The
skipper, still firm at the helm, shouted,--
"While we can
steer we have yet a chance. The lower planks hold good. Axes, axes! Overboa=
rd
with the mast! Clear the decks!"
Both crew and
passengers worked with the excitement of despair. A few strokes of the
hatchets, and it was done. They pushed the mast over the side. The deck was
cleared.
"Now," =
continued
the skipper, "take a rope's end and lash me to the helm." To the
tiller they bound him.
While they were
fastening him he laughed, and shouted,--
"Blow, old
hurdy-gurdy, bellow. I've seen your equal off Cape Machichaco."
And when secured =
he
clutched the helm with that strange hilarity which danger awakens.
"All goes we=
ll,
my lads. Long live our Lady of Buglose! Let us steer west."
An enormous wave =
came
down abeam, and fell on the vessel's quarter. There is always in storms a
tiger-like wave, a billow fierce and decisive, which, attaining a certain
height, creeps horizontally over the surface of the waters for a time, then
rises, roars, rages, and falling on the distressed vessel tears it limb from
limb.
A cloud of foam
covered the entire poop of the Matutina.
There was heard a=
bove
the confusion of darkness and waters a crash.
When the spray
cleared off, when the stern again rose in view, the skipper and the helm had
disappeared. Both had been swept away.
The helm and the =
man
they had but just secured to it had passed with the wave into the hissing
turmoil of the hurricane.
The chief of the
band, gazing intently into the darkness, shouted,--
"Te burlas de
nosotros?"
To this defiant
exclamation there followed another cry,--
"Let go the
anchor. Save the skipper."
They rushed to the
capstan and let go the anchor.
Hookers carry but
one. In this case the anchor reached the bottom, but only to be lost. The
bottom was of the hardest rock. The billows were raging with resistless for=
ce.
The cable snapped like a thread.
The anchor lay at=
the
bottom of the sea. At the cutwater there remained but the cable end protrud=
ing
from the hawse-hole.
From this moment =
the
hooker became a wreck. The Matutina was irrevocably disabled. The vessel, j=
ust
before in full sail, and almost formidable in her speed, was now helpless. =
All
her evolutions were uncertain and executed at random. She yielded passively=
and
like a log to the capricious fury of the waves. That in a few minutes there
should be in place of an eagle a useless cripple, such a transformation is =
to be
witnessed only at sea.
The howling of the
wind became more and more frightful. A hurricane has terrible lungs; it mak=
es
unceasingly mournful additions to darkness, which cannot be intensified. The
bell on the sea rang despairingly, as if tolled by a weird hand.
The Matutina drif=
ted
like a cork at the mercy of the waves. She sailed no longer--she merely
floated. Every moment she seemed about to turn over on her back, like a dead
fish. The good condition and perfectly water-tight state of the hull alone
saved her from this disaster. Below the water-line not a plank had started.
There was not a cranny, chink, nor crack; and she had not made a single dro=
p of
water in the hold. This was lucky, as the pump, being out of order, was
useless.
The hooker pitched
and roared frightfully in the seething billows. The vessel had throes as of
sickness, and seemed to be trying to belch forth the unhappy crew.
Helpless they clu= ng to the standing rigging, to the transoms, to the shank painters, to the gaskets, to the broken planks, the protruding nails of which tore their han= ds, to the warped riders, and to all the rugged projections of the stumps of the masts. From time to time they listened. The toll of the bell came over the = waters fainter and fainter; one would have thought that it also was in distress. I= ts ringing was no more than an intermittent rattle. Then this rattle died away. Where were they? At what distance from the buoy? The sound of the bell had = frightened them; its silence terrified them. The north-wester drove them forward in perhaps a fatal course. They felt themselves wafted on by maddened and ever-recurring gusts of wind. The wreck sped forward in the darkness. There= is nothing more fearful than being hurried forward blindfold. They felt the ab= yss before them, over them, under them. It was no longer a run, it was a rush.<= o:p>
Suddenly, through=
the
appalling density of the snowstorm, there loomed a red light.
"A
lighthouse!" cried the crew.
It was indeed the Caskets light.
A lighthouse of t=
he
nineteenth century is a high cylinder of masonry, surmounted by scientifica=
lly
constructed machinery for throwing light. The Caskets lighthouse in particu=
lar
is a triple white tower, bearing three light-rooms. These three chambers
revolve on clockwork wheels, with such precision that the man on watch who =
sees
them from sea can invariably take ten steps during their irradiation, and
twenty-five during their eclipse. Everything is based on the focal plan, an=
d on
the rotation of the octagon drum, formed of eight wide simple lenses in ran=
ge,
having above and below it two series of dioptric rings; an algebraic gear,
secured from the effects of the beating of winds and waves by glass a
millimetre thick[6], yet sometimes broken by the sea-eagles, which dash
themselves like great moths against these gigantic lanterns. The building w=
hich
encloses and sustains this mechanism, and in which it is set, is also
mathematically constructed. Everything about it is plain, exact, bare, prec=
ise,
correct. A lighthouse is a mathematical figure.
In the seventeenth
century a lighthouse was a sort of plume of the land on the seashore. The
architecture of a lighthouse tower was magnificent and extravagant. It was
covered with balconies, balusters, lodges, alcoves, weathercocks. Nothing b=
ut
masks, statues, foliage, volutes, reliefs, figures large and small, medalli=
ons
with inscriptions. Pax in bello, said the Eddystone lighthouse. We may as w=
ell
observe, by the way, that this declaration of peace did not always disarm t=
he
ocean. Winstanley repeated it on a lighthouse which he constructed at his o=
wn expense,
on a wild spot near Plymouth. The tower being finished, he shut himself up =
in
it to have it tried by the tempest. The storm came, and carried off the
lighthouse and Winstanley in it. Such excessive adornment gave too great a =
hold
to the hurricane, as generals too brilliantly equipped in battle draw the
enemy's fire. Besides whimsical designs in stone, they were loaded with whi=
msical
designs in iron, copper, and wood. The ironwork was in relief, the woodwork
stood out. On the sides of the lighthouse there jutted out, clinging to the
walls among the arabesques, engines of every description, useful and useles=
s, windlasses,
tackles, pulleys, counterpoises, ladders, cranes, grapnels. On the pinnacle
around the light delicately-wrought ironwork held great iron chandeliers, in
which were placed pieces of rope steeped in resin; wicks which burned dogge=
dly,
and which no wind extinguished; and from top to bottom the tower was covere=
d by
a complication of sea-standards, banderoles, banners, flags, pennons, colou=
rs
which rose from stage to stage, from story to story, a medley of all hues, =
all
shapes, all heraldic devices, all signals, all confusion, up to the light
chamber, making, in the storm, a gay riot of tatters about the blaze. That =
insolent
light on the brink of the abyss showed like a defiance, and inspired
shipwrecked men with a spirit of daring. But the Caskets light was not afte=
r this
fashion.
It was, at that
period, merely an old barbarous lighthouse, such as Henry I. had built it a=
fter
the loss of the White Ship--a flaming pile of wood under an iron trellis, a
brazier behind a railing, a head of hair flaming in the wind.
The only improvem=
ent
made in this lighthouse since the twelfth century was a pair of forge-bello=
ws
worked by an indented pendulum and a stone weight, which had been added to =
the
light chamber in 1610.
The fate of the
sea-birds who chanced to fly against these old lighthouses was more tragic =
than
those of our days. The birds dashed against them, attracted by the light, a=
nd
fell into the brazier, where they could be seen struggling like black spiri=
ts
in a hell, and at times they would fall back again between the railings upon
the rock, red hot, smoking, lame, blind, like half-burnt flies out of a lam=
p.
To a full-rigged =
ship
in good trim, answering readily to the pilot's handling, the Caskets light =
is
useful; it cries, "Look out;" it warns her of the shoal. To a dis=
abled
ship it is simply terrible. The hull, paralyzed and inert, without resistan=
ce,
without defence against the impulse of the storm or the mad heaving of the
waves, a fish without fins, a bird without wings, can but go where the wind
wills. The lighthouse shows the end--points out the spot where it is doomed=
to disappear--throws
light upon the burial. It is the torch of the sepulchre.
To light up the
inexorable chasm, to warn against the inevitable, what more tragic mockery!=
CHAPTER XII - FACE TO FACE WITH THE ROCK.=
a>
The wretched people in distress on =
board
the Matutina understood at once the mysterious derision which mocked their
shipwreck. The appearance of the lighthouse raised their spirits at first, =
then
overwhelmed them. Nothing could be done, nothing attempted. What has been s=
aid
of kings, we may say of the waves--we are their people, we are their prey. =
All
that they rave must be borne. The nor'-wester was driving the hooker on the
Caskets. They were nearing them; no evasion was possible. They drifted rapi=
dly
towards the reef; they felt that they were getting into shallow waters; the
lead, if they could have thrown it to any purpose, would not have shown more
than three or four fathoms. The shipwrecked people heard the dull sound of =
the
waves being sucked within the submarine caves of the steep rock. They made =
out,
under the lighthouse, like a dark cutting between two plates of granite, th=
e narrow
passage of the ugly wild-looking little harbour, supposed to be full of the
skeletons of men and carcasses of ships. It looked like the mouth of a cave=
rn,
rather than the entrance of a port. They could hear the crackling of the pi=
le
on high within the iron grating. A ghastly purple illuminated the storm; the
collision of the rain and hail disturbed the mist. The black cloud and the =
red
flame fought, serpent against serpent; live ashes, reft by the wind, flew f=
rom
the fire, and the sudden assaults of the sparks seemed to drive the snowfla=
kes
before them. The breakers, blurred at first in outline, now stood out in bo=
ld relief,
a medley of rocks with peaks, crests, and vertebræ. The angles were
formed by strongly marked red lines, and the inclined planes in blood-like
streams of light. As they neared it, the outline of the reefs increased and
rose--sinister.
One of the women,=
the
Irishwoman, told her beads wildly.
In place of the
skipper, who was the pilot, remained the chief, who was the captain. The
Basques all know the mountain and the sea. They are bold on the precipice, =
and
inventive in catastrophes.
They neared the
cliff. They were about to strike. Suddenly they were so close to the great
north rock of the Caskets that it shut out the lighthouse from them. They s=
aw
nothing but the rock and the red light behind it. The huge rock looming in =
the
mist was like a gigantic black woman with a hood of fire.
That ill-famed ro=
ck
is called the Biblet. It faces the north side the reef, which on the south =
is
faced by another ridge, L'Etacq-aux-giulmets. The chief looked at the Bible=
t,
and shouted,--
"A man with a
will to take a rope to the rock! Who can swim?"
No answer.
No one on board k=
new
how to swim, not even the sailors--an ignorance not uncommon among seafaring
people.
A beam nearly fre=
e of
its lashings was swinging loose. The chief clasped it with both hands, cryi=
ng,
"Help me."
They unlashed the
beam. They had now at their disposal the very thing they wanted. From the
defensive, they assumed the offensive.
It was a longish =
beam
of heart of oak, sound and strong, useful either as a support or as an engi=
ne
of attack--a lever for a burden, a ram against a tower.
"Ready!"
shouted the chief.
All six, getting
foothold on the stump of the mast, threw their weight on the spar projecting
over the side, straight as a lance towards a projection of the cliff.
It was a dangerous
manoeuvre. To strike at a mountain is audacity indeed. The six men might we=
ll
have been thrown into the water by the shock.
There is variety =
in
struggles with storms. After the hurricane, the shoal; after the wind, the
rock. First the intangible, then the immovable, to be encountered.
Some minutes pass=
ed,
such minutes as whiten men's hair.
The rock and the
vessel were about to come in collision. The rock, like a culprit, awaited t=
he
blow.
A resistless wave
rushed in; it ended the respite. It caught the vessel underneath, raised it,
and swayed it for an instant as the sling swings its projectile.
"Steady!&quo=
t;
cried the chief; "it is only a rock, and we are men."
The beam was couc=
hed,
the six men were one with it, its sharp bolts tore their arm-pits, but they=
did
not feel them.
The wave dashed t=
he
hooker against the rock.
Then came the sho=
ck.
It came under the
shapeless cloud of foam which always hides such catastrophes.
When this cloud f=
ell
back into the sea, when the waves rolled back from the rock, the six men we=
re
tossing about the deck, but the Matutina was floating alongside the rock--c=
lear
of it. The beam had stood and turned the vessel; the sea was running so fast
that in a few seconds she had left the Caskets behind.
Such things somet=
imes
occur. It was a straight stroke of the bowsprit that saved Wood of Largo at=
the
mouth of the Tay. In the wild neighbourhood of Cape Winterton, and under the
command of Captain Hamilton, it was the appliance of such a lever against t=
he
dangerous rock, Branodu-um, that saved the Royal Mary from shipwreck, altho=
ugh she
was but a Scotch built frigate. The force of the waves can be so abruptly
discomposed that changes of direction can be easily managed, or at least are
possible even in the most violent collisions. There is a brute in the tempe=
st.
The hurricane is a bull, and can be turned.
The whole secret =
of
avoiding shipwreck is to try and pass from the secant to the tangent.
Such was the serv=
ice
rendered by the beam to the vessel. It had done the work of an oar, had tak=
en
the place of a rudder. But the manoeuvre once performed could not be repeat=
ed.
The beam was overboard; the shock of the collision had wrenched it out of t=
he
men's hands, and it was lost in the waves. To loosen another beam would hav=
e been
to dislocate the hull.
The hurricane car=
ried
off the Matutina. Presently the Caskets showed as a harmless encumbrance on=
the
horizon. Nothing looks more out of countenance than a reef of rocks under s=
uch
circumstances. There are in nature, in its obscure aspects, in which the
visible blends with the invisible, certain motionless, surly profiles, which
seem to express that a prey has escaped.
Thus glowered the
Caskest while the Matutina fled.
The lighthouse pa=
led
in distance, faded, and disappeared.
There was somethi=
ng
mournful in its extinction. Layers of mist sank down upon the now uncertain
light. Its rays died in the waste of waters; the flame floated, struggled,
sank, and lost its form. It might have been a drowning creature. The brasier
dwindled to the snuff of a candle; then nothing; more but a weak, uncertain
flutter. Around it spread a circle of extravasated glimmer; it was like the
quenching of: light in the pit of night.
The bell which had
threatened was dumb. The lighthouse which had threatened had melted away. A=
nd
yet it was more awful now that they had ceased to threaten. One was a voice,
the other a torch. There was something human about them.
They were gone, a=
nd
nought remained but the abyss.
CHAPTER XIII - FACE TO FACE WITH NIGHT.=
Again was the hooker running with t=
he
shadow into immeasurable darkness.
The Matutina, esc=
aped
from the Caskets, sank and rose from billow to billow. A respite, but in ch=
aos.
Spun round by the
wind, tossed by all the thousand motions of the wave, she reflected every m=
ad
oscillation of the sea. She scarcely pitched at all--a terrible symptom of a
ship's distress. Wrecks merely roll. Pitching is a convulsion of the strife.
The helm alone can turn a vessel to the wind.
In storms, and mo=
re
especially in the meteors of snow, sea and night end by melting into
amalgamation, resolving into nothing but a smoke. Mists, whirlwinds, gales,
motion in all directions, no basis, no shelter, no stop. Constant
recommencement, one gulf succeeding another. No horizon visible; intense
blackness for background. Through all these the hooker drifted.
To have got free =
of
the Caskets, to have eluded the rock, was a victory for the shipwrecked men;
but it was a victory which left them in stupor. They had raised no cheer: at
sea such an imprudence is not repeated twice. To throw down a challenge whe=
re
they could not cast the lead, would have been too serious a jest.
The repulse of the
rock was an impossibility achieved. They were petrified by it. By degrees,
however, they began to hope again. Such are the insubmergable mirages of the
soul! There is no distress so complete but that even in the most critical
moments the inexplicable sunrise of hope is seen in its depths. These poor
wretches were ready to acknowledge to themselves that they were saved. It w=
as
on their lips.
But suddenly
something terrible appeared to them in the darkness.
On the port bow
arose, standing stark, cut out on the background of mist, a tall, opaque ma=
ss,
vertical, right-angled, a tower of the abyss. They watched it open-mouthed.=
The storm was dri=
ving
them towards it.
They knew not wha=
t it
was. It was the Ortach rock.
The reef reappeared. After the Cask=
ets
comes Ortach. The storm is no artist; brutal and all-powerful, it never var=
ies
its appliances. The darkness is inexhaustible. Its snares and perfidies nev=
er
come to an end. As for man, he soon comes to the bottom of his resources. M=
an expends
his strength, the abyss never.
The shipwrecked m=
en
turned towards the chief, their hope. He could only shrug his shoulders. Di=
smal
contempt of helplessness.
A pavement in the
midst of the ocean--such is the Ortach rock. The Ortach, all of a piece, ri=
ses
up in a straight line to eighty feet above the angry beating of the waves.
Waves and ships break against it. An immovable cube, it plunges its rectili=
near
planes apeak into the numberless serpentine curves of the sea.
At night it stand=
s an
enormous block resting on the folds of a huge black sheet. In time of storm=
it
awaits the stroke of the axe, which is the thunder-clap.
But there is neve=
r a
thunder-clap during the snowstorm. True, the ship has the bandage round her
eyes; darkness is knotted about her; she is like one prepared to be led to =
the
scaffold. As for the thunderbolt, which makes quick ending, it is not to be
hoped for.
The Matutina, not=
hing
better than a log upon the waters, drifted towards this rock as she had dri=
fted
towards the other. The poor wretches on board, who had for a moment believed
themselves saved, relapsed into their agony. The destruction they had left
behind faced them again. The reef reappeared from the bottom of the sea.
Nothing had been gained.
The Caskets are a
figuring iron[7] with a thousand compartments. The Ortach is a wall. To be
wrecked on the Caskets is to be cut into ribbons; to strike on the Ortach i=
s to
be crushed into powder.
Nevertheless, the=
re
was one chance.
On a straight
frontage such as that of the Ortach neither the wave nor the cannon ball can
ricochet. The operation is simple: first the flux, then the reflux; a wave
advances, a billow returns.
In such cases the
question of life and death is balanced thus: if the wave carries the vessel=
on
the rock, she breaks on it and is lost; if the billow retires before the sh=
ip
has touched, she is carried back, she is saved.
It was a moment of
great anxiety; those on board saw through the gloom the great decisive wave
bearing down on them. How far was it going to drag them? If the wave broke =
upon
the ship, they were carried on the rock and dashed to pieces. If it passed
under the ship....
The wave did pass
under.
They breathed aga=
in.
But what of the
recoil? What would the surf do with them? The surf carried them back. A few
minutes later the Matutina was free of the breakers. The Ortach faded from =
their
view, as the Caskets had done. It was their second victory. For the second =
time
the hooker had verged on destruction, and had drawn back in time.
CHAPTER XV - PORTENTOSUM MARE.
Meanwhile a thickening mist had des=
cended
on the drifting wretches. They were ignorant of their whereabouts, they cou=
ld
scarcely see a cable's length around. Despite a furious storm of hail which
forced them to bend down their heads, the women had obstinately refused to =
go
below again. No one, however hopeless, but wishes, if shipwreck be inevitab=
le,
to meet it in the open air. When so near death, a ceiling above one's head =
seems
like the first outline of a coffin.
They were now in a
short and chopping sea. A turgid sea indicates its constraint. Even in a fog
the entrance into a strait may be known by the boiling-like appearance of t=
he
waves. And thus it was, for they were unconsciously coasting Aurigny. Betwe=
en
the west of Ortach and the Caskets and the east of Aurigny the sea is hemme=
d in
and cramped, and the uneasy position determines locally the condition of
storms. The sea suffers like others, and when it suffers it is irritable. T=
hat
channel is a thing to fear.
The Matutina was =
in
it.
Imagine under the=
sea
a tortoise shell as big as Hyde Park or the Champs Elysées, of which
every striature is a shallow, and every embossment a reef. Such is the west=
ern
approach of Aurigny. The sea covers and conceals this ship-wrecking apparat=
us.
On this conglomeration of submarine breakers the cloven waves leap and foam=
--in
calm weather, a chopping sea; in storms, a chaos.
The shipwrecked m=
en
observed this new complication without endeavouring to explain it to
themselves. Suddenly they understood it. A pale vista broadened in the zeni=
th;
a wan tinge overspread the sea; the livid light revealed on the port side a
long shoal stretching eastward, towards which the power of the rushing wind=
was
driving the vessel. The shoal was Aurigny.
What was that sho=
al?
They shuddered. They would have shuddered even more had a voice answered
them--Aurigny.
No isle so well
defended against man's approach as Aurigny. Below and above water it is
protected by a savage guard, of which Ortach is the outpost. To the west,
Burhou, Sauteriaux, Anfroque, Niangle, Fond du Croc, Les Jumelles, La Gross=
e,
La Clanque, Les Eguillons, Le Vrac, La Fosse-Malière; to the east,
Sauquet, Hommeau Floreau, La Brinebetais, La Queslingue, Croquelihou, La
Fourche, Le Saut, Noire Pute, Coupie, Orbue. These are hydra-monsters of the
species reef.
One of these reef=
s is
called Le But, the goal, as if to imply that every voyage ends there.
This obstruction =
of
rocks, simplified by night and sea, appeared to the shipwrecked men in the
shape of a single dark band, a sort of black blot on the horizon.
Shipwreck is the
ideal of helplessness; to be near land, and unable to reach it; to float, y=
et
not to be able to do so in any desired direction; to rest the foot on what
seems firm and is fragile; to be full of life, when o'ershadowed by death; =
to
be the prisoner of space; to be walled in between sky and ocean; to have the
infinite overhead like a dungeon; to be encompassed by the eluding elements=
of
wind and waves; and to be seized, bound, paralyzed--such a load of misfortu=
ne stupefies
and crushes us. We imagine that in it we catch a glimpse of the sneer of the
opponent who is beyond our reach. That which holds you fast is that which
releases the birds and sets the fishes free. It appears nothing, and is
everything. We are dependent on the air which is ruffled by our mouths; we =
are
dependent on the water which we catch in the hollow of our hands. Draw a
glassful from the storm, and it is but a cup of bitterness--a mouthful is
nausea, a waveful is extermination. The grain of sand in the desert, the
foam-flake on the sea, are fearful symptoms. Omnipotence takes no care to h=
ide
its atom, it changes weakness into strength, fills naught with all; and it =
is
with the infinitely little that the infinitely great crushes you. It is with
its drops the ocean dissolves you. You feel you are a plaything.
A plaything--ghas=
tly
epithet!
The Matutina was a
little above Aurigny, which was not an unfavourable
position; but she=
was
drifting towards its northern point, which was fatal. As a bent bow dischar=
ges
its arrow, the nor'-wester was shooting the vessel towards the northern cap=
e.
Off that point, a little beyond the harbour of Corbelets, is that which the
seamen of the Norman archipelago call a "singe."
The
"singe," or race, is a furious kind of current. A wreath of funne=
ls
in the shallows produces in the waves a wreath of whirlpools. You escape on=
e to
fall into another. A ship caught hold of by the race, winds round and round
until some sharp rock cleaves her hull; then the shattered vessel stops, her
stern rises from the waves, the stem completes the revolution in the abyss,=
the
stern sinks in, and all is sucked down. A circle of foam broadens and float=
s,
and nothing more is seen on the surface of the waves but a few bubbles here=
and
there rising from the smothered breathings below.
The three most
dangerous races in the whole Channel are one close to the well-known Girdler
Sands, one at Jersey between the Pignonnet and the Point of Noirmont, and t=
he
race of Aurigny.
Had a local pilot
been on board the Matutina, he could have warned them of their fresh peril.=
In
place of a pilot, they had their instinct. In situations of extreme danger =
men
are endowed with second sight. High contortions of foam were flying along t=
he
coast in the frenzied raid of the wind. It was the spitting of the race. Ma=
ny a
bark has been swamped in that snare. Without knowing what awaited them, they
approached the spot with horror.
How to double that
cape? There were no means of doing it.
Just as they had
seen, first the Caskets, then Ortach, rise before them, they now saw the po=
int
of Aurigny, all of steep rock. It was like a number of giants, rising up one
after another--a series of frightful duels.
Charybdis and Scy=
lla
are but two; the Caskets, Ortach, and Aurigny are three.
The phenomenon of=
the
horizon being invaded by the rocks was thus repeated with the grand monoton=
y of
the abyss. The battles of the ocean have the same sublime tautology as the
combats of Homer.
Each wave, as they
neared it, added twenty cubits to the cape, awfully magnified by the mist; =
the
fast decreasing distance seemed more inevitable--they were touching the ski=
rts
of the race! The first fold which seized them would drag them in--another w=
ave
surmounted, and all would be over.
Suddenly the hook=
er
was driven back, as by the blow of a Titan's fist. The wave reared up under=
the
vessel and fell back, throwing the waif back in its mane of foam. The Matut=
ina,
thus impelled, drifted away from Aurigny.
She was again on =
the
open sea.
Whence had come t= he succour? From the wind. The breath of the storm had changed its direction.<= o:p>
The wave had play=
ed
with them; now it was the wind's turn. They had saved themselves from the
Caskets. Off Ortach it was the wave which had been their friend. Now it was=
the
wind. The wind had suddenly veered from north to south. The sou'-wester had
succeeded the nor'-wester.
The current is the
wind in the waters; the wind is the current in the air. These two forces had
just counteracted each other, and it had been the wind's will to snatch its
prey from the current.
The sudden fantas=
ies
of ocean are uncertain. They are, perhaps, an embodiment of the perpetual, =
when
at their mercy man must neither hope nor despair. They do and they undo. The
ocean amuses itself. Every shade of wild, untamed ferocity is phased in the
vastness of that cunning sea, which Jean Bart used to call the "great
brute." To its claws and their gashings succeed soft intervals of velv=
et
paws. Sometimes the storm hurries on a wreck, at others it works out the
problem with care; it might almost be said that it caresses it. The sea can
afford to take its time, as men in their agonies find out.
We must own that
occasionally these lulls of the torture announce deliverance. Such cases are
rare. However this may be, men in extreme peril are quick to believe in res=
cue;
the slightest pause in the storm's threats is sufficient; they tell themsel=
ves
that they are out of danger. After believing themselves buried, they declare
their resurrection; they feverishly embrace what they do not yet possess; i=
t is
clear that the bad luck has turned; they declare themselves satisfied; they=
are
saved; they cry quits with God. They should not be in so great a hurry to g=
ive receipts
to the Unknown.
The sou'-wester s=
et
in with a whirlwind. Shipwrecked men have never any but rough helpers. The
Matutina was dragged rapidly out to sea by the remnant of her rigging--like=
a
dead woman trailed by the hair. It was like the enfranchisement granted by
Tiberius, at the price of violation.
The wind treated =
with
brutality those whom it saved; it rendered service with fury; it was help
without pity.
The wreck was
breaking up under the severity of its deliverers.
Hailstones, big a=
nd
hard enough to charge a blunderbuss, smote the vessel; at every rotation of=
the
waves these hailstones rolled about the deck like marbles. The hooker, whose
deck was almost flush with the water, was being beaten out of shape by the
rolling masses of water and its sheets of spray. On board it each man was f=
or
himself.
They clung on as =
best
they could. As each sea swept over them, it was with a sense of surprise th=
ey
saw that all were still there. Several had their faces torn by splinters.
Happily despair h=
as
stout hands. In terror a child's hand has the grasp of a giant. Agony makes=
a
vice of a woman's fingers. A girl in her fright can almost bury her
rose-coloured fingers in a piece of iron. With hooked fingers they hung on
somehow, as the waves dashed on and passed off them; but every wave brought
them the fear of being swept away.
Suddenly they were
relieved.
CHAPTER XVI - THE PROBLEM SUDDENLY WORKS IN SILENCE.
The hurricane had just stopped shor=
t.
There was no longer in the air sou'-wester or nor'-wester. The fierce clari=
ons
of space were mute. The whole of the waterspout had poured from the sky wit=
hout
any warning of diminution, as if it had slided perpendicularly into a gulf
beneath. None knew what had become of it; flakes replaced the hailstones, t=
he snow
began to fall slowly. No more swell: the sea flattened down.
Such sudden
cessations are peculiar to snowstorms. The electric effluvium exhausted, all
becomes still, even the wave, which in ordinary storms often remains agitat=
ed
for a long time. In snowstorms it is not so. No prolonged anger in the deep.
Like a tired-out worker it becomes drowsy directly, thus almost giving the =
lie
to the laws of statics, but not astonishing old seamen, who know that the s=
ea
is full of unforeseen surprises.
The same phenomen=
on
takes place, although very rarely, in ordinary storms. Thus, in our time, on
the occasion of the memorable hurricane of July 27th, 1867, at Jersey the w=
ind,
after fourteen hours' fury, suddenly relapsed into a dead calm.
In a few minutes =
the
hooker was floating in sleeping waters.
At the same time =
(for
the last phase of these storms resembles the first) they could distinguish
nothing; all that had been made visible in the convulsions of the meteoric
cloud was again dark. Pale outlines were fused in vague mist, and the gloom=
of
infinite space closed about the vessel. The wall of night--that circular
occlusion, that interior of a cylinder the diameter of which was lessening
minute by minute--enveloped the Matutina, and, with the sinister deliberati=
on
of an encroaching iceberg, was drawing in dangerously. In the zenith nothin=
g--a
lid of fog closing down. It was as if the hooker were at the bottom of the =
well
of the abyss.
In that well the =
sea
was a puddle of liquid lead. No stir in the waters--ominous immobility! The
ocean is never less tamed than when it is still as a pool.
All was silence,
stillness, blindness.
Perchance the sil=
ence
of inanimate objects is taciturnity.
The last ripples
glided along the hull. The deck was horizontal, with an insensible slope to=
the
sides. Some broken planks were shifting about irresolutely. The block on wh=
ich
they had lighted the tow steeped in tar, in place of the signal light which=
had
been swept away, swung no longer at the prow, and no longer let fall burning
drops into the sea. What little breeze remained in the clouds was noiseless.
The snow fell thickly, softly, with scarce a slant. No foam of breakers cou=
ld
be heard. The peace of shadows was over all.
This repose
succeeding all the past exasperations and paroxysms was, for the poor creat=
ures
so long tossed about, an unspeakable comfort. It was as though the punishme=
nt
of the rack had ceased. They caught a glimpse about them and above them of
something which seemed like a consent, that they should be saved. They rega=
ined
confidence. All that had been fury was now tranquillity. It appeared to the=
m a
pledge of peace. Their wretched hearts dilated. They were able to let go the
end of rope or beam to which they had clung, to rise, hold themselves up,
stand, walk, move about. They felt inexpressibly calmed. There are in the
depths of darkness such phases of paradise, preparations for other things. =
It
was clear that they were delivered out of the storm, out of the foam, out o=
f the
wind, out of the uproar. Henceforth all the chances were in their favour. In
three or four hours it would be sunrise. They would be seen by some passing
ship; they would be rescued. The worst was over; they were re-entering life.
The important feat was to have been able to keep afloat until the cessation=
of
the tempest. They said to themselves, "It is all over this time."=
Suddenly they fou=
nd
that all was indeed over.
One of the sailor=
s,
the northern Basque, Galdeazun by name, went down into the hold to look for=
a
rope, then came above again and said,--
"The hold is
full."
"Of what?&qu=
ot;
asked the chief.
"Of water,&q=
uot;
answered the sailor.
The chief cried
out,--
"What does t=
hat
mean?"
"It means,&q=
uot;
replied Galdeazun, "that in half an hour we shall founder."
CHAPTER XVII - THE LAST RESOURCE.
There was a hole in the keel. A lea=
k had
been sprung. When it happened no one could have said. Was it when they touc=
hed
the Caskets? Was it off Ortach? Was it when they were whirled about the
shallows west of Aurigny? It was most probable that they had touched some r=
ock
there. They had struck against some hidden buttress which they had not felt=
in the
midst of the convulsive fury of the wind which was tossing them. In tetanus=
who
would feel a prick?
The other sailor,=
the
southern Basque, whose name was Ave Maria, went down into the hold, too, ca=
me
on deck again, and said,--
"There are t=
wo
varas of water in the hold."
About six feet.
Ave Maria added,
"In less than forty minutes we shall sink."
Where was the lea=
k?
They couldn't find it. It was hidden by the water which was filling up the
hold. The vessel had a hole in her hull somewhere under the water-line, qui=
te
forward in the keel. Impossible to find it--impossible to check it. They ha=
d a
wound which they could not stanch. The water, however, was not rising very
fast.
The chief called =
out,
"We must work
the pump."
Galdeazun replied,
"We have no pump left."
"Then,"
said the chief, "we must make for land."
"Where is the
land?"
"I don't
know."
"Nor I."=
;
"But it must=
be
somewhere."
"True
enough."
"Let some one
steer for it."
"We have no
pilot."
"Stand to the
tiller yourself."
"We have lost
the tiller."
"Let's rig o=
ne
out of the first beam we can lay hands on. Nails--a hammer--quick--some
tools."
"The carpent=
er's
box is overboard, we have no tools."
"We'll steer=
all
the same, no matter where."
"The rudder =
is
lost."
"Where is the
boat? We'll get in and row."
"The boat is=
lost."
"We'll row t=
he
wreck."
"We have lost
the oars."
"We'll
sail."
"We have lost
the sails and the mast."
"We'll rig o=
ne
up with a pole and a tarpaulin for sail Let's get clear of this and trust in
the wind."
"There is no
wind."
The wind, indeed,=
had
left them, the storm had fled; and its departure, which they had believed to
mean safety, meant, in fact, destruction. Had the sou'-wester continued it
might have driven them wildly on some shore--might have beaten the leak in
speed--might, perhaps, have carried them to some propitious sandbank, and c=
ast
them on it before the hooker foundered. The swiftness of the storm, bearing
them away, might have enabled them to reach land; but no more wind, no more
hope. They were going to die because the hurricane was over.
The end was near!=
Wind, hail, the
hurricane, the whirlwind--these are wild combatants that may be overcome; t=
he
storm can be taken in the weak point of its armour; there are resources aga=
inst
the violence which continually lays itself open, is off its guard, and often
hits wide. But nothing is to be done against a calm; it offers nothing to t=
he
grasp of which you can lay hold.
The winds are a
charge of Cossacks: stand your ground and they disperse. Calms are the pinc=
ers
of the executioner.
The water, delibe=
rate
and sure, irrepressible and heavy, rose in the hold, and as it rose the ves=
sel
sank--it was happening slowly.
Those on board the
wreck of the Matutina felt that most hopeless of catastrophes--an inert
catastrophe undermining them. The still and sinister certainty of their fate
petrified them. No stir in the air, no movement on the sea. The motionless =
is
the inexorable. Absorption was sucking them down silently. Through the dept=
hs
of the dumb waters--without anger, without passion, not willing, not knowin=
g,
not caring--the fatal centre of the globe was attracting them downwards. Ho=
rror
in repose amalgamating them with itself. It was no longer the wide open mou=
th
of the sea, the double jaw of the wind and the wave, vicious in its threat,=
the
grin of the waterspout, the foaming appetite of the breakers--it was as if =
the
wretched beings had under them the black yawn of the infinite.
They felt themsel=
ves
sinking into Death's peaceful depths. The height between the vessel and the
water was lessening--that was all. They could calculate her disappearance to
the moment. It was the exact reverse of submersion by the rising tide. The
water was not rising towards them; they were sinking towards it. They were
digging their own grave. Their own weight was their sexton.
They were being
executed, not by the law of man, but by the law of things.
The snow was fall=
ing,
and as the wreck was now motionless, this white lint made a cloth over the =
deck
and covered the vessel as with a winding-sheet.
The hold was beco=
ming
fuller and deeper--no means of getting at the leak. They struck a light and
fixed three or four torches in holes as best they could. Galdeazun brought =
some
old leathern buckets, and they tried to bale the hold out, standing in a ro=
w to
pass them from hand to hand; but the buckets were past use, the leather of =
some
was unstitched, there were holes in the bottoms of the others, and the buck=
ets
emptied themselves on the way. The difference in quantity between the water=
which
was making its way in and that which they returned to the sea was ludicrous=
--for
a ton that entered a glassful was baled out; they did not improve their
condition. It was like the expenditure of a miser, trying to exhaust a mill=
ion,
halfpenny by halfpenny.
The chief said,
"Let us lighten the wreck."
During the storm =
they
had lashed together the few chests which were on deck. These remained tied =
to
the stump of the mast. They undid the lashings and rolled the chests overbo=
ard
through a breach in the gunwale. One of these trunks belonged to the Basque
woman, who could not repress a sigh.
"Oh, my new
cloak lined with scarlet! Oh, my poor stockings of birchen-bark lace! Oh, my
silver ear-rings to wear at mass on May Day!"
The deck cleared,
there remained the cabin to be seen to. It was greatly encumbered; in it we=
re,
as may be remembered, the luggage belonging to the passengers, and the bales
belonging to the sailors. They took the luggage, and threw it over the gunw=
ale.
They carried up the bales and cast them into the sea.
Thus they emptied=
the
cabin. The lantern, the cap, the barrels, the sacks, the bales, and the
water-butts, the pot of soup, all went over into the waves.
They unscrewed the
nuts of the iron stove, long since extinguished: they pulled it out, hoiste=
d it
on deck, dragged it to the side, and threw it out of the vessel.
They cast overboa=
rd
everything they could pull out of the deck--chains, shrouds, and torn riggi=
ng.
From time to time=
the
chief took a torch, and throwing its light on the figures painted on the pr=
ow
to show the draught of water, looked to see how deep the wreck had settled
down.
CHAPTER XVIII - THE HIGHEST RESOURCE.
The wreck being lightened, was sink=
ing
more slowly, but none the less surely.
The hopelessness =
of
their situation was without resource--without mitigation; they had exhausted
their last expedient.
"Is there
anything else we can throw overboard?"
The doctor, whom
every one had forgotten, rose from the companion, and said,
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What?"
asked the chief.
The doctor answer=
ed,
"Our Crime."
They shuddered, a=
nd
all cried out,--
"Amen."=
The doctor standi=
ng
up, pale, raised his hand to heaven, saying,--
"Kneel
down."
They wavered--to
waver is the preface to kneeling down.
The doctor went o=
n,--
"Let us throw
our crimes into the sea, they weigh us down; it is they that are sinking the
ship. Let us think no more of safety--let us think of salvation. Our last
crime, above all, the crime which we committed, or rather completed, just
now--O wretched beings who are listening to me--it is that which is
overwhelming us. For those who leave intended murder behind them, it is an
impious insolence to tempt the abyss. He who sins against a child, sins aga=
inst
God. True, we were obliged to put to sea, but it was certain perdition. The
storm, warned by the shadow of our crime, came on. It is well. Regret nothi=
ng,
however. There, not far off in the darkness, are the sands of Vauville and =
Cape
la Hogue. It is France. There was but one possible shelter for us, which was
Spain. France is no less dangerous to us than England. Our deliverance from=
the
sea would have led but to the gibbet. Hanged or drowned--we had no alternat=
ive.
God has chosen for us; let us give Him thanks. He has vouchsafed us the gra=
ve
which cleanses. Brethren, the inevitable hand is in it. Remember that it wa=
s we
who just now did our best to send on high that child, and that at this very
moment, now as I speak, there is perhaps, above our heads, a soul accusing =
us
before a Judge whose eye is on us. Let us make the best use of this last
respite; let us make an effort, if we still may, to repair, as far as we are
able, the evil that we have wrought. If the child survives us, let us come =
to
his aid; if he is dead, let us seek his forgiveness. Let us cast our crime =
from
us. Let us ease our consciences of its weight. Let us strive that our souls=
be not
swallowed up before God, for that is the awful shipwreck. Bodies go to the
fishes, souls to the devils. Have pity on yourselves. Kneel down, I tell yo=
u.
Repentance is the bark which never sinks. You have lost your compass! You a=
re
wrong! You still have prayer."
The wolves became
lambs--such transformations occur in last agonies; tigers lick the crucifix;
when the dark portal opens ajar, belief is difficult, unbelief impossible.
However imperfect may be the different sketches of religion essayed by man,
even when his belief is shapeless, even when the outline of the dogma is no=
t in
harmony with the lineaments of the eternity he foresees, there comes in his
last hour a trembling of the soul. There is something which will begin when
life is over; this thought impresses the last pang.
A man's dying ago=
ny
is the expiration of a term. In that fatal second he feels weighing on him a
diffused responsibility. That which has been complicates that which is to b=
e.
The past returns and enters into the future. What is known becomes as much =
an
abyss as the unknown. And the two chasms, the one which is full by his faul=
ts,
the other of his anticipations, mingle their reverberations. It is this
confusion of the two gulfs which terrifies the dying man.
They had spent th=
eir
last grain of hope on the direction of life; hence they turned in the other.
Their only remaining chance was in its dark shadow. They understood it. It =
came
on them as a lugubrious flash, followed by the relapse of horror. That whic=
h is
intelligible to the dying man is as what is perceived in the lightning.
Everything, then nothing; you see, then all is blindness. After death the e=
ye
will reopen, and that which was a flash will become a sun.
They cried out to=
the
doctor,--
"Thou, thou, there is no one but thee. We will obey thee, what must we do? Speak."<= o:p>
The doctor
answered,--
"The questio=
n is
how to pass over the unknown precipice and reach the other bank of life, wh=
ich
is beyond the tomb. Being the one who knows the most, my danger is greater =
than
yours. You do well to leave the choice of the bridge to him whose burden is=
the
heaviest."
He added,--
"Knowledge i=
s a
weight added to conscience."
He continued,--
"How much ti=
me
have we still?"
Galdeazun looked =
at
the water-mark, and answered,--
"A little mo=
re
than a quarter of an hour."
"Good,"
said the doctor.
The low hood of t=
he
companion on which he leant his elbows made a sort of table; the doctor took
from his pocket his inkhorn and pen, and his pocket-book out of which he dr=
ew a
parchment, the same one on the back of which he had written, a few hours
before, some twenty cramped and crooked lines.
"A light,&qu=
ot;
he said.
The snow, falling
like the spray of a cataract, had extinguished the torches one after anothe=
r;
there was but one left. Ave Maria took it out of the place where it had been
stuck, and holding it in his hand, came and stood by the doctor's side.
The doctor replac=
ed
his pocket-book in his pocket, put down the pen and inkhorn on the hood of =
the
companion, unfolded the parchment, and said,--
"Listen.&quo=
t;
Then in the midst=
of
the sea, on the failing bridge (a sort of shuddering flooring of the tomb),=
the
doctor began a solemn reading, to which all the shadows seemed to listen. T=
he
doomed men bowed their heads around him. The flaming of the torch intensifi=
ed
their pallor. What the doctor read was written in English. Now and then, wh=
en
one of those woebegone looks seemed to ask an explanation, the doctor would
stop, to repeat--whether in French, or Spanish, Basque, or Italian--the pas=
sage
he had just read. Stifled sobs and hollow beatings of the breast were heard.
The wreck was sinking more and more.
The reading over,=
the
doctor placed the parchment flat on the companion, seized his pen, and on a
clear margin which he had carefully left at the bottom of what he had writt=
en,
he signed himself, GERNARDUS GEESTEMUNDE: Doctor.
Then, turning tow=
ards
the others, he said,--
"Come, and
sign."
The Basque woman
approached, took the pen, and signed herself, ASUNCION.
She handed the pe=
n to
the Irish woman, who, not knowing how to write, made a cross.
The doctor, by the
side of this cross, wrote, BARBARA FERMOY, of Tyrrif Island, in the Hebride=
s.
Then he handed the
pen to the chief of the band.
The chief signed,
GAIZDORRA: Captal.
The Genoese signed
himself under the chief's name. GIANGIRATE.
The Languedocian
signed, JACQUES QUARTOURZE: alias, the Narbonnais.
The Provenç=
;al
signed, LUC-PIERRE CAPGAROUPE, of the Galleys of Mahon.
Under these
signatures the doctor added a note:--
"Of the crew=
of
three men, the skipper having been washed overboard by a sea, but two remai=
n,
and they have signed."
The two sailors
affixed their names underneath the note. The northern Basque signed himself=
, GALDEAZUN.
The southern Basq=
ue
signed, AVE MARIA: Robber.
Then the doctor
said,--
"Capgaroupe.=
"
"Here,"
said the Provençal.
"Have you
Hardquanonne's flask?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Give it
me."
Capgaroupe drank =
off
the last mouthful of brandy, and handed the flask to the doctor.
The water was ris=
ing
in the hold; the wreck was sinking deeper and deeper into the sea. The slop=
ing
edges of the ship were covered by a thin gnawing wave, which was rising. All
were crowded on the centre of the deck.
The doctor dried =
the
ink on the signatures by the heat of the torch, and folding the parchment i=
nto
a narrower compass than the diameter of the neck, put it into the flask. He
called for the cork.
"I don't know
where it is," said Capgaroupe.
"Here is a p=
iece
of rope," said Jacques Quartourze.
The doctor corked=
the
flask with a bit of rope, and asked for some tar. Galdeazun went forward,
extinguished the signal light with a piece of tow, took the vessel in which=
it
was contained from the stern, and brought it, half full of burning tar, to =
the
doctor.
The flask holding=
the
parchment which they had all signed was corked and tarred over.
"It is
done," said the doctor.
And from out all
their mouths, vaguely stammered in every language, came the dismal utteranc=
es
of the catacombs.
"Ainsi
soit-il!"
"Mea
culpa!"
"Asi sea!&qu=
ot;
"Aro
raï!"
"Amen!"=
It was as though =
the
sombre voices of Babel were scattered through the shadows as Heaven uttered=
its
awful refusal to hear them.
The doctor turned
away from his companions in crime and distress, and took a few steps towards
the gunwale. Reaching the side, he looked into space, and said, in a deep
voice,--
"Bist du bei
mir?"[8]
Perchance he was
addressing some phantom.
The wreck was
sinking.
Behind the doctor=
all
the others were in a dream. Prayer mastered them by main force. They did not
bow, they were bent. There was something involuntary in their condition; th=
ey
wavered as a sail flaps when the breeze fails. And the haggard group took by
degrees, with clasping of hands and prostration of foreheads, attitudes
various, yet of humiliation. Some strange reflection of the deep seemed to
soften their villainous features.
The doctor return=
ed
towards them. Whatever had been his past, the old man was great in the pres=
ence
of the catastrophe.
The deep reserve =
of
nature which enveloped him preoccupied without disconcerting him. He was not
one to be taken unawares. Over him was the calm of a silent horror: on his
countenance the majesty of God's will comprehended.
This old and
thoughtful outlaw unconsciously assumed the air of a pontiff.
He said,--
"Attend to
me."
He contemplated f=
or a
moment the waste of water, and added,--
"Now we are
going to die."
Then he took the
torch from the hands of Ave Maria, and waved it.
A spark broke fro=
m it
and flew into the night.
Then the doctor c=
ast
the torch into the sea.
The torch was
extinguished: all light disappeared. Nothing left but the huge, unfathomable
shadow. It was like the filling up of the grave.
In the darkness t=
he
doctor was heard saying,--
"Let us
pray."
All knelt down.
It was no longer =
on
the snow, but in the water, that they knelt.
They had but a few
minutes more.
The doctor alone
remained standing.
The flakes of snow
falling on him had sprinkled him with white tears, and made him visible on =
the
background of darkness. He might have been the speaking statue of the shado=
w.
The doctor made t=
he
sign of the cross and raised his voice, while beneath his feet he felt that
almost imperceptible oscillation which prefaces the moment in which a wreck=
is
about to founder. He said,--
"Pater noster
qui es in coelis."
The Provenç=
;al
repeated in French,--
"Notre
Père qui êtes aux cieux."
The Irishwoman
repeated in Gaelic, understood by the Basque woman,--
"Ar nathair =
ata
ar neamh."
The doctor contin=
ued,--
"Sanctificet=
ur
nomen tuum."
"Que votre n=
om
soit sanctifié," said the Provençal.
"Naomhthar
hainm," said the Irishwoman.
"Adveniat re=
gnum
tuum," continued the doctor.
"Que votre
règne arrive," said the Provençal.
"Tigeadh do
rioghachd," said the Irishwoman.
As they knelt, the
waters had risen to their shoulders. The doctor went on,--
"Fiat volunt=
as
tua."
"Que votre
volonté soit faite," stammered the Provençal.
And the Irishwoman
and Basque woman cried,--
"Deuntar do
thoil ar an Hhalàmb."
"Sicut in co=
elo,
sicut in terra," said the doctor.
No voice answered
him.
He looked down. A=
ll
their heads were under water. They had let themselves be drowned on their
knees.
The doctor took in
his right hand the flask which he had placed on the companion, and raised it
above his head.
The wreck was goi=
ng
down. As he sank, the doctor murmured the rest of the prayer.
For an instant his
shoulders were above water, then his head, then nothing remained but his arm
holding up the flask, as if he were showing it to the Infinite.
His arm disappear=
ed;
there was no greater fold on the deep sea than there would have been on a t=
un
of oil. The snow continued falling.
One thing floated,
and was carried by the waves into the darkness. It was the tarred flask, ke=
pt
afloat by its osier cover.
BOOK THE THIRD - THE CHILD IN THE SHADOW.=
a>
The storm was no less severe on lan=
d than
on sea. The same wild enfranchisement of the elements had taken place around
the abandoned child. The weak and innocent become their sport in the
expenditure of the unreasoning rage of their blind forces. Shadows discern =
not,
and things inanimate have not the clemency they are supposed to possess.
On the land there=
was
but little wind. There was an inexplicable dumbness in the cold. There was =
no
hail. The thickness of the falling snow was fearful.
Hailstones strike,
harass, bruise, stun, crush. Snowflakes do worse: soft and inexorable, the
snowflake does its work in silence; touch it, and it melts. It is pure, eve=
n as
the hypocrite is candid. It is by white particles slowly heaped upon each o=
ther
that the flake becomes an avalanche and the knave a criminal.
The child continu=
ed
to advance into the mist. The fog presents but a soft obstacle; hence its
danger. It yields, and yet persists. Mist, like snow, is full of treachery.=
The
child, strange wrestler at war with all these risks, had succeeded in reach=
ing
the bottom of the descent, and had gained Chesil. Without knowing it he was=
on
an isthmus, with the ocean on each side; so that he could not lose his way =
in
the fog, in the snow, or in the darkness, without falling into the deep wat=
ers
of the gulf on the right hand, or into the raging billows of the high sea o=
n the
left. He was travelling on, in ignorance, between these two abysses.
The Isthmus of
Portland was at this period singularly sharp and rugged. Nothing remains at
this date of its past configuration. Since the idea of manufacturing Portla=
nd
stone into Roman cement was first seized, the whole rock has been subjected=
to
an alteration which has completely changed its original appearance. Calcare=
ous
lias, slate, and trap are still to be found there, rising from layers of
conglomerate, like teeth from a gum; but the pickaxe has broken up and leve=
lled
those bristling, rugged peaks which were once the fearful perches of the
ossifrage. The summits exist no longer where the labbes and the skua gulls =
used
to flock together, soaring, like the envious, to sully high places. In vain=
might
you seek the tall monolith called Godolphin, an old British word, signifying
"white eagle." In summer you may still gather on those surfaces,
pierced and perforated like a sponge, rosemary, pennyroyal, wild hyssop, and
sea-fennel which when infused makes a good cordial, and that herb full of k=
nots,
which grows in the sand and from which they make matting; but you no longer
find gray amber, or black tin, or that triple species of slate--one sort gr=
een,
one blue, and the third the colour of sage-leaves. The foxes, the badgers, =
the
otters, and the martens have taken themselves off; on the cliffs of Portlan=
d,
as well as at the extremity of Cornwall, where there were at one time chamo=
is,
none remain. They still fish in some inlets for plaice and pilchards; but t=
he scared
salmon no longer ascend the Wey, between Michaelmas and Christmas, to spawn=
. No
more are seen there, as during the reign of Elizabeth, those old unknown bi=
rds
as large as hawks, who could cut an apple in two, but ate only the pips. You
never meet those crows with yellow beaks, called Cornish choughs in English,
pyrrocorax in Latin, who, in their mischief, would drop burning twigs on
thatched roofs. Nor that magic bird, the fulmar, a wanderer from the Scotti=
sh
archipelago, dropping from his bill an oil which the islanders used to burn=
in
their lamps. Nor do you ever find in the evening, in the plash of the ebbin=
g tide,
that ancient, legendary neitse, with the feet of a hog and the bleat of a c=
alf.
The tide no longer throws up the whiskered seal, with its curled ears and s=
harp
jaws, dragging itself along on its nailless paws. On that Portland--nowaday=
s so
changed as scarcely to be recognized--the absence of forests precluded
nightingales; but now the falcon, the swan, and the wild goose have fled. T=
he
sheep of Portland, nowadays, are fat and have fine wool; the few scattered
ewes, which nibbled the salt grass there two centuries ago, were small and
tough and coarse in the fleece, as became Celtic flocks brought there by ga=
rlic-eating
shepherds, who lived to a hundred, and who, at the distance of half a mile,
could pierce a cuirass with their yard-long arrows. Uncultivated land makes
coarse wool. The Chesil of to-day resembles in no particular the Chesil of =
the
past, so much has it been disturbed by man and by those furious winds which
gnaw the very stones.
At present this
tongue of land bears a railway, terminating in a pretty square of houses,
called Chesilton, and there is a Portland station. Railway carriages roll w=
here
seals used to crawl.
The Isthmus of
Portland two hundred years ago was a back of sand, with a vertebral spine of
rock.
The child's danger
changed its form. What he had had to fear in the descent was falling to the
bottom of the precipice; in the isthmus, it was falling into the holes. Aft=
er
dealing with the precipice, he must deal with the pitfalls. Everything on t=
he
sea-shore is a trap--the rock is slippery, the strand is quicksand.
Resting-places are but snares. It is walking on ice which may suddenly crack
and yawn with a fissure, through which you disappear. The ocean has false
stages below, like a well-arranged theatre.
The long backbone=
of
granite, from which fall away both slopes of the isthmus, is awkward of acc=
ess.
It is difficult to find there what, in scene-shifters' language, are termed
practicables. Man has no hospitality to hope for from the ocean; from the r=
ock
no more than from the wave. The sea is provident for the bird and the fish
alone. Isthmuses are especially naked and rugged; the wave, which wears and=
mines
them on either side, reduces them to the simplest form. Everywhere there we=
re
sharp relief ridges, cuttings, frightful fragments of torn stone, yawning w=
ith
many points, like the jaws of a shark; breaknecks of wet moss, rapid slopes=
of
rock ending in the sea. Whosoever undertakes to pass over an isthmus meets =
at
every step misshapen blocks, as large as houses, in the forms of shin-bones,
shoulder-blades, and thigh-bones, the hideous anatomy of dismembered rocks.=
It
is not without reason that these striæ of the sea-shore are called c&=
ocirc;tes.[9]
The wayfarer must=
get
out as he best can from the confusion of these ruins. It is like journeying
over the bones of an enormous skeleton.
Put a child to th=
is
labour of Hercules.
Broad daylight mi=
ght
have aided him. It was night. A guide was necessary. He was alone. All the
vigour of manhood would not have been too much. He had but the feeble stren=
gth
of a child. In default of a guide, a footpath might have aided him; there w=
as
none.
By instinct he
avoided the sharp ridge of the rocks, and kept to the strand as much as
possible. It was there that he met with the pitfalls. They were multiplied
before him under three forms: the pitfall of water, the pitfall of snow, and
the pitfall of sand. This last is the most dangerous of all, because the mo=
st
illusory. To know the peril we face is alarming; to be ignorant of it is
terrible. The child was fighting against unknown dangers. He was groping his
way through something which might, perhaps, be the grave.
He did not hesita=
te.
He went round the rocks, avoided the crevices, guessed at the pitfalls, obe=
yed
the twistings and turnings caused by such obstacles, yet he went on. Though
unable to advance in a straight line, he walked with a firm step. When
necessary, he drew back with energy. He knew how to tear himself in time fr=
om
the horrid bird-lime of the quicksands. He shook the snow from about him. He
entered the water more than once up to the knees. Directly that he left it,=
his
wet knees were frozen by the intense cold of the night. He walked rapidly in
his stiffened garments; yet he took care to keep his sailor's coat dry and =
warm
on his chest. He was still tormented by hunger.
The chances of the
abyss are illimitable. Everything is possible in it, even salvation. The is=
sue
may be found, though it be invisible. How the child, wrapped in a smothering
winding-sheet of snow, lost on a narrow elevation between two jaws of an ab=
yss,
managed to cross the isthmus is what he could not himself have explained. He
had slipped, climbed, rolled, searched, walked, persevered, that is all. Su=
ch
is the secret of all triumphs. At the end of somewhat less than half an hou=
r he
felt that the ground was rising. He had reached the other shore. Leaving Ch=
esil,
he had gained terra firma.
The bridge which =
now
unites Sandford Castle with Smallmouth Sands did not then exist. It is prob=
able
that in his intelligent groping he had reascended as far as Wyke Regis, whe=
re
there was then a tongue of sand, a natural road crossing East Fleet.
He was saved from=
the
isthmus; but he found himself again face to face with the tempest, with the
cold, with the night.
Before him once m=
ore
lay the plain, shapeless in the density of impenetrable shadow. He examined=
the
ground, seeking a footpath. Suddenly he bent down. He had discovered, in the
snow, something which seemed to him a track.
It was indeed a
track--the print of a foot. The print was cut out clearly in the whiteness =
of
the snow, which rendered it distinctly visible. He examined it. It was a na=
ked
foot; too small for that of a man, too large for that of a child.
It was probably t=
he
foot of a woman. Beyond that mark was another, then another, then another. =
The
footprints followed each other at the distance of a step, and struck across=
the
plain to the right. They were still fresh, and slightly covered with little
snow. A woman had just passed that way.
This woman was
walking in the direction in which the child had seen the smoke. With his ey=
es
fixed on the footprints, he set himself to follow them.
CHAPTER II - THE EFFECT OF SNOW.
He journeyed some time along this c=
ourse.
Unfortunately the footprints were becoming less and less distinct. Dense and
fearful was the falling of the snow. It was the time when the hooker was so
distressed by the snow-storm at sea.
The child, in
distress like the vessel, but after another fashion, had, in the inextricab=
le
intersection of shadows which rose up before him, no resource but the foots=
teps
in the snow, and he held to it as the thread of a labyrinth.
Suddenly, whether=
the
snow had filled them up or for some other reason, the footsteps ceased. All
became even, level, smooth, without a stain, without a detail. There was now
nothing but a white cloth drawn over the earth and a black one over the sky=
. It
seemed as if the foot-passenger had flown away. The child, in despair, bent
down and searched; but in vain.
As he arose he ha=
d a
sensation of hearing some indistinct sound, but he could not be sure of it.=
It
resembled a voice, a breath, a shadow. It was more human than animal; more
sepulchral than living. It was a sound, but the sound of a dream.
He looked, but saw
nothing.
Solitude, wide, n=
aked
and livid, was before him. He listened. That which he had thought he heard =
had
faded away. Perhaps it had been but fancy. He still listened. All was silen=
t.
There was illusio=
n in
the mist.
He went on his way
again. He walked forward at random, with nothing henceforth to guide him.
As he moved away =
the
noise began again. This time he could doubt it no longer. It was a groan,
almost a sob.
He turned. He
searched the darkness of space with his eyes. He saw nothing. The sound aro=
se
once more. If limbo could cry out, it would cry in such a tone.
Nothing so
penetrating, so piercing, so feeble as the voice--for it was a voice. It ar=
ose
from a soul. There was palpitation in the murmur. Nevertheless, it seemed
uttered almost unconsciously. It was an appeal of suffering, not knowing th=
at
it suffered or that it appealed.
The cry--perhaps a
first breath, perhaps a last sigh--was equally distant from the rattle which
closes life and the wail with which it commences. It breathed, it was stifl=
ed,
it wept, a gloomy supplication from the depths of night. The child fixed his
attention everywhere, far, near, on high, below. There was no one. There was
nothing. He listened. The voice arose again. He perceived it distinctly. The
sound somewhat resembled the bleating of a lamb.
Then he was
frightened, and thought of flight.
The groan again. =
This
was the fourth time. It was strangely miserable and plaintive. One felt that
after that last effort, more mechanical than voluntary, the cry would proba=
bly
be extinguished. It was an expiring exclamation, instinctively appealing to=
the
amount of aid held in suspense in space. It was some muttering of agony,
addressed to a possible Providence.
The child approac=
hed
in the direction from whence the sound came.
Still he saw noth=
ing.
He advanced again,
watchfully.
The complaint
continued. Inarticulate and confused as it was, it had become clear--almost
vibrating. The child was near the voice; but where was it?
He was close to a
complaint. The trembling of a cry passed by his side into space. A human mo=
an
floated away into the darkness. This was what he had met. Such at least was=
his
impression, dim as the dense mist in which he was lost.
Whilst he hesitat=
ed between
an instinct which urged him to fly and an instinct which commanded him to
remain, he perceived in the snow at his feet, a few steps before him, a sor=
t of
undulation of the dimensions of a human body--a little eminence, low, long,=
and
narrow, like the mould over a grave--a sepulchre in a white churchyard.
At the same time =
the
voice cried out. It was from beneath the undulation that it proceeded. The
child bent down, crouching before the undulation, and with both his hands b=
egan
to clear it away.
Beneath the snow
which he removed a form grew under his hands; and suddenly in the hollow he=
had
made there appeared a pale face.
The cry had not
proceeded from that face. Its eyes were shut, and the mouth open but full of
snow.
It remained
motionless; it stirred not under the hands of the child. The child, whose
fingers were numbed with frost, shuddered when he touched its coldness. It =
was
that of a woman. Her dishevelled hair was mingled with the snow. The woman =
was
dead.
Again the child s=
et
himself to sweep away the snow. The neck of the dead woman appeared; then h=
er
shoulders, clothed in rags. Suddenly he felt something move feebly under his
touch. It was something small that was buried, and which stirred. The child
swiftly cleared away the snow, discovering a wretched little body--thin, wan
with cold, still alive, lying naked on the dead woman's naked breast.
It was a little g=
irl.
It had been swadd=
led
up, but in rags so scanty that in its struggles it had freed itself from its
tatters. Under it its attenuated limbs, and above it its breath, had somewh=
at
melted the snow. A nurse would have said that it was five or six months old,
but perhaps it might be a year, for growth, in poverty, suffers heart-break=
ing
reductions which sometimes even produce rachitis. When its face was exposed=
to
the air it gave a cry, the continuation of its sobs of distress. For the mo=
ther
not to have heard that sob, proved her irrevocably dead.
The child took the
infant in his arms. The stiffened body of the mother was a fearful sight; a
spectral light proceeded from her face. The mouth, apart and without breath,
seemed to form in the indistinct language of shadows her answer to the
questions put to the dead by the invisible. The ghastly reflection of the i=
cy
plains was on that countenance. There was the youthful forehead under the b=
rown
hair, the almost indignant knitting of the eyebrows, the pinched nostrils, =
the closed
eyelids, the lashes glued together by the rime, and from the corners of the
eyes to the corners of the mouth a deep channel of tears. The snow lighted =
up
the corpse. Winter and the tomb are not adverse. The corpse is the icicle of
man. The nakedness of her breasts was pathetic. They had fulfilled their
purpose. On them was a sublime blight of the life infused into one being by
another from whom life has fled, and maternal majesty was there instead of
virginal purity. At the point of one of the nipples was a white pearl. It w=
as a
drop of milk frozen.
Let us explain at
once. On the plains over which the deserted boy was passing in his turn a
beggar woman, nursing her infant and searching for a refuge, had lost her w=
ay a
few hours before. Benumbed with cold she had sunk under the tempest, and co=
uld
not rise again. The falling snow had covered her. So long as she was able s=
he
had clasped her little girl to her bosom, and thus died.
The infant had tr=
ied
to suck the marble breast. Blind trust, inspired by nature, for it seems th=
at
it is possible for a woman to suckle her child even after her last sigh.
But the lips of t=
he
infant had been unable to find the breast, where the drop of milk, stolen by
death, had frozen, whilst under the snow the child, more accustomed to the
cradle than the tomb, had wailed.
The deserted child
had heard the cry of the dying child.
He disinterred it=
.
He took it in his
arms.
When she felt her=
self
in his arms she ceased crying. The faces of the two children touched each
other, and the purple lips of the infant sought the cheek of the boy, as it=
had
been a breast. The little girl had nearly reached the moment when the conge=
aled
blood stops the action of the heart. Her mother had touched her with the ch=
ill
of her own death--a corpse communicates death; its numbness is infectious. =
Her feet,
hands, arms, knees, seemed paralyzed by cold. The boy felt the terrible chi=
ll.
He had on him a garment dry and warm--his pilot jacket. He placed the infan=
t on
the breast of the corpse, took off his jacket, wrapped the infant in it, to=
ok
it up again in his arms, and now, almost naked, under the blast of the north
wind which covered him with eddies of snow-flakes, carrying the infant, he
pursued his journey.
The little one ha=
ving
succeeded in finding the boy's cheek, again applied her lips to it, and,
soothed by the warmth, she slept. First kiss of those two souls in the
darkness.
The mother lay th=
ere,
her back to the snow, her face to the night; but perhaps at the moment when=
the
little boy stripped himself to clothe the little girl, the mother saw him f=
rom
the depths of infinity.
CHAPTER III - A BURDEN MAKES A ROUGH ROAD ROUGHER.=
It was little more than four hours =
since
the hooker had sailed from the creek of Portland, leaving the boy on the sh=
ore.
During the long hours since he had been deserted, and had been journeying
onwards, he had met but three persons of that human society into which he w=
as,
perchance, about to enter--a man, the man on the hill; a woman, the woman in
the snow; and the little girl whom he was carrying in his arms.
He was exhausted =
by
fatigue and hunger, yet advanced more resolutely than ever, with less stren=
gth
and an added burden. He was now almost naked. The few rags which remained to
him, hardened by the frost, were sharp as glass, and cut his skin. He became
colder, but the infant was warmer. That which he lost was not thrown away, =
but
was gained by her. He found out that the poor infant enjoyed the comfort wh=
ich
was to her the renewal of life. He continued to advance.
From time to time,
still holding her securely, he bent down, and taking a handful of snow he
rubbed his feet with it, to prevent their being frost-bitten. At other time=
s,
his throat feeling as if it were on fire, he put a little snow in his mouth=
and
sucked it; this for a moment assuaged his thirst, but changed it into fever=
--a
relief which was an aggravation.
The storm had bec=
ome
shapeless from its violence. Deluges of snow are possible. This was one. The
paroxysm scourged the shore at the same time that it uptore the depths of
ocean. This was, perhaps, the moment when the distracted hooker was going to
pieces in the battle of the breakers.
He travelled under
this north wind, still towards the east, over wide surfaces of snow. He knew
not how the hours had passed. For a long time he had ceased to see the smok=
e.
Such indications are soon effaced in the night; besides, it was past the ho=
ur
when fires are put out. Or he had, perhaps, made a mistake, and it was poss=
ible
that neither town nor village existed in the direction in which he was
travelling. Doubting, he yet persevered.
Two or three times
the little infant cried. Then he adopted in his gait a rocking movement, and
the child was soothed and silenced. She ended by falling into a sound sleep.
Shivering himself, he felt her warm. He frequently tightened the folds of t=
he
jacket round the babe's neck, so that the frost should not get in through a=
ny
opening, and that no melted snow should drop between the garment and the ch=
ild.
The plain was
unequal. In the declivities into which it sloped the snow, driven by the wi=
nd
into the dips of the ground, was so deep, in comparison with a child so sma=
ll,
that it almost engulfed him, and he had to struggle through it half buried.=
He
walked on, working away the snow with his knees.
Having cleared the
ravine, he reached the high lands swept by the winds, where the snow lay th=
in.
Then he found the surface a sheet of ice. The little girl's lukewarm breath,
playing on his face, warmed it for a moment, then lingered, and froze in his
hair, stiffening it into icicles.
He felt the appro=
ach
of another danger. He could not afford to fall. He knew that if he did so he
should never rise again. He was overcome by fatigue, and the weight of the
darkness would, as with the dead woman, have held him to the ground, and the
ice glued him alive to the earth.
He had tripped up=
on
the slopes of precipices, and had recovered himself; he had stumbled into
holes, and had got out again. Thenceforward the slightest fall would be dea=
th;
a false step opened for him a tomb. He must not slip. He had not strength to
rise even to his knees. Now everything was slippery; everywhere there was r=
ime
and frozen snow. The little creature whom he carried made his progress
fearfully difficult. She was not only a burden, which his weariness and
exhaustion made excessive, but was also an embarrassment. She occupied both=
his
arms, and to him who walks over ice both arms are a natural and necessary b=
alancing
power.
He was obliged to=
do
without this balance.
He did without it=
and
advanced, bending under his burden, not knowing what would become of him.
This little infant
was the drop causing the cup of distress to overflow.
He advanced, reel=
ing
at every step, as if on a spring board, and accomplishing, without spectato=
rs,
miracles of equilibrium. Let us repeat that he was, perhaps, followed on th=
is
path of pain by eyes unsleeping in the distances of the shadows--the eyes of
the mother and the eyes of God. He staggered, slipped, recovered himself, t=
ook
care of the infant, and, gathering the jacket about her, he covered up her
head; staggered again, advanced, slipped, then drew himself up. The cowardl=
y wind
drove against him. Apparently, he made much more way than was necessary. He
was, to all appearance, on the plains where Bincleaves Farm was afterwards
established, between what are now called Spring Gardens and the Parsonage H=
ouse.
Homesteads and cottages occupy the place of waste lands. Sometimes less tha=
n a
century separates a steppe from a city.
Suddenly, a lull
having occurred in the icy blast which was blinding him, he perceived, at a
short distance in front of him, a cluster of gables and of chimneys shown in
relief by the snow. The reverse of a silhouette--a city painted in white on=
a
black horizon, something like what we call nowadays a negative proof.
Roofs--dwellings--shelter! He had arrived somewhere at last. He felt the
ineffable encouragement of hope. The watch of a ship which has wandered from
her course feels some such emotion when he cries, "Land ho!"
He hurried his st=
eps.
At length, then, =
he
was near mankind. He would soon be amidst living creatures. There was no lo=
nger
anything to fear. There glowed within him that sudden warmth--security; that
out of which he was emerging was over; thenceforward there would no longer =
be
night, nor winter, nor tempest. It seemed to him that he had left all evil
chances behind him. The infant was no longer a burden. He almost ran.
His eyes were fix=
ed
on the roofs. There was life there. He never took his eyes off them. A dead=
man
might gaze thus on what might appear through the half-opened lid of his
sepulchre. There were the chimneys of which he had seen the smoke.
No smoke arose fr=
om
them now. He was not long before he reached the houses. He came to the
outskirts of a town--an open street. At that period bars to streets were
falling into disuse.
The street began =
by
two houses. In those two houses neither candle nor lamp was to be seen; nor=
in
the whole street; nor in the whole town, so far as eye could reach. The hou=
se
to the right was a roof rather than a house; nothing could be more mean. The
walls were of mud, the roof was of straw, and there was more thatch than wa=
ll.
A large nettle, springing from the bottom of the wall, reached the roof. The
hovel had but one door, which was like that of a dog-kennel; and a window,
which was but a hole. All was shut up. At the side an inhabited pig-sty told
that the house was also inhabited.
The house on the =
left
was large, high, built entirely of stone, with a slated roof. It was also
closed. It was the rich man's home, opposite to that of the pauper.
The boy did not
hesitate. He approached the great mansion. The double folding-door of massi=
ve
oak, studded with large nails, was of the kind that leads one to expect that
behind it there is a stout armoury of bolts and locks. An iron knocker was
attached to it. He raised the knocker with some difficulty, for his benumbed
hands were stumps rather than hands. He knocked once.
No answer.
He struck again, =
and
two knocks.
No movement was h=
eard
in the house.
He knocked a third
time.
There was no soun=
d.
He saw that they were all asleep, and did not care to get up.
Then he turned to=
the
hovel. He picked up a pebble from the snow, and knocked against the low doo=
r.
There was no answ=
er.
He raised himself=
on
tiptoe, and knocked with his pebble against the pane too softly to break the
glass, but loud enough to be heard.
No voice was hear=
d;
no step moved; no candle was lighted.
He saw that there=
, as
well, they did not care to awake.
The house of stone
and the thatched hovel were equally deaf to the wretched.
The boy decided on
pushing on further, and penetrating the strait of houses which stretched aw=
ay
in front of him, so dark that it seemed more like a gulf between two cliffs
than the entrance to a town.
CHAPTER IV - ANOTHER FORM OF DESERT.
It was Weymouth which he had just
entered. Weymouth then was not the respectable and fine Weymouth of to-day.=
Ancient Weymouth =
did
not present, like the present one, an irreproachable rectangular quay, with=
an
inn and a statue in honour of George III. This resulted from the fact that
George III. had not yet been born. For the same reason they had not yet
designed on the slope of the green hill towards the east, fashioned flat on=
the
soil by cutting away the turf and leaving the bare chalk to the view, the w=
hite
horse, an acre long, bearing the king upon his back, and always turning, in=
honour
of George III., his tail to the city. These honours, however, were deserved.
George III., having lost in his old age the intellect he had never possesse=
d in
his youth, was not responsible for the calamities of his reign. He was an
innocent. Why not erect statues to him?
Weymouth, a hundr=
ed
and eighty years ago, was about as symmetrical as a game of spillikins in
confusion. In legends it is said that Astaroth travelled over the world,
carrying on her back a wallet which contained everything, even good women in
their houses. A pell-mell of sheds thrown from her devil's bag would give an
idea of that irregular Weymouth--the good women in the sheds included. The
Music Hall remains as a specimen of those buildings. A confusion of wooden
dens, carved and eaten by worms (which carve in another fashion)--shapeless,
overhanging buildings, some with pillars, leaning one against the other for
support against the sea wind, and leaving between them awkward spaces of na=
rrow
and winding channels, lanes, and passages, often flooded by the equinoctial
tides; a heap of old grandmother houses, crowded round a grandfather
church--such was Weymouth; a sort of old Norman village thrown up on the co=
ast
of England.
The traveller who
entered the tavern, now replaced by the hotel, instead of paying royally his
twenty-five francs for a fried sole and a bottle of wine, had to suffer the
humiliation of eating a pennyworth of soup made of fish--which soup,
by-the-bye, was very good. Wretched fare!
The deserted chil=
d,
carrying the foundling, passed through the first street, then the second, t=
hen
the third. He raised his eyes, seeking in the higher stories and in the roo=
fs a
lighted window-pane; but all were closed and dark. At intervals he knocked =
at the
doors. No one answered. Nothing makes the heart so like a stone as being wa=
rm
between sheets. The noise and the shaking had at length awakened the infant=
. He
knew this because he felt her suck his cheek. She did not cry, believing hi=
m her
mother.
He was about to t=
urn
and wander long, perhaps, in the intersections of the Scrambridge lanes, wh=
ere
there were then more cultivated plots than dwellings, more thorn hedges than
houses; but fortunately he struck into a passage which exists to this day n=
ear
Trinity schools. This passage led him to a water-brink, where there was a
roughly built quay with a parapet, and to the right he made out a bridge. It
was the bridge over the Wey, connecting Weymouth with Melcombe Regis, and u=
nder
the arches of which the Backwater joins the harbour.
Weymouth, a hamle=
t,
was then the suburb of Melcombe Regis, a city and port. Now Melcombe Regis =
is a
parish of Weymouth. The village has absorbed the city. It was the bridge wh=
ich
did the work. Bridges are strange vehicles of suction, which inhale the
population, and sometimes swell one river-bank at the expense of its opposi=
te
neighbour.
The boy went to t=
he
bridge, which at that period was a covered timber structure. He crossed it.
Thanks to its roofing, there was no snow on the planks. His bare feet had a
moment's comfort as they crossed them. Having passed over the bridge, he wa=
s in
Melcombe Regis. There were fewer wooden houses than stone ones there. He wa=
s no
longer in the village; he was in the city.
The bridge opened=
on
a rather fine street called St. Thomas's Street. He entered it. Here and th=
ere
were high carved gables and shop-fronts. He set to knocking at the doors ag=
ain:
he had no strength left to call or shout.
At Melcombe Regis=
, as
at Weymouth, no one was stirring. The doors were all carefully double-locke=
d,
The windows were covered by their shutters, as the eyes by their lids. Every
precaution had been taken to avoid being roused by disagreeable surprises. =
The
little wanderer was suffering the indefinable depression made by a sleeping
town. Its silence, as of a paralyzed ants' nest, makes the head swim. All i=
ts lethargies
mingle their nightmares, its slumbers are a crowd, and from its human bodies
lying prone there arises a vapour of dreams. Sleep has gloomy associates be=
yond
this life: the decomposed thoughts of the sleepers float above them in a mi=
st
which is both of death and of life, and combine with the possible, which has
also, perhaps, the power of thought, as it floats in space. Hence arise
entanglements. Dreams, those clouds, interpose their folds and their
transparencies over that star, the mind. Above those closed eyelids, where
vision has taken the place of sight, a sepulchral disintegration of outlines
and appearances dilates itself into impalpability. Mysterious, diffused
existences amalgamate themselves with life on that border of death, which s=
leep
is. Those larvæ and souls mingle in the air. Even he who sleeps not f=
eels
a medium press upon him full of sinister life. The surrounding chimera, in
which he suspects a reality, impedes him. The waking man, wending his way
amidst the sleep phantoms of others, unconsciously pushes back passing shad=
ows,
has, or imagines that he has, a vague fear of adverse contact with the
invisible, and feels at every moment the obscure pressure of a hostile
encounter which immediately dissolves. There is something of the effect of a
forest in the nocturnal diffusion of dreams.
This is what is
called being afraid without reason.
What a man feels a
child feels still more.
The uneasiness of
nocturnal fear, increased by the spectral houses, increased the weight of t=
he
sad burden under which he was struggling.
He entered Conycar
Lane, and perceived at the end of that passage the Backwater, which he took=
for
the ocean. He no longer knew in what direction the sea lay. He retraced his
steps, struck to the left by Maiden Street, and returned as far as St. Alba=
n's
Row.
There, by chance =
and
without selection, he knocked violently at any house that he happened to pa=
ss.
His blows, on which he was expending his last energies, were jerky and with=
out
aim; now ceasing altogether for a time, now renewed as if in irritation. It=
was
the violence of his fever striking against the doors.
One voice answere=
d.
That of Time.
Three o'clock tol=
led
slowly behind him from the old belfry of St. Nicholas.
Then all sank into
silence again.
That no inhabitant
should have opened a lattice may appear surprising. Nevertheless that silen=
ce
is in a great measure to be explained. We must remember that in January 1790
they were just over a somewhat severe outbreak of the plague in London, and
that the fear of receiving sick vagabonds caused a diminution of hospitality
everywhere. People would not even open their windows for fear of inhaling t=
he
poison.
The child felt the
coldness of men more terribly than the coldness of night. The coldness of m=
en
is intentional. He felt a tightening on his sinking heart which he had not
known on the open plains. Now he had entered into the midst of life, and
remained alone. This was the summit of misery. The pitiless desert he had
understood; the unrelenting town was too much to bear.
The hour, the str=
okes
of which he had just counted, had been another blow. Nothing is so freezing=
in
certain situations as the voice of the hour. It is a declaration of
indifference. It is Eternity saying, "What does it matter to me?"=
He stopped, and i=
t is
not certain that, in that miserable minute, he did not ask himself whether =
it
would not be easier to lie down there and die. However, the little infant
leaned her head against his shoulder, and fell asleep again.
This blind confid=
ence
set him onwards again. He whom all supports were failing felt that he was
himself a basis of support. Irresistible summons of duty!
Neither such ideas
nor such a situation belonged to his age. It is probable that he did not
understand them. It was a matter of instinct. He did what he chanced to do.=
He set out again =
in
the direction of Johnstone Row. But now he no longer walked; he dragged him=
self
along. He left St. Mary's Street to the left, made zigzags through lanes, a=
nd
at the end of a winding passage found himself in a rather wide open space. =
It
was a piece of waste land not built upon--probably the spot where Chesterfi=
eld
Place now stands. The houses ended there. He perceived the sea to the right,
and scarcely anything more of the town to his left.
What was to becom=
e of
him? Here was the country again. To the east great inclined planes of snow
marked out the wide slopes of Radipole. Should he continue this journey? Sh=
ould
he advance and re-enter the solitudes? Should he return and re-enter the
streets? What was he to do between those two silences--the mute plain and t=
he
deaf city? Which of the two refusals should he choose?
There is the anch=
or
of mercy. There is also the look of piteousness. It was that look which the
poor little despairing wanderer threw around him.
All at once he he=
ard
a menace.
CHAPTER V - MISANTHROPY PLAYS ITS PRANKS.=
a>
A strange and alarming grinding of =
teeth
reached him through the darkness.
It was enough to
drive one back: he advanced. To those to whom silence has become dreadful a
howl is comforting.
That fierce growl
reassured him; that threat was a promise. There was there a being alive and
awake, though it might be a wild beast. He advanced in the direction whence
came the snarl.
He turned the cor=
ner
of a wall, and, behind in the vast sepulchral light made by the reflection =
of
snow and sea, he saw a thing placed as if for shelter. It was a cart, unles=
s it
was a hovel. It had wheels--it was a carriage. It had a roof--it was a
dwelling. From the roof arose a funnel, and out of the funnel smoke. This s=
moke
was red, and seemed to imply a good fire in the interior. Behind, projecting
hinges indicated a door, and in the centre of this door a square opening sh=
owed
a light inside the caravan. He approached.
Whatever had grow=
led
perceived his approach, and became furious. It was no longer a growl which =
he
had to meet; it was a roar. He heard a sharp sound, as of a chain violently
pulled to its full length, and suddenly, under the door, between the hind
wheels, two rows of sharp white teeth appeared. At the same time as the mou=
th
between the wheels a head was put through the window.
"Peace
there!" said the head.
The mouth was sil=
ent.
The head began
again,--
"Is any one
there?"
The child answere=
d,--
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Who?"<= o:p>
"I."
"You? Who are
you? whence do you come?"
"I am
weary," said the child.
"What o'cloc=
k is
it?"
"I am
cold."
"What are you
doing there?"
"I am
hungry."
The head replied,=
--
"Every one
cannot be as happy as a lord. Go away."
The head was
withdrawn and the window closed.
The child bowed h=
is
forehead, drew the sleeping infant closer in his arms, and collected his
strength to resume his journey. He had taken a few steps, and was hurrying
away.
However, at the s=
ame
time that the window closed the door had opened; a step had been let down; =
the
voice which had spoken to the child cried out angrily from the inside of the
van,--
"Well! why do
you not enter?"
The child turned =
back.
"Come in,&qu=
ot;
resumed the voice. "Who has sent me a fellow like this, who is hungry =
and
cold, and who does not come in?"
The child, at once
repulsed and invited, remained motionless.
The voice
continued,--
"You are tol=
d to
come in, you young rascal."
He made up his mi=
nd,
and placed one foot on the lowest step.
There was a great
growl under the van. He drew back. The gaping jaws appeared.
"Peace!"
cried the voice of the man.
The jaws retreate=
d,
the growling ceased.
"Come up!&qu=
ot;
continued the man.
The child with
difficulty climbed up the three steps. He was impeded by the infant, so
benumbed, rolled up and enveloped in the jacket that nothing could be
distinguished of her, and she was but a little shapeless mass.
He passed over the
three steps; and having reached the threshold, stopped.
No candle was bur=
ning
in the caravan, probably from the economy of want. The hut was lighted only=
by
a red tinge, arising from the opening at the top of the stove, in which
sparkled a peat fire. On the stove were smoking a porringer and a saucepan,
containing to all appearance something to eat. The savoury odour was
perceptible. The hut was furnished with a chest, a stool, and an unlighted
lantern which hung from the ceiling. Besides, to the partition were attached
some boards on brackets and some hooks, from which hung a variety of things=
. On
the boards and nails were rows of glasses, coppers, an alembic, a vessel ra=
ther
like those used for graining wax, which are called granulators, and a confu=
sion
of strange objects of which the child understood nothing, and which were
utensils for cooking and chemistry. The caravan was oblong in shape, the st=
ove
being in front. It was not even a little room; it was scarcely a big box. T=
here
was more light outside from the snow than inside from the stove. Everything=
in
the caravan was indistinct and misty. Nevertheless, a reflection of the fir=
e on
the ceiling enabled the spectator to read in large letters,--
URSUS, PHILOSOPHER.
The child, in fac=
t,
was entering the house of Homo and Ursus. The one he had just heard growlin=
g,
the other speaking.
The child having
reached the threshold, perceived near the stove a man, tall, smooth, thin a=
nd
old, dressed in gray, whose head, as he stood, reached the roof. The man co=
uld
not have raised himself on tiptoe. The caravan was just his size.
"Come in!&qu=
ot;
said the man, who was Ursus.
The child entered=
.
"Put down yo=
ur
bundle."
The child placed =
his
burden carefully on the top of the chest, for fear of awakening and terrify=
ing
it.
The man continued=
,--
"How gently =
you
put it down! You could not be more careful were it a case of relics. Is it =
that
you are afraid of tearing a hole in your rags? Worthless vagabond! in the
streets at this hour! Who are you? Answer! But no. I forbid you to answer. =
There!
You are cold. Warm yourself as quick as you can," and he shoved him by=
the
shoulders in front of the fire.
"How wet you
are! You're frozen through! A nice state to come into a house! Come, take o=
ff
those rags, you villain!" and as with one hand, and with feverish hast=
e,
he dragged off the boy's rags which tore into shreds, with the other he took
down from a nail a man's shirt, and one of those knitted jackets which are =
up
to this day called kiss-me-quicks.
"Here are
clothes."
He chose out of a
heap a woollen rag, and chafed before the fire the limbs of the exhausted a=
nd
bewildered child, who at that moment, warm and naked, felt as if he were se=
eing
and touching heaven. The limbs having been rubbed, he next wiped the boy's
feet.
"Come, you l=
imb;
you have nothing frost-bitten! I was a fool to fancy you had something froz=
en,
hind legs or fore paws. You will not lose the use of them this time. Dress
yourself!"
The child put on =
the
shirt, and the man slipped the knitted jacket over it.
"Now....&quo=
t;
The man kicked the
stool forward and made the little boy sit down, again shoving him by the
shoulders; then he pointed with his finger to the porringer which was smoki=
ng
upon the stove. What the child saw in the porringer was again heaven to
him--namely, a potato and a bit of bacon.
"You are hun=
gry;
eat!"
The man took from=
the
shelf a crust of hard bread and an iron fork, and handed them to the child.=
The boy hesitated=
.
"Perhaps you
expect me to lay the cloth," said the man, and he placed the porringer=
on
the child's lap.
"Gobble that
up."
Hunger overcame
astonishment. The child began to eat. The poor boy devoured rather than ate.
The glad sound of the crunching of bread filed the hut. The man grumbled,--=
"Not so quic=
k,
you horrid glutton! Isn't he a greedy scoundrel? When such scum are hungry,
they eat in a revolting fashion. You should see a lord sup. In my time I ha=
ve
seen dukes eat. They don't eat; that's noble. They drink, however. Come, you
pig, stuff yourself!"
The absence of ea=
rs,
which is the concomitant of a hungry stomach, caused the child to take litt=
le
heed of these violent epithets, tempered as they were by charity of action
involving a contradiction resulting in his benefit. For the moment he was
absorbed by two exigencies and by two ecstasies--food and warmth.
Ursus continued h=
is
imprecations, muttering to himself,--
"I have seen
King James supping in propriâ personâ in the Banqueting House,
where are to be admired the paintings of the famous Rubens. His Majesty tou=
ched
nothing. This beggar here browses: browses, a word derived from brute. What=
put
it into my head to come to this Weymouth seven times devoted to the infernal
deities? I have sold nothing since morning I have harangued the snow. I have
played the flute to the hurricane. I have not pocketed a farthing; and now,
to-night, beggars drop in. Horrid place! There is battle, struggle, competi=
tion
between the fools in the street and myself. They try to give me nothing but=
farthings.
I try to give them nothing but drugs. Well, to-day I've made nothing. Not an
idiot on the highway, not a penny in the till. Eat away, hell-born boy! Tear
and crunch! We have fallen on times when nothing can equal the cynicism of
spongers. Fatten at my expense, parasite! This wretched boy is more than
hungry; he is mad. It is not appetite, it is ferocity. He is carried away b=
y a
rabid virus. Perhaps he has the plague. Have you the plague, you thief? Sup=
pose
he were to give it to Homo! No, never! Let the populace die, but not my wol=
f.
But by-the-bye I am hungry myself. I declare that this is all very
disagreeable. I have worked far into the night. There are seasons in a man's
life when he is hard pressed. I was to-night, by hunger. I was alone. I mad=
e a
fire. I had but one potato, one crust of bread, a mouthful of bacon, and a =
drop
of milk, and I put it to warm. I said to myself, 'Good.' I think I am going=
to
eat, and bang! this crocodile falls upon me at the very moment. He installs
himself clean between my food and myself. Behold, how my larder is devastat=
ed!
Eat, pike, eat! You shark! how many teeth have you in your jaws? Guzzle,
wolf-cub; no, I withdraw that word. I respect wolves. Swallow up my food, b=
oa.
I have worked all day, and far into the night, on an empty stomach; my thro=
at
is sore, my pancreas in distress, my entrails torn; and my reward is to see
another eat. 'Tis all one, though! We will divide. He shall have the bread,=
the
potato, and the bacon; but I will have the milk."
Just then a wail,
touching and prolonged, arose in the hut. The man listened.
"You cry,
sycophant! Why do you cry?"
The boy turned
towards him. It was evident that it was not he who cried. He had his mouth
full.
The cry continued=
.
The man went to t=
he
chest.
"So it is yo=
ur
bundle that wails! Vale of Jehoshaphat! Behold a vociferating parcel! What =
the
devil has your bundle got to croak about?"
He unrolled the
jacket. An infant's head appeared, the mouth open and crying.
"Well, who g=
oes
there?" said the man. "Here is another of them. When is this to e=
nd?
Who is there? To arms! Corporal, call out the guard! Another bang! What have
you brought me, thief! Don't you see it is thirsty? Come! the little one mu=
st
have a drink. So now I shall not have even the milk!"
He took down from=
the
things lying in disorder on the shelf a bandage of linen, a sponge and a ph=
ial,
muttering savagely, "What an infernal place!"
Then he looked at=
the
little infant. "'Tis a girl! one can tell that by her scream, and she =
is
drenched as well." He dragged away, as he had done from the boy, the
tatters in which she was knotted up rather than dressed, and swathed her in=
a
rag, which, though of coarse linen, was clean and dry. This rough and sudden
dressing made the infant angry.
"She mews
relentlessly," said he.
He bit off a long
piece of sponge, tore from the roll a square piece of linen, drew from it a=
bit
of thread, took the saucepan containing the milk from the stove, filled the
phial with milk, drove down the sponge halfway into its neck, covered the
sponge with linen, tied this cork in with the thread, applied his cheeks to=
the
phial to be sure that it was not too hot, and seized under his left arm the
bewildered bundle which was still crying. "Come! take your supper,
creature! Let me suckle you," and he put the neck of the bottle to its
mouth.
The little infant
drank greedily.
He held the phial=
at
the necessary incline, grumbling, "They are all the same, the cowards!
When they have all they want they are silent."
The child had dru=
nk
so ravenously, and had seized so eagerly this breast offered by a cross-gra=
ined
providence, that she was taken with a fit of coughing.
"You are goi=
ng
to choke!" growled Ursus. "A fine gobbler this one, too!"
He drew away the
sponge which she was sucking, allowed the cough to subside, and then replac=
ed
the phial to her lips, saying, "Suck, you little wretch!"
In the meantime t=
he
boy had laid down his fork. Seeing the infant drink had made him forget to =
eat.
The moment before, while he ate, the expression in his face was satisfactio=
n;
now it was gratitude. He watched the infant's renewal of life; the completi=
on
of the resurrection begun by himself filled his eyes with an ineffable
brilliancy. Ursus went on muttering angry words between his teeth. The litt=
le
boy now and then lifted towards Ursus his eyes moist with the unspeakable
emotion which the poor little being felt, but was unable to express. Ursus =
addressed
him furiously.
"Well, will =
you
eat?"
"And you?&qu=
ot;
said the child, trembling all over, and with tears in his eyes. "You w=
ill
have nothing!"
"Will you be
kind enough to eat it all up, you cub? There is not too much for you, since
there was not enough for me."
The child took up=
his
fork, but did not eat.
"Eat,"
shouted Ursus. "What has it got to do with me? Who speaks of me? Wretc=
hed
little barefooted clerk of Penniless Parish, I tell you, eat it all up! You=
are
here to eat, drink, and sleep--eat, or I will kick you out, both of you.&qu=
ot;
The boy, under th=
is
menace, began to eat again. He had not much trouble in finishing what was l=
eft
in the porringer. Ursus muttered, "This building is badly joined. The =
cold
comes in by the window pane." A pane had indeed been broken in front,
either by a jolt of the caravan or by a stone thrown by some mischievous bo=
y.
Ursus had placed a star of paper over the fracture, which had become unpast=
ed.
The blast entered there.
He was half seate=
d on
the chest. The infant in his arms, and at the same time on his lap, was suc=
king
rapturously at the bottle, in the happy somnolency of cherubim before their
Creator, and infants at their mothers' breast.
"She is
drunk," said Ursus; and he continued, "After this, preach sermons=
on
temperance!"
The wind tore from
the pane the plaster of paper, which flew across the hut; but this was noth=
ing
to the children, who were entering life anew. Whilst the little girl drank,=
and
the little boy ate, Ursus grumbled,--
"Drunkenness
begins in the infant in swaddling clothes. What useful trouble Bishop Tillo=
tson
gives himself, thundering against excessive drinking. What an odious draugh=
t of
wind! And then my stove is old. It allows puffs of smoke to escape enough to
give you trichiasis. One has the inconvenience of cold, and the inconvenien=
ce
of fire. One cannot see clearly. That being over there abuses my hospitalit=
y.
Well, I have not been able to distinguish the animal's face yet. Comfort is
wanting here. By Jove! I am a great admirer of exquisite banquets in well
closed rooms. I have missed my vocation. I was born to be a sensualist. The=
greatest
of stoics was Philoxenus, who wished to possess the neck of a crane, so as =
to
be longer in tasting the pleasures of the table. Receipts to-day, naught.
Nothing sold all day. Inhabitants, servants, and tradesmen, here is the doc=
tor,
here are the drugs. You are losing your time, old friend. Pack up your phys=
ic.
Every one is well down here. It's a cursed town, where every one is well! T=
he
skies alone have diarrhoea--what snow! Anaxagoras taught that the snow was
black; and he was right, cold being blackness. Ice is night. What a hurrica=
ne!
I can fancy the delight of those at sea. The hurricane is the passage of de=
mons.
It is the row of the tempest fiends galloping and rolling head over heels a=
bove
our bone-boxes. In the cloud this one has a tail, that one has horns, anoth=
er a
flame for a tongue, another claws to its wings, another a lord chancellor's
paunch, another an academician's pate. You may observe a form in every soun=
d.
To every fresh wind a fresh demon. The ear hears, the eye sees, the crash i=
s a
face. Zounds! There are folks at sea--that is certain. My friends, get thro=
ugh
the storm as best you can. I have enough to do to get through life. Come no=
w,
do I keep an inn, or do I not? Why should I trade with these travellers? Th=
e universal
distress sends its spatterings even as far as my poverty. Into my cabin fall
hideous drops of the far-spreading mud of mankind. I am given up to the
voracity of travellers. I am a prey--the prey of those dying of hunger. Win=
ter,
night, a pasteboard hut, an unfortunate friend below and without, the storm=
, a
potato, a fire as big as my fist, parasites, the wind penetrating through e=
very
cranny, not a halfpenny, and bundles which set to howling. I open them and =
find
beggars inside. Is this fair? Besides, the laws are violated. Ah! vagabond =
with
your vagabond child! Mischievous pick-pocket, evil-minded abortion, so you =
walk
the streets after curfew? If our good king only knew it, would he not have =
you
thrown into the bottom of a ditch, just to teach you better? My gentleman w=
alks
out at night with my lady, and with the glass at fifteen degrees of frost,
bare-headed and bare-footed. Understand that such things are forbidden. The=
re
are rules and regulations, you lawless wretches. Vagabonds are punished, ho=
nest
folks who have houses are guarded and protected. Kings are the fathers of t=
heir
people. I have my own house. You would have been whipped in the public stre=
et
had you chanced to have been met, and quite right, too. There must be order=
in an
established city. For my own part, I did wrong not to denounce you to the
constable. But I am such a fool! I understand what is right and do what is
wrong. O the ruffian! to come here in such a state! I did not see the snow =
upon
them when they came in; it had melted, and here's my whole house swamped. I
have an inundation in my home. I shall have to burn an incredible amount of
coals to dry up this lake--coals at twelve farthings the miners' standard! =
How
am I going to manage to fit three into this caravan? Now it is over; I enter
the nursery; I am going to have in my house the weaning of the future begga=
rdom
of England. I shall have for employment, office, and function, to fashion t=
he
miscarried fortunes of that colossal prostitute, Misery, to bring to perfec=
tion
future gallows' birds, and to give young thieves the forms of philosophy. T=
he
tongue of the wolf is the warning of God. And to think that if I had not be=
en
eaten up by creatures of this kind for the last thirty years, I should be r=
ich;
Homo would be fat; I should have a medicine-chest full of rarities; as many
surgical instruments as Doctor Linacre, surgeon to King Henry VIII.; divers
animals of all kinds; Egyptian mummies, and similar curiosities; I should b=
e a
member of the College of Physicians, and have the right of using the librar=
y,
built in 1652 by the celebrated Hervey, and of studying in the lantern of t=
hat dome,
whence you can see the whole of London. I could continue my observations of
solar obfuscation, and prove that a caligenous vapour arises from the plane=
t.
Such was the opinion of John Kepler, who was born the year before the Massa=
cre
of St. Bartholomew, and who was mathematician to the emperor. The sun is a
chimney which sometimes smokes; so does my stove. My stove is no better than
the sun. Yes, I should have made my fortune; my part would have been a
different one--I should not be the insignificant fellow I am. I should not
degrade science in the highways, for the crowd is not worthy of the doctrin=
e, the
crowd being nothing better than a confused mixture of all sorts of ages, se=
xes,
humours, and conditions, that wise men of all periods have not hesitated to
despise, and whose extravagance and passion the most moderate men in their
justice detest. Oh, I am weary of existence! After all, one does not live l=
ong!
The human life is soon done with. But no--it is long. At intervals, that we
should not become too discouraged, that we may have the stupidity to consen=
t to
bear our being, and not profit by the magnificent opportunities to hang
ourselves which cords and nails afford, nature puts on an air of taking a
little care of man--not to-night, though. The rogue causes the wheat to spr=
ing
up, ripens the grape, gives her song to the nightingale. From time to time =
a ray
of morning or a glass of gin, and that is what we call happiness! It is a
narrow border of good round a huge winding-sheet of evil. We have a destiny=
of
which the devil has woven the stuff and God has sewn the hem. In the meanti=
me,
you have eaten my supper, you thief!"
In the meantime t=
he
infant whom he was holding all the time in his arms very tenderly whilst he=
was
vituperating, shut its eyes languidly; a sign of repletion. Ursus examined =
the
phial, and grumbled,--
"She has dru=
nk
it all up, the impudent creature!"
He arose, and
sustaining the infant with his left arm, with his right he raised the lid of
the chest and drew from beneath it a bear-skin--the one he called, as will =
be
remembered, his real skin. Whilst he was doing this he heard the other child
eating, and looked at him sideways.
"It will be
something to do if, henceforth, I have to feed that growing glutton. It wil=
l be
a worm gnawing at the vitals of my industry."
He spread out, st=
ill
with one arm, the bear-skin on the chest, working his elbow and managing his
movements so as not to disturb the sleep into which the infant was just
sinking.
Then he laid her =
down
on the fur, on the side next the fire. Having done so, he placed the phial =
on
the stove, and exclaimed,--
"I'm thirsty=
, if
you like!"
He looked into the
pot. There were a few good mouthfuls of milk left in it; he raised it to his
lips. Just as he was about to drink, his eye fell on the little girl. He
replaced the pot on the stove, took the phial, uncorked it, poured into it =
all
the milk that remained, which was just sufficient to fill it, replaced the
sponge and the linen rag over it, and tied it round the neck of the bottle.=
"All the sam=
e,
I'm hungry and thirsty," he observed.
And he added,--
"When one ca=
nnot
eat bread, one must drink water."
Behind the stove
there was a jug with the spout off. He took it and handed it to the boy.
"Will you
drink?"
The child drank, =
and
then went on eating.
Ursus seized the
pitcher again, and conveyed it to his mouth. The temperature of the water w=
hich
it contained had been unequally modified by the proximity of the stove.
He swallowed some
mouthfuls and made a grimace.
"Water!
pretending to be pure, thou resemblest false friends. Thou art warm at the =
top
and cold at bottom."
In the meantime t=
he
boy had finished his supper. The porringer was more than empty; it was clea=
ned
out. He picked up and ate pensively a few crumbs caught in the folds of the
knitted jacket on his lap.
Ursus turned towa=
rds
him.
"That is not
all. Now, a word with you. The mouth is not made only for eating; it is made
for speaking. Now that you are warmed and stuffed, you beast, take care of
yourself. You are going to answer my questions. Whence do you come?"
The child replied=
,--
"I do not
know."
"How do you
mean? you don't know?"
"I was aband=
oned
this evening on the sea-shore."
"You little
scamp! what's your name? He is so good for nothing that his relations desert
him."
"I have no
relations."
"Give in a
little to my tastes, and observe that I do not like those who sing to a tun=
e of
fibs. Thou must have relatives since you have a sister."
"It is not my
sister."
"It is not y=
our
sister?"
"No."
"Who is it
then?"
"It is a baby
that I found."
"Found?"=
;
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What! did y=
ou
pick her up?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Where? If y=
ou
lie I will exterminate you."
"On the brea=
st
of a woman who was dead in the snow."
"When?"=
"An hour
ago."
"Where?"=
;
"A league fr=
om
here."
The arched brow of
Ursus knitted and took that pointed shape which characterizes emotion on the
brow of a philosopher.
"Dead! Lucky=
for
her! We must leave her in the snow. She is well off there. In which
direction?"
"In the
direction of the sea."
"Did you cro=
ss
the bridge?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
Ursus opened the
window at the back and examined the view.
The weather had n=
ot
improved. The snow was falling thickly and mournfully.
He shut the windo=
w.
He went to the br=
oken
glass; he filled the hole with a rag; he heaped the stove with peat; he spr=
ead
out as far as he could the bear-skin on the chest; took a large book which =
he
had in a corner, placed it under the skin for a pillow, and laid the head of
the sleeping infant on it.
Then he turned to=
the
boy.
"Lie down
there."
The boy obeyed, a=
nd
stretched himself at full length by the side of the infant.
Ursus rolled the
bear-skin over the two children, and tucked it under their feet.
He took down from=
a
shelf, and tied round his waist, a linen belt with a large pocket containin=
g,
no doubt, a case of instruments and bottles of restoratives.
Then he took the
lantern from where it hung to the ceiling and lighted it. It was a dark
lantern. When lighted it still left the children in shadow.
Ursus half opened=
the
door, and said,--
"I am going =
out;
do not be afraid. I shall return. Go to sleep."
Then letting down=
the
steps, he called Homo. He was answered by a loving growl.
Ursus, holding the
lantern in his hand, descended. The steps were replaced, the door was reclo=
sed.
The children remained alone.
From without, a
voice, the voice of Ursus, said,--
"You, boy, w=
ho
have just eaten up my supper, are you already asleep?"
"No,"
replied the child.
"Well, if she
cries, give her the rest of the milk."
The clinking of a=
chain
being undone was heard, and the sound of a man's footsteps, mingled with th=
at
of the pads of an animal, died off in the distance. A few minutes after, bo=
th
children slept profoundly.
The little boy and
girl, lying naked side by side, were joined through the silent hours, in the
seraphic promiscuousness of the shadows; such dreams as were possible to th=
eir
age floated from one to the other; beneath their closed eyelids there shone,
perhaps, a starlight; if the word marriage were not inappropriate to the
situation, they were husband and wife after the fashion of the angels. Such
innocence in such darkness, such purity in such an embrace; such foretastes=
of
heaven are possible only to childhood, and no immensity approaches the
greatness of little children. Of all gulfs this is the deepest. The fearful=
perpetuity
of the dead chained beyond life, the mighty animosity of the ocean to a wre=
ck,
the whiteness of the snow over buried bodies, do not equal in pathos two
children's mouths meeting divinely in sleep,[10] and the meeting of which is
not even a kiss. A betrothal perchance, perchance a catastrophe. The unknown
weighs down upon their juxtaposition. It charms, it terrifies; who knows wh=
ich?
It stays the pulse. Innocence is higher than virtue. Innocence is holy
ignorance. They slept. They were in peace. They were warm. The nakedness of
their bodies, embraced each in each, amalgamated with the virginity of thei=
r souls.
They were there as in the nest of the abyss.
The beginning of day is sinister. A=
sad
pale light penetrated the hut. It was the frozen dawn. That wan light which
throws into relief the mournful reality of objects which are blurred into
spectral forms by the night, did not awake the children, so soundly were th=
ey
sleeping. The caravan was warm. Their breathings alternated like two peacef=
ul
waves. There was no longer a hurricane without. The light of dawn was slowl=
y taking
possession of the horizon. The constellations were being extinguished, like
candles blown out one after the other. Only a few large stars resisted. The
deep-toned song of the Infinite was coming from the sea.
The fire in the s=
tove
was not quite out. The twilight broke, little by little, into daylight. The=
boy
slept less heavily than the girl. At length, a ray brighter than the others
broke through the pane, and he opened his eyes. The sleep of childhood ends=
in
forgetfulness. He lay in a state of semi-stupor, without knowing where he w=
as
or what was near him, without making an effort to remember, gazing at the
ceiling, and setting himself an aimless task as he gazed dreamily at the
letters of the inscription--"Ursus, Philosopher"--which, being un=
able
to read, he examined without the power of deciphering.
The sound of the =
key
turning in the lock caused him to turn his head.
The door turned on
its hinges, the steps were let down. Ursus was returning. He ascended the
steps, his extinguished lantern in his hand. At the same time the pattering=
of
four paws fell upon the steps. It was Homo, following Ursus, who had also
returned to his home.
The boy awoke with
somewhat of a start. The wolf, having probably an appetite, gave him a morn=
ing
yawn, showing two rows of very white teeth. He stopped when he had got half=
way
up the steps, and placed both forepaws within the caravan, leaning on the
threshold, like a preacher with his elbows on the edge of the pulpit. He
sniffed the chest from afar, not being in the habit of finding it occupied =
as
it then was. His wolfine form, framed by the doorway, was designed in black=
against
the light of morning. He made up his mind, and entered. The boy, seeing the=
wolf
in the caravan, got out of the bear-skin, and, standing up, placed himself =
in
front of the little infant, who was sleeping more soundly than ever.
Ursus had just hu=
ng
the lantern up on a nail in the ceiling. Silently, and with mechanical
deliberation, he unbuckled the belt in which was his case, and replaced it =
on
the shelf. He looked at nothing, and seemed to see nothing. His eyes were
glassy. Something was moving him deeply in his mind. His thoughts at length
found breath, as usual, in a rapid outflow of words. He exclaimed,--
"Happy,
doubtless! Dead! stone dead!"
He bent down, and=
put
a shovelful of turf mould into the stove; and as he poked the peat he growl=
ed
out,--
"I had a dea=
l of
trouble to find her. The mischief of the unknown had buried her under two f=
eet
of snow. Had it not been for Homo, who sees as clearly with his nose as
Christopher Columbus did with his mind, I should be still there, scratching=
at
the avalanche, and playing hide and seek with Death. Diogenes took his lant=
ern
and sought for a man; I took my lantern and sought for a woman. He found a
sarcasm, and I found mourning. How cold she was! I touched her hand--a ston=
e!
What silence in her eyes! How can any one be such a fool as to die and leav=
e a
child behind? It will not be convenient to pack three into this box. A pret=
ty family
I have now! A boy and a girl!"
Whilst Ursus was
speaking, Homo sidled up close to the stove. The hand of the sleeping infant
was hanging down between the stove and the chest. The wolf set to licking i=
t.
He licked it so softly that he did not awake the little infant.
Ursus turned roun=
d.
"Well done,
Homo. I shall be father, and you shall be uncle."
Then he betook
himself again to arranging the fire with philosophical care, without
interrupting his aside.
"Adoption! I=
t is
settled; Homo is willing."
He drew himself u=
p.
"I should li= ke to know who is responsible for that woman's death? Is it man? or...."<= o:p>
He raised his eye=
s,
but looked beyond the ceiling, and his lips murmured,--
"Is it
Thou?"
Then his brow
dropped, as if under a burden, and he continued,--
"The night t=
ook
the trouble to kill the woman."
Raising his eyes,
they met those of the boy, just awakened, who was listening. Ursus addressed
him abruptly,--
"What are you
laughing about?"
The boy answered,=
--
"I am not
laughing."
Ursus felt a kind=
of
shock, looked at him fixedly for a few minutes, and said,--
"Then you are
frightful."
The interior of t=
he
caravan, on the previous night, had been so dark that Ursus had not yet seen
the boy's face. The broad daylight revealed it. He placed the palms of his
hands on the two shoulders of the boy, and, examining his countenance more =
and
more piercingly, exclaimed,--
"Do not laugh
any more!"
"I am not
laughing," said the child.
Ursus was seized =
with
a shudder from head to foot.
"You do laug=
h, I
tell you."
Then seizing the
child with a grasp which would have been one of fury had it not been one of
pity, he asked him: roughly,--
"Who did tha=
t to
you?"
The child replied=
,--
"I don't know
what you mean."
"How long ha=
ve
you had that laugh?"
"I have alwa=
ys
been thus," said the child.
Ursus turned towa=
rds
the chest, saying in a low voice,--
"I thought t=
hat
work was out of date."
He took from the =
top
of it, very softly, so as not to awaken the infant, the book which he had
placed there for a pillow.
"Let us see
Conquest," he murmured.
It was a bundle of
paper in folio, bound in soft parchment. He turned the pages with his thumb,
stopped at a certain one, opened the book wide on the stove, and read,--
"'De Denasat=
is,'
it is here."
And he continued,=
--
"Bucca fissa
usque ad aures, genezivis denudatis, nasoque murdridato, masca eris, et rid=
ebis
semper."
"There it is=
for
certain."
Then he replaced =
the
book on one of the shelves, growling.
"It might no=
t be
wholesome to inquire too deeply into a case of the kind. We will remain on =
the
surface. Laugh away, my boy!"
Just then the lit=
tle
girl awoke. Her good-day was a cry.
"Come, nurse,
give her the breast," said Ursus.
The infant sat up.
Ursus taking the phial from the stove gave it to her to suck.
Then the sun aros=
e.
He was level with the horizon. His red rays gleamed through the glass, and
struck against the face of the infant, which was turned towards him. Her
eyeballs, fixed on the sun, reflected his purple orbit like two mirrors. The
eyeballs were immovable, the eyelids also.
"See!" =
said
Ursus. "She is blind."
BOOK THE FIRST - THE EVERLASTING PRESENCE OF THE PAST: MAN
REFLECTS MAN.<=
/span>
I.
There was, in those days, an old
tradition.
That tradition was
Lord Linnæus Clancharlie.
Linnæus Bar=
on
Clancharlie, a contemporary of Cromwell, was one of the peers of England--f=
ew
in number, be it said--who accepted the republic. The reason of his accepta=
nce
of it might, indeed, for want of a better, be found in the fact that for the
time being the republic was triumphant. It was a matter of course that Lord
Clancharlie should adhere to the republic, as long as the republic had the
upper hand; but after the close of the revolution and the fall of the
parliamentary government, Lord Clancharlie had persisted in his fidelity to=
it.
It would have been easy for the noble patrician to re-enter the reconstitut=
ed
upper house, repentance being ever well received on restorations, and Charl=
es
II. being a kind prince enough to those who returned to their allegiance to
him; but Lord Clancharlie had failed to understand what was due to events.
While the nation overwhelmed with acclamation the king come to retake
possession of England, while unanimity was recording its verdict, while the
people were bowing their salutation to the monarchy, while the dynasty was
rising anew amidst a glorious and triumphant recantation, at the moment when
the past was becoming the future, and the future becoming the past, that
nobleman remained refractory. He turned his head away from all that joy, an=
d voluntarily
exiled himself. While he could have been a peer, he preferred being an outl=
aw.
Years had thus passed away. He had grown old in his fidelity to the dead
republic, and was therefore crowned with the ridicule which is the natural
reward of such folly.
He had retired in=
to
Switzerland, and dwelt in a sort of lofty ruin on the banks of the Lake of
Geneva. He had chosen his dwelling in the most rugged nook of the lake, bet=
ween
Chillon, where is the dungeon of Bonnivard, and Vevay, where is Ludlow's to=
mb.
The rugged Alps, filled with twilight, winds, and clouds, were around him; =
and
he lived there, hidden in the great shadows that fall from the mountains. He
was rarely met by any passer-by. The man was out of his country, almost out=
of
his century. At that time, to those who understood and were posted in the a=
ffairs
of the period, no resistance to established things was justifiable. England=
was
happy; a restoration is as the reconciliation of husband and wife, prince a=
nd
nation return to each other, no state can be more graceful or more pleasant.
Great Britain beamed with joy; to have a king at all was a good deal--but
furthermore, the king was a charming one. Charles II. was amiable--a man of
pleasure, yet able to govern; and great, if not after the fashion of Louis =
XIV.
He was essentially a gentleman. Charles II. was admired by his subjects. He=
had
made war in Hanover for reasons best known to himself; at least, no one else
knew them. He had sold Dunkirk to France, a manoeuvre of state policy. The =
Whig
peers, concerning whom Chamberlain says, "The cursed republic infected=
with
its stinking breath several of the high nobility," had had the good se=
nse
to bow to the inevitable, to conform to the times, and to resume their seat=
s in
the House of Lords. To do so, it sufficed that they should take the oath of
allegiance to the king. When these facts were considered--the glorious reig=
n,
the excellent king, august princes given back by divine mercy to the people=
's
love; when it was remembered that persons of such consideration as Monk, an=
d, later
on, Jeffreys, had rallied round the throne; that they had been properly
rewarded for their loyalty and zeal by the most splendid appointments and t=
he
most lucrative offices; that Lord Clancharlie could not be ignorant of this,
and that it only depended on himself to be seated by their side, glorious in
his honours; that England had, thanks to her king, risen again to the summi=
t of
prosperity; that London was all banquets and carousals; that everybody was =
rich
and enthusiastic, that the court was gallant, gay, and magnificent;--if by
chance, far from these splendours, in some melancholy, indescribable
half-light, like nightfall, that old man, clad in the same garb as the comm=
on people,
was observed pale, absent-minded, bent towards the grave, standing on the s=
hore
of the lake, scarce heeding the storm and the winter, walking as though at
random, his eye fixed, his white hair tossed by the wind of the shadow, sil=
ent,
pensive, solitary, who could forbear to smile?
It was the sketch=
of
a madman.
Thinking of Lord
Clancharlie, of what he might have been and what he was, a smile was indulg=
ent;
some laughed out aloud, others could not restrain their anger. It is easy to
understand that men of sense were much shocked by the insolence implied by =
his
isolation.
One extenuating
circumstance: Lord Clancharlie had never had any brains. Every one agreed on
that point.
II.
It is disagreeable to see one's fel=
lows
practise obstinacy. Imitations of Regulus are not popular, and public opini=
on
holds them in some derision. Stubborn people are like reproaches, and we ha=
ve a
right to laugh at them.
Besides, to sum u=
p,
are these perversities, these rugged notches, virtues? Is there not in these
excessive advertisements of self-abnegation and of honour a good deal of
ostentation? It is all parade more than anything else. Why such exaggeratio=
n of
solitude and exile? to carry nothing to extremes is the wise man's maxim. B=
e in
opposition if you choose, blame if you will, but decently, and crying out a=
ll
the while "Long live the King." The true virtue is common sense--=
what
falls ought to fall, what succeeds ought to succeed. Providence acts advise=
dly,
it crowns him who deserves the crown; do you pretend to know better than
Providence? When matters are settled--when one rule has replaced another--w=
hen
success is the scale in which truth and falsehood are weighed, in one side =
the
catastrophe, in the other the triumph; then doubt is no longer possible, the
honest man rallies to the winning side, and although it may happen to serve=
his
fortune and his family, he does not allow himself to be influenced by that =
consideration,
but thinking only of the public weal, holds out his hand heartily to the
conqueror.
What would become=
of
the state if no one consented to serve it? Would not everything come to a
standstill? To keep his place is the duty of a good citizen. Learn to sacri=
fice
your secret preferences. Appointments must be filled, and some one must
necessarily sacrifice himself. To be faithful to public functions is true
fidelity. The retirement of public officials would paralyse the state. What!
banish yourself!--how weak! As an example?--what vanity! As a defiance?--wh=
at
audacity! What do you set yourself up to be, I wonder? Learn that we are ju=
st
as good as you. If we chose we too could be intractable and untameable and =
do
worse things than you; but we prefer to be sensible people. Because I am a =
Trimalcion,
you think that I could not be a Cato! What nonsense!
III.
Never was a situation more clearly
defined or more decisive than that of 1660. Never had a course of conduct b=
een
more plainly indicated to a well-ordered mind. England was out of Cromwell's
grasp. Under the republic many irregularities had been committed. British
preponderance had been created. With the aid of the Thirty Years' War, Germ=
any
had been overcome; with the aid of the Fronde, France had been humiliated; =
with
the aid of the Duke of Braganza, the power of Spain had been lessened. Crom=
well
had tamed Mazarin; in signing treaties the Protector of England wrote his n=
ame
above that of the King of France. The United Provinces had been put under a
fine of eight millions; Algiers and Tunis had been attacked; Jamaica conque=
red;
Lisbon humbled; French rivalry encouraged in Barcelona, and Masaniello in
Naples; Portugal had been made fast to England; the seas had been swept of
Barbary pirates from Gibraltar to Crete; maritime domination had been found=
ed
under two forms, Victory and Commerce. On the 10th of August, 1653, the man=
of thirty-three
victories, the old admiral who called himself the sailors' grandfather, Mar=
tin
Happertz van Tromp, who had beaten the Spanish, had been destroyed by the
English fleet. The Atlantic had been cleared of the Spanish navy, the Pacif=
ic
of the Dutch, the Mediterranean of the Venetian, and by the patent of
navigation, England had taken possession of the sea-coast of the world. By =
the
ocean she commanded the world; at sea the Dutch flag humbly saluted the Bri=
tish
flag. France, in the person of the Ambassador Mancini, bent the knee to Oli=
ver
Cromwell; and Cromwell played with Calais and Dunkirk as with two shuttleco=
cks
on a battledore. The Continent had been taught to tremble, peace had been d=
ictated,
war declared, the British Ensign raised on every pinnacle. By itself the
Protector's regiment of Ironsides weighed in the fears of Europe against an
army. Cromwell used to say, "I wish the Republic of England to be
respected, as was respected the Republic of Rome." No longer were
delusions held sacred; speech was free, the press was free. In the public
street men said what they listed; they printed what they pleased without
control or censorship. The equilibrium of thrones had been destroyed. The w=
hole
order of European monarchy, in which the Stuarts formed a link, had been
overturned. But at last England had emerged from this odious order of thing=
s,
and had won its pardon.
The indulgent Cha=
rles
II. had granted the declaration of Breda. He had conceded to England oblivi=
on
of the period in which the son of the Huntingdon brewer placed his foot on =
the
neck of Louis XIV. England said its mea culpa, and breathed again. The cup =
of
joy was, as we have just said, full; gibbets for the regicides adding to the
universal delight. A restoration is a smile; but a few gibbets are not out =
of
place, and satisfaction is due to the conscience of the public. To be good
subjects was thenceforth the people's sole ambition. The spirit of lawlessn=
ess had
been expelled. Royalty was reconstituted. Men had recovered from the follie=
s of
politics. They mocked at revolution, they jeered at the republic, and as to
those times when such strange words as Right, Liberty, Progress, had been in
the mouth--why, they laughed at such bombast! Admirable was the return to
common sense. England had been in a dream. What joy to be quit of such erro=
rs!
Was ever anything so mad? Where should we be if every one had his rights? F=
ancy
every one's having a hand in the government? Can you imagine a city ruled by
its citizens? Why, the citizens are the team, and the team cannot be driver=
. To
put to the vote is to throw to the winds. Would you have states driven like
clouds? Disorder cannot build up order. With chaos for an architect, the
edifice would be a Babel. And, besides, what tyranny is this pretended libe=
rty!
As for me, I wish to enjoy myself; not to govern. It is a bore to have to v=
ote;
I want to dance. A prince is a providence, and takes care of us all. Truly =
the
king is generous to take so much trouble for our sakes. Besides, he is to t=
he
manner born. He knows what it is. It's his business. Peace, War, Legislatio=
n, Finance--what
have the people to do with such things? Of course the people have to pay; of
course the people have to serve; but that should suffice them. They have a
place in policy; from them come two essential things, the army and the budg=
et.
To be liable to contribute, and to be liable to serve; is not that enough? =
What
more should they want? They are the military and the financial arm. A
magnificent rôle. The king reigns for them, and they must reward him
accordingly. Taxation and the civil list are the salaries paid by the peopl=
es
and earned by the prince. The people give their blood and their money, in
return for which they are led. To wish to lead themselves! what an absurd i=
dea!
They require a guide; being ignorant, they are blind. Has not the blind man=
his
dog? Only the people have a lion, the king, who consents to act the dog. How
kind of him! But why are the people ignorant? because it is good for them.
Ignorance is the guardian of Virtue. Where there is no perspective there is=
no
ambition. The ignorant man is in useful darkness, which, suppressing sight,
suppresses covetousness: whence innocence. He who reads, thinks; who thinks,
reasons. But not to reason is duty; and happiness as well. These truths are
incontestable; society is based on them.
Thus had sound so=
cial
doctrines been re-established in England; thus had the nation been reinstat=
ed.
At the same time a correct taste in literature was reviving. Shakespeare was
despised, Dryden admired. "Dryden is the greatest poet of England, and=
of
the century," said Atterbury, the translator of "Achitophel."=
; It
was about the time when M. Huet, Bishop of Avranches, wrote to Saumaise, who
had done the author of "Paradise Lost" the honour to refute and a=
buse
him, "How can you trouble yourself about so mean a thing as that
Milton?" Everything was falling into its proper place: Dryden above,
Shakespeare below; Charles II. on the throne, Cromwell on the gibbet. Engla=
nd
was raising herself out of the shame and the excesses of the past. It is a
great happiness for nations to be led back by monarchy to good order in the
state and good taste in letters.
That such benefits
should be misunderstood is difficult to believe. To turn the cold shoulder =
to
Charles II., to reward with ingratitude the magnanimity which he displayed =
in
ascending the throne--was not such conduct abominable? Lord Linnæus
Clancharlie had inflicted this vexation upon honest men. To sulk at his
country's happiness, alack, what aberration!
We know that in 1=
650
Parliament had drawn up this form of declaration: "I promise to remain
faithful to the republic, without king, sovereign, or lord." Under pre=
text
of having taken this monstrous oath, Lord Clancharlie was living out of the
kingdom, and, in the face of the general joy, thought that he had the right=
to
be sad. He had a morose esteem for that which was no more, and was absurdly
attached to things which had been.
To excuse him was
impossible. The kindest-hearted abandoned him; his friends had long done him
the honour to believe that he had entered the republican ranks only to obse=
rve
the more closely the flaws in the republican armour, and to smite it the mo=
re
surely, when the day should come, for the sacred cause of the king. These
lurkings in ambush for the convenient hour to strike the enemy a death-blow=
in
the back are attributes to loyalty. Such a line of conduct had been expecte=
d of
Lord Clancharlie, so strong was the wish to judge him favourably; but, in t=
he face
of his strange persistence in republicanism, people were obliged to lower t=
heir
estimate. Evidently Lord Clancharlie was confirmed in his convictions--that=
is
to say, an idiot!
The explanation g=
iven
by the indulgent, wavered between puerile stubbornness and senile obstinacy=
.
The severe and the
just went further; they blighted the name of the renegade. Folly has its
rights, but it has also its limits. A man may be a brute, but he has no rig=
ht
to be a rebel. And, after all, what was this Lord Clancharlie? A deserter. =
He
had fled his camp, the aristocracy, for that of the enemy, the people. This
faithful man was a traitor. It is true that he was a traitor to the stronge=
r,
and faithful to the weaker; it is true that the camp repudiated by him was =
the conquering
camp, and the camp adopted by him, the conquered; it is true that by his
treason he lost everything--his political privileges and his domestic heart=
h,
his title and his country. He gained nothing but ridicule, he attained no
benefit but exile. But what does all this prove?--that he was a fool. Grant=
ed.
Plainly a dupe and
traitor in one. Let a man be as great a fool as he likes, so that he does n=
ot
set a bad example. Fools need only be civil, and in consideration thereof t=
hey
may aim at being the basis of monarchies. The narrowness of Clancharlie's m=
ind
was incomprehensible. His eyes were still dazzled by the phantasmagoria of =
the
revolution. He had allowed himself to be taken in by the republic--yes; and
cast out. He was an affront to his country. The attitude he assumed was
downright felony. Absence was an insult. He held aloof from the public joy =
as
from the plague. In his voluntary banishment he found some indescribable re=
fuge
from the national rejoicing. He treated loyalty as a contagion; over the
widespread gladness at the revival of the monarchy, denounced by him as a
lazaretto, he was the black flag. What! could he look thus askance at order
reconstituted, a nation exalted, and a religion restored? Over such serenity
why cast his shadow? Take umbrage at England's contentment! Must he be the =
one
blot in the clear blue sky! Be as a threat! Protest against a nation's will!
refuse his Yes to the universal consent! It would be disgusting, if it were=
not
the part of a fool. Clancharlie could not have taken into account the fact =
that
it did not matter if one had taken the wrong turn with Cromwell, as long as=
one
found one's way back into the right path with Monk.
Take Monk's case.=
He
commands the republican army. Charles II., having been informed of his hone=
sty,
writes to him. Monk, who combines virtue with tact, dissimulates at first, =
then
suddenly at the head of his troops dissolves the rebel parliament, and
re-establishes the king on the throne. Monk is created Duke of Albemarle, h=
as
the honour of having saved society, becomes very rich, sheds a glory over h=
is
own time, is created Knight of the Garter, and has the prospect of being bu=
ried
in Westminster Abbey. Such glory is the reward of British fidelity!
Lord Clancharlie
could never rise to a sense of duty thus carried out. He had the infatuation
and obstinacy of an exile. He contented himself with hollow phrases. He was
tongue-tied by pride. The words conscience and dignity are but words, after
all. One must penetrate to the depths. These depths Lord Clancharlie had not
reached. His "eye was single," and before committing an act he wi=
shed
to observe it so closely as to be able to judge it by more senses than one.
Hence arose absurd disgust to the facts examined. No man can be a statesman=
who
gives way to such overstrained delicacy. Excess of conscientiousness
degenerates into infirmity. Scruple is one-handed when a sceptre is to be
seized, and a eunuch when fortune is to be wedded. Distrust scruples; they =
drag
you too far. Unreasonable fidelity is like a ladder leading into a cavern--=
one
step down, another, then another, and there you are in the dark. The clever=
reascend;
fools remain in it. Conscience must not be allowed to practise such austeri=
ty.
If it be, it will fall until, from transition to transition, it at length
reaches the deep gloom of political prudery. Then one is lost. Thus it was =
with
Lord Clancharlie.
Principles termin=
ate
in a precipice.
He was walking, h=
is
hands behind him, along the shores of the Lake of Geneva. A fine way of get=
ting
on!
In London they
sometimes spoke of the exile. He was accused before the tribunal of public
opinion. They pleaded for and against him. The cause having been heard, he =
was
acquitted on the ground of stupidity.
Many zealous frie=
nds
of the former republic had given their adherence to the Stuarts. For this t=
hey
deserve praise. They naturally calumniated him a little. The obstinate are
repulsive to the compliant. Men of sense, in favour and good places at Cour=
t,
weary of his disagreeable attitude, took pleasure in saying, "If he has
not rallied to the throne, it is because he has not been sufficiently
paid," etc. "He wanted the chancellorship which the king has give=
n to
Hyde." One of his old friends went so far as to whisper, "He told=
me
so himself." Remote as was the solitude of Linnæus Clancharlie,
something of this talk would reach him through the outlaws he met, such as =
old
regicides like Andrew Broughton, who lived at Lausanne. Clancharlie confined
himself to an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, a sign of profound dete=
rioration.
On one occasion he added to the shrug these few words, murmured in a low vo=
ice,
"I pity those who believe such things."
IV.
Charles II., good man! despised him=
. The
happiness of England under Charles II. was more than happiness, it was
enchantment. A restoration is like an old oil painting, blackened by time, =
and
revarnished. All the past reappeared, good old manners returned, beautiful
women reigned and governed. Evelyn notices it. We read in his journal,
"Luxury, profaneness, contempt of God. I saw the king on Sunday evening
with his courtesans, Portsmouth, Cleveland, Mazarin, and two or three other=
s,
all nearly naked, in the gaming-room." We feel that there is ill-natur=
e in
this description, for Evelyn was a grumbling Puritan, tainted with republic=
an
reveries. He did not appreciate the profitable example given by kings in th=
ose
grand Babylonian gaieties, which, after all, maintain luxury. He did not
understand the utility of vice. Here is a maxim: Do not extirpate vice, if =
you
want to have charming women; if you do you are like idiots who destroy the
chrysalis whilst they delight in the butterfly.
Charles II., as we
have said, scarcely remembered that a rebel called Clancharlie existed; but
James II. was more heedful. Charles II. governed gently, it was his way; we=
may
add, that he did not govern the worse on that account. A sailor sometimes m=
akes
on a rope intended to baffle the wind, a slack knot which he leaves to the =
wind
to tighten. Such is the stupidity of the storm and of the people.
The slack knot ve=
ry
soon becomes a tight one. So did the government of Charles II.
Under James II. t=
he
throttling began; a necessary throttling of what remained of the revolution.
James II. had a laudable ambition to be an efficient king. The reign of Cha=
rles
II. was, in his opinion, but a sketch of restoration. James wished for a st=
ill
more complete return to order. He had, in 1660, deplored that they had conf=
ined
themselves to the hanging of ten regicides. He was a more genuine reconstru=
ctor
of authority. He infused vigour into serious principles. He installed true =
justice,
which is superior to sentimental declamations, and attends, above all thing=
s,
to the interests of society. In his protecting severities we recognize the
father of the state. He entrusted the hand of justice to Jeffreys, and its
sword to Kirke. That useful Colonel, one day, hung and rehung the same man,=
a
republican, asking him each time, "Will you renounce the republic?&quo=
t;
The villain, having each time said "No," was dispatched. "I
hanged him four times," said Kirke, with satisfaction. The renewal of
executions is a great sign of power in the executive authority. Lady Lisle,
who, though she had sent her son to fight against Monmouth, had concealed t=
wo
rebels in her house, was executed; another rebel, having been honourable en=
ough
to declare that an Anabaptist female had given him shelter, was pardoned, a=
nd
the woman was burned alive. Kirke, on another occasion, gave a town to
understand that he knew its principles to be republican, by hanging ninetee=
n burgesses.
These reprisals were certainly legitimate, for it must be remembered that,
under Cromwell, they cut off the noses and ears of the stone saints in the
churches. James II., who had had the sense to choose Jeffreys and Kirke, wa=
s a
prince imbued with true religion; he practised mortification in the uglines=
s of
his mistresses; he listened to le Père la Colombière, a preac=
her
almost as unctuous as le Père Cheminais, but with more fire, who had=
the
glory of being, during the first part of his life, the counsellor of James =
II.,
and, during the latter, the inspirer of Mary Alcock. It was, thanks to this
strong religious nourishment, that, later on, James II. was enabled to bear
exile with dignity, and to exhibit, in his retirement at Saint Germain, the
spectacle of a king rising superior to adversity, calmly touching for king's
evil, and conversing with Jesuits.
It will be readily understood that such a king would trouble himself to a certain extent about such a rebel as Lord Linnæus Clancharlie. Hereditary peerages have a certain hold on the future, and it was evident that if any precautions were necessary with regard to that lord, James II. was not the man to hesitate.<= o:p>
CHAPTER II - LORD DAVID DIRRY-MOIR.
I.
Lord Linnæus Clancharlie had =
not
always been old and proscribed; he had had his phase of youth and passion. =
We
know from Harrison and Pride that Cromwell, when young, loved women and
pleasure, a taste which, at times (another reading of the text
"Woman"), betrays a seditious man. Distrust the loosely-clasped
girdle. Male proecinctam juvenem cavete. Lord Clancharlie, like Cromwell, h=
ad
had his wild hours and his irregularities. He was known to have had a natur=
al
child, a son. This son was born in England in the last days of the republic,
just as his father was going into exile. Hence he had never seen his father.
This bastard of Lord Clancharlie had grown up as page at the court of Charl=
es II.
He was styled Lord David Dirry-Moir: he was a lord by courtesy, his mother
being a woman of quality. The mother, while Lord Clancharlie was becoming an
owl in Switzerland, made up her mind, being a beauty, to give over sulking,=
and
was forgiven that Goth, her first lover, by one undeniably polished and at =
the
same time a royalist, for it was the king himself.
She had been but a
short time the mistress of Charles II., sufficiently long however to have m=
ade
his Majesty--who was delighted to have won so pretty a woman from the
republic--bestow on the little Lord David, the son of his conquest, the off=
ice
of keeper of the stick, which made that bastard officer, boarded at the kin=
g's
expense, by a natural revulsion of feeling, an ardent adherent of the Stuar=
ts.
Lord David was for some time one of the hundred and seventy wearing the gre=
at
sword, while afterwards, entering the corps of pensioners, he became one of=
the
forty who bear the gilded halberd. He had, besides being one of the noble c=
ompany
instituted by Henry VIII. as a bodyguard, the privilege of laying the dishe=
s on
the king's table. Thus it was that whilst his father was growing gray in ex=
ile,
Lord David prospered under Charles II.
After which he
prospered under James II.
The king is dead.
Long live the king! It is the non deficit alter, aureus.
It was on the
accession of the Duke of York that he obtained permission to call himself L=
ord
David Dirry-Moir, from an estate which his mother, who had just died, had l=
eft
him, in that great forest of Scotland, where is found the krag, a bird which
scoops out a nest with its beak in the trunk of the oak.
II.
James II. was a king, and affected =
to be
a general. He loved to surround himself with young officers. He showed hims=
elf
frequently in public on horseback, in a helmet and cuirass, with a huge
projecting wig hanging below the helmet and over the cuirass--a sort of
equestrian statue of imbecile war. He took a fancy to the graceful mien of =
the young
Lord David. He liked the royalist for being the son of a republican. The re=
pudiation
of a father does not damage the foundation of a court fortune. The king made
Lord David gentleman of the bedchamber, at a salary of a thousand a year.
It was a fine
promotion. A gentleman of the bedchamber sleeps near the king every night, =
on a
bed which is made up for him. There are twelve gentlemen who relieve each
other.
Lord David, whils=
t he
held that post, was also head of the king's granary, giving out corn for the
horses and receiving a salary of £260. Under him were the five coachm=
en
of the king, the five postilions of the king, the five grooms of the king, =
the
twelve footmen of the king, and the four chair-bearers of the king. He had =
the
management of the race-chorses which the king kept at Newmarket, and which =
cost
his Majesty £600 a year. He worked his will on the king's wardrobe, f=
rom which
the Knights of the Garter are furnished with their robes of ceremony. He was
saluted to the ground by the usher of the Black Rod, who belongs to the kin=
g.
That usher, under James II., was the knight of Duppa. Mr. Baker, who was cl=
erk
of the crown, and Mr. Brown, who was clerk of the Parliament, kotowed to Lo=
rd
David. The court of England, which is magnificent, is a model of hospitalit=
y.
Lord David presided, as one of the twelve, at banquets and receptions. He h=
ad
the glory of standing behind the king on offertory days, when the king give=
to
the church the golden byzantium; on collar-days, when the king wears the co=
llar
of his order; on communion days, when no one takes the sacrament excepting =
the
king and the princes. It was he who, on Holy Thursday, introduced into his
Majesty's presence the twelve poor men to whom the king gives as many silver
pence as the years of his age, and as many shillings as the years of his re=
ign.
The duty devolved on him when the king was ill, to call to the assistance of
his Majesty the two grooms of the almonry, who are priests, and to prevent =
the
approach of doctors without permission from the council of state. Besides, =
he
was lieutenant-colonel of the Scotch regiment of Guards, the one which play=
s the
Scottish march. As such, he made several campaigns, and with glory, for he =
was
a gallant soldier. He was a brave lord, well-made, handsome, generous, and
majestic in look and in manner. His person was like his quality. He was tal=
l in
stature as well as high in birth.
At one time he st=
ood
a chance of being made groom of the stole, which would have given him the
privilege of putting the king's shirt on his Majesty: but to hold that offi=
ce
it was necessary to be either prince or peer. Now, to create a peer is a
serious thing; it is to create a peerage, and that makes many people jealou=
s.
It is a favour; a favour which gives the king one friend and a hundred enem=
ies,
without taking into account that the one friend becomes ungrateful. James I=
I.,
from policy, was indisposed to create peerages, but he transferred them fre=
ely.
The transfer of a peerage produces no sensation. It is simply the continuat=
ion
of a name. The order is little affected by it.
The goodwill of
royalty had no objection to raise Lord David Dirry-Moir to the Upper House =
so
long as it could do so by means of a substituted peerage. Nothing would have
pleased his majesty better than to transform Lord David Dirry-Moir, lord by
courtesy, into a lord by right.
III.
The opportunity occurred.
One day it was
announced that several things had happened to the old exile, Lord Clancharl=
ie,
the most important of which was that he was dead. Death does just this much
good to folks: it causes a little talk about them. People related what they
knew, or what they thought they knew, of the last years of Lord Linnæ=
us.
What they said was probably legend and conjecture. If these random tales we=
re
to be credited, Lord Clancharlie must have had his republicanism intensified
towards the end of his life, to the extent of marrying (strange obstinacy of
the exile!) Ann Bradshaw, the daughter of a regicide; they were precise abo=
ut
the name. She had also died, it was said, but in giving birth to a boy. If =
these
details should prove to be correct, his child would of course be the legiti=
mate
and rightful heir of Lord Clancharlie. These reports, however, were extreme=
ly
vague in form, and were rumours rather than facts. Circumstances which happ=
ened
in Switzerland, in those days, were as remote from the England of that peri=
od
as those which take place in China from the England of to-day. Lord Clancha=
rlie
must have been fifty-nine at the time of his marriage, they said, and sixty=
at
the birth of his son, and must have died shortly after, leaving his infant =
orphaned
both of father and mother. This was possible, perhaps, but improbable. They
added that the child was beautiful as the day,--just as we read in all the
fairy tales. King James put an end to these rumours, evidently without
foundation, by declaring, one fine morning, Lord David Dirry-Moir sole and
positive heir in default of legitimate issue, and by his royal pleasure, of
Lord Linnæus Clancharlie, his natural father, the absence of all other
issue and descent being established, patents of which grant were registered=
in
the House of Lords. By these patents the king instituted Lord David Dirry-M=
oir
in the titles, rights, and prerogatives of the late Lord Linnæus Clan=
charlie,
on the sole condition that Lord David should wed, when she attained a
marriageable age, a girl who was, at that time, a mere infant a few months =
old,
and whom the king had, in her cradle, created a duchess, no one knew exactl=
y why;
or, rather, every one knew why. This little infant was called the Duchess
Josiana.
The English fashi=
on
then ran on Spanish names. One of Charles II.'s bastards was called Carlos,
Earl of Plymouth. It is likely that Josiana was a contraction for Josefa-y-=
Ana.
Josiana, however, may have been a name--the feminine of Josias. One of Henry
VIII.'s gentlemen was called Josias du Passage.
It was to this li=
ttle
duchess that the king granted the peerage of Clancharlie. She was a peeress
till there should be a peer; the peer should be her husband. The peerage was
founded on a double castleward, the barony of Clancharlie and the barony of
Hunkerville; besides, the barons of Clancharlie were, in recompense of an
ancient feat of arms, and by royal licence, Marquises of Corleone, in Sicil=
y.
Peers of England
cannot bear foreign titles; there are, nevertheless, exceptions; thus--Henry
Arundel, Baron Arundel of Wardour, was, as well as Lord Clifford, a Count of
the Holy Roman Empire, of which Lord Cowper is a prince. The Duke of Hamilt=
on
is Duke of Chatelherault, in France; Basil Fielding, Earl of Denbigh, is Co=
unt
of Hapsburg, of Lauffenberg, and of Rheinfelden, in Germany. The Duke of
Marlborough was Prince of Mindelheim, in Suabia, just as the Duke of Wellin=
gton
was Prince of Waterloo, in Belgium. The same Lord Wellington was a Spanish =
Duke
of Ciudad Rodrigo, and Portuguese Count of Vimiera.
There were in
England, and there are still, lands both noble and common. The lands of the
Lords of Clancharlie were all noble. These lands, burghs, bailiwicks, fiefs,
rents, freeholds, and domains, adherent to the peerage of
Clancharlie-Hunkerville, belonged provisionally to Lady Josiana, and the ki=
ng
declared that, once married to Josiana, Lord David Dirry-Moir should be Bar=
on
Clancharlie.
Besides the
Clancharlie inheritance, Lady Josiana had her own fortune. She possessed gr=
eat
wealth, much of which was derived from the gifts of Madame sans queue to the
Duke of York. Madame sans queue is short for Madame. Henrietta of England,
Duchess of Orleans, the lady of highest rank in France after the queen, was
thus called.
IV.
Having prospered under Charles and =
James,
Lord David prospered under William. His Jacobite feeling did not reach to t=
he
extent of following James into exile. While he continued to love his legiti=
mate
king, he had the good sense to serve the usurper; he was, moreover, althoug=
h sometimes
disposed to rebel against discipline, an excellent officer. He passed from =
the
land to the sea forces, and distinguished himself in the White Squadron. He
rose in it to be what was then called captain of a light frigate. Altogethe=
r he
made a very fine fellow, carrying to a great extent the elegancies of vice:=
a
bit of a poet, like every one else; a good servant of the state, a good ser=
vant
to the prince; assiduous at feasts, at galas, at ladies' receptions, at
ceremonies, and in battle; servile in a gentlemanlike way; very haughty; wi=
th eyesight
dull or keen, according to the object examined; inclined to integrity;
obsequious or arrogant, as occasion required; frank and sincere on first
acquaintance, with the power of assuming the mask afterwards; very observan=
t of
the smiles and frowns of the royal humour; careless before a sword's point;
always ready to risk his life on a sign from his Majesty with heroism and
complacency, capable of any insult but of no impoliteness; a man of courtesy
and etiquette, proud of kneeling at great regal ceremonies; of a gay valour=
; a
courtier on the surface, a paladin below; quite young at forty-five. Lord D=
avid
sang French songs, an elegant gaiety which had delighted Charles II. He lov=
ed
eloquence and fine language. He greatly admired those celebrated discourses
which are called the funeral orations of Bossuet.
From his mother he
had inherited almost enough to live on, about £10,000 a year. He mana=
ged
to get on with it--by running into debt. In magnificence, extravagance, and
novelty he was without a rival. Directly he was copied he changed his fashi=
on.
On horseback he wore loose boots of cow-hide, which turned over, with spurs=
. He
had hats like nobody else's, unheard-of lace, and bands of which he alone h=
ad
the pattern.
CHAPTER III - THE DUCHESS JOSIANA.
Towards 1705,
although Lady Josiana was twenty-three and Lord David forty-four, the weddi=
ng
had not yet taken place, and that for the best reasons in the world. Did th=
ey
hate each other? Far from it; but what cannot escape from you inspires you =
with
no haste to obtain it. Josiana wanted to remain free, David to remain young=
. To
have no tie until as late as possible appeared to him to be a prolongation =
of
youth. Middle-aged young men abounded in those rakish times. They grew gray=
as young
fops. The wig was an accomplice: later on, powder became the auxiliary. At
fifty-five Lord Charles Gerrard, Baron Gerrard, one of the Gerrards of Brom=
ley,
filled London with his successes. The young and pretty Duchess of Buckingha=
m,
Countess of Coventry, made a fool of herself for love of the handsome Thomas
Bellasys, Viscount Falconberg, who was sixty-seven. People quoted the famous
verses of Corneille, the septuagenarian, to a girl of twenty--"Marquis=
e,
si mon visage." Women, too, had their successes in the autumn of life.
Witness Ninon and Marion. Such were the models of the day.
Josiana and David
carried on a flirtation of a particular shade. They did not love, they plea=
sed,
each other. To be at each other's side sufficed them. Why hasten the
conclusion? The novels of those days carried lovers and engaged couples to =
that
kind of stage which was the most becoming. Besides, Josiana, while she knew
herself to be a bastard, felt herself a princess, and carried her authority
over him with a high tone in all their arrangements. She had a fancy for Lo=
rd
David. Lord David was handsome, but that was over and above the bargain. Sh=
e considered
him to be fashionable.
To be fashionable=
is
everything. Caliban, fashionable and magnificent, would distance Ariel, poo=
r.
Lord David was handsome, so much the better. The danger in being handsome is
being insipid; and that he was not. He betted, boxed, ran into debt. Josiana
thought great things of his horses, his dogs, his losses at play, his
mistresses. Lord David, on his side, bowed down before the fascinations of =
the
Duchess Josiana--a maiden without spot or scruple, haughty, inaccessible, a=
nd
audacious. He addressed sonnets to her, which Josiana sometimes read. In th=
ese
sonnets he declared that to possess Josiana would be to rise to the stars,
which did not prevent his always putting the ascent off to the following ye=
ar. He
waited in the antechamber outside Josiana's heart; and this suited the
convenience of both. At court all admired the good taste of this delay. Lady
Josiana said, "It is a bore that I should be obliged to marry Lord Dav=
id;
I, who would desire nothing better than to be in love with him!"
Josiana was "=
;the
flesh." Nothing could be more resplendent. She was very tall--too tall.
Her hair was of that tinge which might be called red gold. She was plump,
fresh, strong, and rosy, with immense boldness and wit. She had eyes which =
were
too intelligible. She had neither lovers nor chastity. She walled herself r=
ound
with pride. Men! oh, fie! a god only would be worthy of her, or a monster. =
If
virtue consists in the protection of an inaccessible position, Josiana
possessed all possible virtue, but without any innocence. She disdained
intrigues; but she would not have been displeased had she been supposed to =
have
engaged in some, provided that the objects were uncommon, and proportioned =
to
the merits of one so highly placed. She thought little of her reputation, b=
ut
much of her glory. To appear yielding, and to be unapproachable, is perfect=
ion.
Josiana felt herself majestic and material. Hers was a cumbrous beauty. She
usurped rather than charmed. She trod upon hearts. She was earthly. She wou=
ld
have been as much astonished at being proved to have a soul in her bosom as
wings on her back. She discoursed on Locke; she was polite; she was suspect=
ed
of knowing Arabic.
To be "the
flesh" and to be woman are two different things. Where a woman is
vulnerable, on the side of pity, for instance, which so readily turns to lo=
ve,
Josiana was not. Not that she was unfeeling. The ancient comparison of fles=
h to
marble is absolutely false. The beauty of flesh consists in not being marbl=
e:
its beauty is to palpitate, to tremble, to blush, to bleed, to have firmness
without hardness, to be white without being cold, to have its sensations and
its infirmities; its beauty is to be life, and marble is death.
Flesh, when it
attains a certain degree of beauty, has almost a claim to the right of nudi=
ty;
it conceals itself in its own dazzling charms as in a veil. He who might ha=
ve
looked upon Josiana nude would have perceived her outlines only through a
surrounding glory. She would have shown herself without hesitation to a sat=
yr
or a eunuch. She had the self-possession of a goddess. To have made her nud=
ity
a torment, ever eluding a pursuing Tantalus, would have been an amusement to
her.
The king had made=
her
a duchess, and Jupiter a Nereid--a double irradiation of which the strange,
brightness of this creature was composed. In admiring her you felt yourself
becoming a pagan and a lackey. Her origin had been bastardy and the ocean. =
She
appeared to have emerged from the foam. From the stream had risen the first=
jet
of her destiny; but the spring was royal. In her there was something of the=
wave,
of chance, of the patrician, and of the tempest. She was well read and
accomplished. Never had a passion approached her, yet she had sounded them =
all.
She had a disgust for realizations, and at the same time a taste for them. =
If
she had stabbed herself, it would, like Lucretia, not have been until
afterwards. She was a virgin stained with every defilement in its visionary
stage. She was a possible Astarte in a real Diana. She was, in the insolenc=
e of
high birth, tempting and inaccessible. Nevertheless, she might find it amus=
ing
to plan a fall for herself. She dwelt in a halo of glory, half wishing to
descend from it, and perhaps feeling curious to know what a fall was like. =
She
was a little too heavy for her cloud. To err is a diversion. Princely uncon=
straint
has the privilege of experiment, and what is frailty in a plebeian is only
frolic in a duchess. Josiana was in everything--in birth, in beauty, in iro=
ny,
in brilliancy--almost a queen. She had felt a moment's enthusiasm for Louis=
de
Bouffles, who used to break horseshoes between his fingers. She regretted t=
hat
Hercules was dead. She lived in some undefined expectation of a voluptuous =
and
supreme ideal.
Morally, Josiana
brought to one's mind the line--
"Un beau torse de femme en hy=
dre se
termine."
Hers was a noble
neck, a splendid bosom, heaving harmoniously over a royal heart, a glance f=
ull
of life and light, a countenance pure and haughty, and who knows? below the
surface was there not, in a semi-transparent and misty depth, an undulating,
supernatural prolongation, perchance deformed and dragon-like--a proud virt=
ue
ending in vice in the depth of dreams.
II.
With all that she was a prude.
It was the fashio=
n.
Remember Elizabet=
h.
Elizabeth was of a
type that prevailed in England for three centuries--the sixteenth, seventee=
nth,
and eighteenth. Elizabeth was more than English--she was Anglican. Hence the
deep respect of the Episcopalian Church for that queen--respect resented by=
the
Church of Rome, which counterbalanced it with a dash of excommunication. In=
the
mouth of Sixtus V., when anathematizing Elizabeth, malediction turned to ma=
drigal.
"Un gran cervello di principessa," he says. Mary Stuart, less
concerned with the church and more with the woman part of the question, had
little respect for her sister Elizabeth, and wrote to her as queen to queen=
and
coquette to prude: "Your disinclination to marriage arises from your n=
ot
wishing to lose the liberty of being made love to." Mary Stuart played
with the fan, Elizabeth with the axe. An uneven match. They were rivals,
besides, in literature. Mary Stuart composed French verses; Elizabeth
translated Horace. The ugly Elizabeth decreed herself beautiful; liked
quatrains and acrostics; had the keys of towns presented to her by cupids; =
bit
her lips after the Italian fashion, rolled her eyes after the Spanish; had =
in
her wardrobe three thousand dresses and costumes, of which several were for=
the
character of Minerva and Amphitrite; esteemed the Irish for the width of th=
eir shoulders;
covered her farthingale with braids and spangles; loved roses; cursed, swor=
e,
and stamped; struck her maids of honour with her clenched fists; used to se=
nd
Dudley to the devil; beat Burleigh, the Chancellor, who would cry--poor old
fool! spat on Matthew; collared Hatton; boxed the ears of Essex; showed her
legs to Bassompierre; and was a virgin.
What she did for
Bassompierre the Queen of Sheba had done for Solomon;[11] consequently she =
was
right, Holy Writ having created the precedent. That which is biblical may w=
ell
be Anglican. Biblical precedent goes so far as to speak of a child who was
called Ebnehaquem or Melilechet--that is to say, the Wise Man's son.
Why object to such
manners? Cynicism is at least as good as hypocrisy.
Nowadays England,
whose Loyola is named Wesley, casts down her eyes a little at the remembran=
ce
of that past age. She is vexed at the memory, yet proud of it.
These fine ladies,
moreover, knew Latin. From the 16th century this had been accounted a femin=
ine
accomplishment. Lady Jane Grey had carried fashion to the point of knowing
Hebrew. The Duchess Josiana Latinized. Then (another fine thing) she was
secretly a Catholic; after the manner of her uncle, Charles II., rather than
her father, James II. James II. had lost his crown for his Catholicism, and
Josiana did not care to risk her peerage. Thus it was that while a Catholic
amongst her intimate friends and the refined of both sexes, she was outward=
ly a
Protestant for the benefit of the riffraff.
This is the pleas=
ant
view to take of religion. You enjoy all the good things belonging to the
official Episcopalian church, and later on you die, like Grotius, in the od=
our
of Catholicity, having the glory of a mass being said for you by le P&egrav=
e;re
Petau.
Although plump and
healthy, Josiana was, we repeat, a perfect prude.
At times her slee=
py
and voluptuous way of dragging out the end of her phrases was like the cree=
ping
of a tiger's paws in the jungle.
The advantage of
prudes is that they disorganize the human race. They deprive it of the hono=
ur
of their adherence. Beyond all, keep the human species at a distance. This =
is a
point of the greatest importance.
When one has not =
got
Olympus, one must take the Hôtel de Rambouillet. Juno resolves herself
into Araminta. A pretension to divinity not admitted creates affectation. In
default of thunderclaps there is impertinence. The temple shrivels into the
boudoir. Not having the power to be a goddess, she is an idol.
There is besides,=
in
prudery, a certain pedantry which is pleasing to women. The coquette and the
pedant are neighbours. Their kinship is visible in the fop. The subtile is
derived from the sensual. Gluttony affects delicacy, a grimace of disgust
conceals cupidity. And then woman feels her weak point guarded by all that
casuistry of gallantry which takes the place of scruples in prudes. It is a
line of circumvallation with a ditch. Every prude puts on an air of repugna=
nce.
It is a protection. She will consent, but she disdains--for the present.
Josiana had an un=
easy
conscience. She felt such a leaning towards immodesty that she was a prude.=
The
recoils of pride in the direction opposed to our vices lead us to those of a
contrary nature. It was the excessive effort to be chaste which made her a
prude. To be too much on the defensive points to a secret desire for attack;
the shy woman is not strait-laced. She shut herself up in the arrogance of =
the
exceptional circumstances of her rank, meditating, perhaps, all the while, =
some
sudden lapse from it.
It was the dawn of
the eighteenth century. England was a sketch of what France was during the
regency. Walpole and Dubois are not unlike. Marlborough was fighting against
his former king, James II., to whom it was said he had sold his sister, Miss
Churchill. Bolingbroke was in his meridian, and Richelieu in his dawn.
Gallantry found its convenience in a certain medley of ranks. Men were
equalized by the same vices as they were later on, perhaps, by the same ide=
as.
Degradation of rank, an aristocratic prelude, began what the revolution was=
to
complete. It was not very far off the time when Jelyotte was seen publicly
sitting, in broad daylight, on the bed of the Marquise d'Epinay. It is true
(for manners re-echo each other) that in the sixteenth century Smeton's nig=
htcap
had been found under Anne Boleyn's pillow.
If the word woman
signifies fault, as I forget what Council decided, never was woman so woman=
like
as then. Never, covering her frailty by her charms, and her weakness by her
omnipotence, has she claimed absolution more imperiously. In making the
forbidden the permitted fruit, Eve fell; in making the permitted the forbid=
den
fruit, she triumphs. That is the climax. In the eighteenth century the wife
bolts out her husband. She shuts herself up in Eden with Satan. Adam is left
outside.
III.
All Josiana's instincts impelled he=
r to
yield herself gallantly rather than to give herself legally. To surrender on
the score of gallantry implies learning, recalls Menalcas and Amaryllis, an=
d is
almost a literary act. Mademoiselle de Scudéry, putting aside the
attraction of ugliness for ugliness' sake, had no other motive for yielding=
to Pélisson.
The maiden a
sovereign, the wife a subject, such was the old English notion. Josiana was
deferring the hour of this subjection as long as she could. She must eventu=
ally
marry Lord David, since such was the royal pleasure. It was a necessity,
doubtless; but what a pity! Josiana appreciated Lord David, and showed him =
off.
There was between them a tacit agreement neither to conclude nor to break o=
ff
the engagement. They eluded each other. This method of making love, one ste=
p in
advance and two back, is expressed in the dances of the period, the minuet =
and the
gavotte.
It is unbecoming =
to
be married--fades one's ribbons and makes one look old. An espousal is a dr=
eary
absorption of brilliancy. A woman handed over to you by a notary, how
commonplace! The brutality of marriage creates definite situations; suppres=
ses
the will; kills choice; has a syntax, like grammar; replaces inspiration by
orthography; makes a dictation of love; disperses all life's mysteries;
diminishes the rights both of sovereign and subject; by a turn of the scale
destroys the charming equilibrium of the sexes, the one robust in bodily
strength, the other all-powerful in feminine weakness--strength on one side=
, beauty
on the other; makes one a master and the other a servant, while without
marriage one is a slave, the other a queen.
To make Love prosaically decent, how gross! to deprive it of all impropriety, how dull!<= o:p>
Lord David was
ripening. Forty; 'tis a marked period. He did not perceive this, and in tru=
th
he looked no more than thirty. He considered it more amusing to desire Josi=
ana
than to possess her. He possessed others. He had mistresses. On the other h=
and,
Josiana had dreams.
The Duchess Josia=
na
had a peculiarity, less rare than it is supposed. One of her eyes was blue =
and
the other black. Her pupils were made for love and hate, for happiness and
misery. Night and day were mingled in her look.
Her ambition was
this--to show herself capable of impossibilities. One day she said to Swift,
"You people fancy that you know what scorn is." "You
people" meant the human race.
She was a skin-de=
ep
Papist. Her Catholicism did not exceed the amount necessary for fashion. She
would have been a Puseyite in the present day. She wore great dresses of
velvet, satin, or moire, some composed of fifteen or sixteen yards of mater=
ial,
with embroideries of gold and silver; and round her waist many knots of pea=
rls,
alternating with other precious stones. She was extravagant in gold lace.
Sometimes she wore an embroidered cloth jacket like a bachelor. She rode on=
a
man's saddle, notwithstanding the invention of side-saddles, introduced into
England in the fourteenth century by Anne, wife of Richard II. She washed h=
er face,
arms, shoulders, and neck, in sugar-candy, diluted in white of egg, after t=
he
fashion of Castile. There came over her face, after any one had spoken witt=
ily
in her presence, a reflective smile of singular grace. She was free from
malice, and rather good-natured than otherwise.
CHAPTER IV - THE LEADER OF FASHION.
Josiana was bored. The fact is so n=
atural
as to be scarcely worth mentioning.
Lord David held t=
he
position of judge in the gay life of London. He was looked up to by the
nobility and gentry. Let us register a glory of Lord David's. He was daring
enough to wear his own hair. The reaction against the wig was beginning. Ju=
st
as in 1824 Eugene Deveria was the first to allow his beard to grow, so in 1=
702
Prince Devereux was the first to risk wearing his own hair in public disgui=
sed
by artful curling. For to risk one's hair was almost to risk one's head. The
indignation was universal. Nevertheless Prince Devereux was Viscount Herefo=
rd,
and a peer of England. He was insulted, and the deed was well worth the ins=
ult.
In the hottest part of the row Lord David suddenly appeared without his wig=
and
in his own hair. Such conduct shakes the foundations of society. Lord David=
was
insulted even more than Viscount Hereford. He held his ground. Prince Dever=
eux
was the first, Lord David Dirry-Moir the second. It is sometimes more diffi=
cult
to be second than first. It requires less genius, but more courage. The fir=
st,
intoxicated by the novelty, may ignore the danger; the second sees the abys=
s,
and rushes into it. Lord David flung himself into the abyss of no longer
wearing a wig. Later on these lords found imitators. Following these two re=
volutionists,
men found sufficient audacity to wear their own hair, and powder was introd=
uced
as an extenuating circumstance.
In order to
establish, before we pass on, an important period of history, we should rem=
ark
that the first blow in the war of wigs was really struck by a Queen, Christ=
ina
of Sweden, who wore man's clothes, and had appeared in 1680, in her hair of
golden brown, powdered, and brushed up from her head. She had, besides, says
Misson, a slight beard. The Pope, on his part, by a bull of March 1694, had
somewhat let down the wig, by taking it from the heads of bishops and pries=
ts,
and in ordering churchmen to let their hair grow.
Lord David, then,=
did
not wear a wig, and did wear cowhide boots. Such great things made him a ma=
rk
for public admiration. There was not a club of which he was not the leader,=
not
a boxing match in which he was not desired as referee. The referee is the
arbitrator.
He had drawn up t=
he
rules of several clubs in high life. He founded several resorts of fashiona=
ble
society, of which one, the Lady Guinea, was still in existence in Pall Mall=
in
1772. The Lady Guinea was a club in which all the youth of the peerage
congregated. They gamed there. The lowest stake allowed was a rouleau of fi=
fty
guineas, and there was never less than 20,000 guineas on the table. By the =
side
of each player was a little stand on which to place his cup of tea, and a g=
ilt
bowl in which to put the rouleaux of guineas. The players, like servants wh=
en
cleaning knives, wore leather sleeves to save their lace, breastplates of
leather to protect their ruffles, shades on their brows to shelter their ey=
es from
the great glare of the lamps, and, to keep their curls in order, broad-brim=
med
hats covered with flowers. They were masked to conceal their excitement,
especially when playing the game of quinze. All, moreover, had their coats
turned the wrong way, for luck. Lord David was a member of the Beefsteak Cl=
ub,
the Surly Club, and of the Splitfarthing Club, of the Cross Club, the
Scratchpenny Club, of the Sealed Knot, a Royalist Club, and of the Martinus
Scribblerus, founded by Swift, to take the place of the Rota, founded by
Milton.
Though handsome, =
he
belonged to the Ugly Club. This club was dedicated to deformity. The members
agreed to fight, not about a beautiful woman, but about an ugly man. The ha=
ll
of the club was adorned by hideous portraits--Thersites, Triboulet, Duns,
Hudibras, Scarron; over the chimney was Æsop, between two men, each b=
lind
of an eye, Cocles and Camoëns (Cocles being blind of the left,
Camoëns of the right eye), so arranged that the two profiles without e=
yes
were turned to each other. The day that the beautiful Mrs. Visart caught the
small pox the Ugly Club toasted her. This club was still in existence in the
beginning of the nineteenth century, and Mirabeau was elected an honorary
member.
Since the restora=
tion
of Charles II. revolutionary clubs had been abolished. The tavern in the li=
ttle
street by Moorfields, where the Calf's Head Club was held, had been pulled
down; it was so called because on the 30th of January, the day on which the
blood of Charles I. flowed on the scaffold, the members had drunk red wine =
out
of the skull of a calf to the health of Cromwell. To the republican clubs h=
ad succeeded
monarchical clubs. In them people amused themselves with decency.
*
There was the
Hell-fire Club, where they played at being impious. It was a joust of
sacrilege. Hell was at auction there to the highest bidder in blasphemy.
There was the But=
ting
Club, so called from its members butting folks with their heads. They found
some street porter with a wide chest and a stupid countenance. They offered
him, and compelled him, if necessary, to accept a pot of porter, in return =
for
which he was to allow them to butt him with their heads four times in the
chest, and on this they betted. One day a man, a great brute of a Welshman
named Gogangerdd, expired at the third butt. This looked serious. An inquest
was held, and the jury returned the following verdict: "Died of an
inflation of the heart, caused by excessive drinking." Gogangerdd had
certainly drunk the contents of the pot of porter.
There was the Fun
Club. Fun is like cant, like humour, a word which is untranslatable. Fun is=
to
farce what pepper is to salt. To get into a house and break a valuable mirr=
or,
slash the family portraits, poison the dog, put the cat in the aviary, is
called "cutting a bit of fun." To give bad news which is untrue,
whereby people put on mourning by mistake, is fun. It was fun to cut a squa=
re
hole in the Holbein at Hampton Court. Fun would have been proud to have bro=
ken
the arm of the Venus of Milo. Under James II. a young millionaire lord who =
had
during the night set fire to a thatched cottage--a feat which made all Lond=
on burst
with laughter--was proclaimed the King of Fun. The poor devils in the cotta=
ge
were saved in their night clothes. The members of the Fun Club, all of the
highest aristocracy, used to run about London during the hours when the
citizens were asleep, pulling the hinges from the shutters, cutting off the
pipes of pumps, filling up cisterns, digging up cultivated plots of ground,
putting out lamps, sawing through the beams which supported houses, breaking
the window panes, especially in the poor quarters of the town. It was the r=
ich
who acted thus towards the poor. For this reason no complaint was possible.
That was the best of the joke. Those manners have not altogether disappeare=
d.
In many places in England and in English possessions--at Guernsey, for inst=
ance--your
house is now and then somewhat damaged during the night, or a fence is brok=
en,
or the knocker twisted off your door. If it were poor people who did these
things, they would be sent to jail; but they are done by pleasant young
gentlemen.
The most fashiona=
ble
of the clubs was presided over by an emperor, who wore a crescent on his fo=
rehead,
and was called the Grand Mohawk. The Mohawk surpassed the Fun. Do evil for
evil's sake was the programme. The Mohawk Club had one great object--to inj=
ure.
To fulfil this duty all means were held good. In becoming a Mohawk the memb=
ers
took an oath to be hurtful. To injure at any price, no matter when, no matt=
er
whom, no matter where, was a matter of duty. Every member of the Mohawk Club
was bound to possess an accomplishment. One was "a dancing master;&quo=
t;
that is to say he made the rustics frisk about by pricking the calves of th=
eir legs
with the point of his sword. Others knew how to make a man sweat; that is to
say, a circle of gentlemen with drawn rapiers would surround a poor wretch,=
so
that it was impossible for him not to turn his back upon some one. The
gentleman behind him chastised him for this by a prick of his sword, which =
made
him spring round; another prick in the back warned the fellow that one of n=
oble
blood was behind him, and so on, each one wounding him in his turn. When the
man, closed round by the circle of swords and covered with blood, had turned
and danced about enough, they ordered their servants to beat him with stick=
s,
to change the course of his ideas. Others "hit the lion"--that is,
they gaily stopped a passenger, broke his nose with a blow of the fist, and
then shoved both thumbs into his eyes. If his eyes were gouged out, he was =
paid
for them.
Such were, towards
the beginning of the eighteenth century, the pastimes of the rich idlers of
London. The idlers of Paris had theirs. M. de Charolais was firing his gun =
at a
citizen standing on his own threshold. In all times youth has had its
amusements.
Lord David Dirry-=
Moir
brought into all these institutions his magnificent and liberal spirit. Just
like any one else, he would gaily set fire to a cot of woodwork and thatch,=
and
just scorch those within; but he would rebuild their houses in stone. He
insulted two ladies. One was unmarried--he gave her a portion; the other was
married--he had her husband appointed chaplain.
Cockfighting owed=
him
some praiseworthy improvements. It was marvellous to see Lord David dress a
cock for the pit. Cocks lay hold of each other by the feathers, as men by t=
he
hair. Lord David, therefore, made his cock as bald as possible. With a pair=
of
scissors he cut off all the feathers from the tail and from the head to the
shoulders, and all those on the neck. So much less for the enemy's beak, he
used to say. Then he extended the cock's wings, and cut each feather, one a=
fter
another, to a point, and thus the wings were furnished with darts. So much =
for
the enemy's eyes, he would say. Then he scraped its claws with a penknife, =
sharpened
its nails, fitted it with spurs of sharp steel, spat on its head, spat on i=
ts
neck, anointed it with spittle, as they used to rub oil over athletes; then=
set
it down in the pit, a redoubtable champion, exclaiming, "That's how to
make a cock an eagle, and a bird of the poultry yard a bird of the
mountain."
Lord David attend=
ed
prize-fights, and was their living law. On occasions of great performances =
it
was he who had the stakes driven in and ropes stretched, and who fixed the
number of feet for the ring. When he was a second, he followed his man step=
by
step, a bottle in one hand, a sponge in the other, crying out to him to hit
hard, suggesting stratagems, advising him as he fought, wiping away the blo=
od,
raising him when overthrown, placing him on his knee, putting the mouth of =
the
bottle between his teeth, and from his own mouth, filled with water, blowin=
g a fine
rain into his eyes and ears--a thing which reanimates even a dying man. If =
he
was referee, he saw that there was no foul play, prevented any one, whosoev=
er
he might be, from assisting the combatants, excepting the seconds, declare =
the
man beaten who did not fairly face his opponent, watched that the time betw=
een
the rounds did not exceed half a minute, prevented butting, and declared
whoever resorted to it beaten, and forbade a man's being hit when down. All
this science, however, did not render him a pedant, nor destroy his ease of
manner in society.
When he was refer=
ee,
rough, pimple-faced, unshorn friends of either combatant never dared to com=
e to
the aid of their failing man, nor, in order to upset the chances of the
betting, jumped over the barrier, entered the ring, broke the ropes, pulled
down the stakes, and violently interposed in the battle. Lord David was one=
of
the few referees whom they dared not thrash.
No one could train
like him. The pugilist whose trainer he consented to become was sure to win.
Lord David would choose a Hercules--massive as a rock, tall as a tower--and
make him his child. The problem was to turn that human rock from a defensiv=
e to
an offensive state. In this he excelled. Having once adopted the Cyclops, he
never left him. He became his nurse; he measured out his wine, weighed his
meat, and counted his hours of sleep. It was he who invented the athlete's
admirable rules, afterwards reproduced by Morley. In the mornings, a raw egg
and a glass of sherry; at twelve, some slices of a leg of mutton, almost ra=
w,
with tea; at four, toast and tea; in the evening, pale ale and toast; after=
which
he undressed his man, rubbed him, and put him to bed. In the street he never
allowed him to leave his sight, keeping him out of every danger--runaway
horses, the wheels of carriages, drunken soldiers, pretty girls. He watched
over his virtue. This maternal solicitude continually brought some new
perfection into the pupil's education. He taught him the blow with the fist
which breaks the teeth, and the twist of the thumb which gouges out the eye.
What could be more touching?
Thus he was prepa=
ring
himself for public life to which he was to be called later on. It is no easy
matter to become an accomplished gentleman.
Lord David Dirry-=
Moir
was passionately fond of open-air exhibitions, of shows, of circuses with w=
ild
beasts, of the caravans of mountebanks, of clowns, tumblers, merrymen, open=
-air
farces, and the wonders of a fair. The true noble is he who smacks of the
people. Therefore it was that Lord David frequented the taverns and low hau=
nts
of London and the Cinque Ports. In order to be able at need, and without
compromising his rank in the white squadron, to be cheek-by-jowl with a top=
man
or a calker, he used to wear a sailor's jacket when he went into the slums.=
For
such disguise his not wearing a wig was convenient; for even under Louis XI=
V.
the people kept to their hair like the lion to his mane. This gave him great
freedom of action. The low people whom Lord David used to meet in the stews,
and with whom he mixed, held him in high esteem, without ever dreaming that=
he
was a lord. They called him Tom-Jim-Jack. Under this name he was famous and
very popular amongst the dregs of the people. He played the blackguard in a
masterly style: when necessary, he used his fists. This phase of his
fashionable life was highly appreciated by Lady Josiana.
I.
Above this couple there was Anne, Q=
ueen
of England. An ordinary woman was Queen Anne. She was gay, kindly, august--=
to a
certain extent. No quality of hers attained to virtue, none to vice. Her
stoutness was bloated, her fun heavy, her good-nature stupid. She was stubb=
orn
and weak. As a wife she was faithless and faithful, having favourites to wh=
om
she gave up her heart, and a husband for whom she kept her bed. As a Christ=
ian
she was a heretic and a bigot. She had one beauty--the well-developed neck =
of a
Niobe. The rest of her person was indifferently formed. She was a clumsy
coquette and a chaste one. Her skin was white and fine; she displayed a gre=
at
deal of it. It was she who introduced the fashion of necklaces of large pea=
rls
clasped round the throat. She had a narrow forehead, sensual lips, fleshy
cheeks, large eyes, short sight. Her short sight extended to her mind. Beyo=
nd a
burst of merriment now and then, almost as ponderous as her anger, she live=
d in
a sort of taciturn grumble and a grumbling silence. Words escaped from her
which had to be guessed at. She was a mixture of a good woman and a mischie=
vous
devil. She liked surprises, which is extremely woman-like. Anne was a
pattern--just sketched roughly--of the universal Eve. To that sketch had fa=
llen
that chance, the throne. She drank. Her husband was a Dane, thoroughbred. A
Tory, she governed by the Whigs--like a woman, like a mad woman. She had fi=
ts
of rage. She was violent, a brawler. Nobody more awkward than Anne in direc=
ting
affairs of state. She allowed events to fall about as they might chance. Her
whole policy was cracked. She excelled in bringing about great catastrophes
from little causes. When a whim of authority took hold of her, she called it
giving a stir with the poker. She would say with an air of profound thought=
, "No
peer may keep his hat on before the king except De Courcy, Baron Kingsale, =
an
Irish peer;" or, "It would be an injustice were my husband not to=
be
Lord High Admiral, since my father was." And she made George of Denmark
High Admiral of England and of all her Majesty's plantations. She was
perpetually perspiring bad humour; she did not explain her thought, she exu=
ded
it. There was something of the Sphinx in this goose.
She rather liked =
fun,
teasing, and practical jokes. Could she have made Apollo a hunchback, it wo=
uld
have delighted her. But she would have left him a god. Good-natured, her id=
eal
was to allow none to despair, and to worry all. She had often a rough word =
in
her mouth; a little more, and she would have sworn like Elizabeth. From tim=
e to
time she would take from a man's pocket, which she wore in her skirt, a lit=
tle
round box, of chased silver, on which was her portrait, in profile, between=
the
two letters Q.A.; she would open this box, and take from it, on her finger,=
a
little pomade, with which she reddened her lips, and, having coloured her
mouth, would laugh. She was greedily fond of the flat Zealand gingerbread
cakes. She was proud of being fat.
More of a Puritan
than anything else, she would, nevertheless, have liked to devote herself to
stage plays. She had an absurd academy of music, copied after that of Franc=
e.
In 1700 a Frenchman, named Foretroche, wanted to build a royal circus at Pa=
ris,
at a cost of 400,000 francs, which scheme was opposed by D'Argenson. This
Forteroche passed into England, and proposed to Queen Anne, who was immedia=
tely
charmed by the idea, to build in London a theatre with machinery, with a fo=
urth
under-stage finer than that of the King of France. Like Louis XIV., she lik=
ed
to be driven at a gallop. Her teams and relays would sometimes do the dista=
nce
between London and Windsor in less than an hour and a quarter.
II.
In Anne's time no meeting was allow=
ed
without the permission of two justices of the peace. The assembly of twelve
persons, were it only to eat oysters and drink porter, was a felony. Under =
her
reign, otherwise relatively mild, pressing for the fleet was carried on with
extreme violence--a gloomy evidence that the Englishman is a subject rather
than a citizen. For centuries England suffered under that process of tyrann=
y which
gave the lie to all the old charters of freedom, and out of which France
especially gathered a cause of triumph and indignation. What in some degree
diminishes the triumph is, that while sailors were pressed in England, sold=
iers
were pressed in France. In every great town of France, any able-bodied man,
going through the streets on his business, was liable to be shoved by the
crimps into a house called the oven. There he was shut up with others in the
same plight; those fit for service were picked out, and the recruiters sold
them to the officers. In 1695 there were thirty of these ovens in Paris.
The laws against
Ireland, emanating from Queen Anne, were atrocious. Anne was born in 1664, =
two
years before the great fire of London, on which the astrologers (there were
some left, and Louis XIV. was born with the assistance of an astrologer, and
swaddled in a horoscope) predicted that, being the elder sister of fire, she
would be queen. And so she was, thanks to astrology and the revolution of 1=
688.
She had the humiliation of having only Gilbert, Archbishop of Canterbury, f=
or godfather.
To be godchild of the Pope was no longer possible in England. A mere primat=
e is
but a poor sort of godfather. Anne had to put up with one, however. It was =
her
own fault. Why was she a Protestant?
Denmark had paid =
for
her virginity (virginitas empta, as the old charters expressed it) by a dow=
ry
of £6,250 a year, secured on the bailiwick of Wardinburg and the isla=
nd
of Fehmarn. Anne followed, without conviction, and by routine, the traditio=
ns
of William. The English under that royalty born of a revolution possessed as
much liberty as they could lay hands on between the Tower of London, into w=
hich
they put orators, and the pillory, into which they put writers. Anne spoke a
little Danish in her private chats with her husband, and a little French in=
her
private chats with Bolingbroke. Wretched gibberish; but the height of Engli=
sh
fashion, especially at court, was to talk French. There was never a bon mot=
but
in French. Anne paid a deal of attention to her coins, especially to copper
coins, which are the low and popular ones; she wanted to cut a great figure=
on
them. Six farthings were struck during her reign. On the back of the first
three she had merely a throne struck, on the back of the fourth she ordered=
a triumphal
chariot, and on the back of the sixth a goddess holding a sword in one hand=
and
an olive branch in the other, with the scroll, Bello et pace. Her father, J=
ames
II., was candid and cruel; she was brutal.
At the same time =
she
was mild at bottom. A contradiction which only appears such. A fit of anger
metamorphosed her. Heat sugar and it will boil.
Anne was popular.
England liked feminine rulers. Why? France excludes them. There is a reason=
at
once. Perhaps there is no other. With English historians Elizabeth embodies
grandeur, Anne good-nature. As they will. Be it so. But there is nothing
delicate in the reigns of these women. The lines are heavy. It is gross
grandeur and gross good-nature. As to their immaculate virtue, England is
tenacious of it, and we are not going to oppose the idea. Elizabeth was a
virgin tempered by Essex; Anne, a wife complicated by Bolingbroke.
III.
One idiotic habit of the people is =
to
attribute to the king what they do themselves. They fight. Whose the glory?=
The
king's. They pay. Whose the generosity? The king's. Then the people love him
for being so rich. The king receives a crown from the poor, and returns the=
m a
farthing. How generous he is! The colossus which is the pedestal contemplat=
es
the pigmy which is the statue. How great is this myrmidon! he is on my back=
. A
dwarf has an excellent way of being taller than a giant: it is to perch him=
self
on his shoulders. But that the giant should allow it, there is the wonder; =
and
that he should admire the height of the dwarf, there is the folly. Simplici=
ty
of mankind! The equestrian statue, reserved for kings alone, is an excellent
figure of royalty: the horse is the people. Only that the horse becomes
transfigured by degrees. It begins in an ass; it ends in a lion. Then it th=
rows
its rider, and you have 1642 in England and 1789 in France; and sometimes it
devours him, and you have in England 1649, and in France 1793. That the lion
should relapse into the donkey is astonishing; but it is so. This was occur=
ring
in England. It had resumed the pack-saddle, idolatry of the crown. Queen An=
ne,
as we have just observed, was popular. What was she doing to be so? Nothing.
Nothing!--that is all that is asked of the sovereign of England. He receives
for that nothing £1,250,000 a year. In 1705, England which had had but
thirteen men of war under Elizabeth, and thirty-six under James I., counted=
a
hundred and fifty in her fleet. The English had three armies, 5,000 men in
Catalonia; 10,000 in Portugal; 50,000 in Flanders; and besides, was paying
£1,666,666 a year to monarchical and diplomatic Europe, a sort of
prostitute the English people has always had in keeping. Parliament having
voted a patriotic loan of thirty-four million francs of annuities, there had
been a crush at the Exchequer to subscribe it. England was sending a squadr=
on
to the East Indies, and a squadron to the West of Spain under Admiral Leake=
, without
mentioning the reserve of four hundred sail, under Admiral Sir Cloudesley
Shovel. England had lately annexed Scotland. It was the interval between
Hochstadt and Ramillies, and the first of these victories was foretelling t=
he
second. England, in its cast of the net at Hochstadt, had made prisoners of
twenty-seven battalions and four regiments of dragoons, and deprived France=
of
one hundred leagues of country--France drawing back dismayed from the Danub=
e to
the Rhine. England was stretching her hand out towards Sardinia and the
Balearic Islands. She was bringing into her ports in triumph ten Spanish li=
ne-of-battle
ships, and many a galleon laden with gold. Hudson Bay and Straits were alre=
ady
half given over by Louis XIV. It was felt that he was about to give up his =
hold
over Acadia, St. Christopher, and Newfoundland, and that he would be but too
happy if England would only tolerate the King of France fishing for cod at =
Cape
Breton. England was about to impose upon him the shame of demolishing himse=
lf
the fortifications of Dunkirk. Meanwhile, she had taken Gibraltar, and was =
taking
Barcelona. What great things accomplished! How was it possible to refuse An=
ne
admiration for taking the trouble of living at the period?
From a certain po=
int
of view, the reign of Anne appears a reflection of the reign of Louis XIV.
Anne, for a moment even with that king in the race which is called history,
bears to him the vague resemblance of a reflection. Like him, she plays at a
great reign; she has her monuments, her arts, her victories, her captains, =
her
men of letters, her privy purse to pension celebrities, her gallery of
chefs-d'oeuvre, side by side with those of his Majesty. Her court, too, was=
a
cortège, with the features of a triumph, an order and a march. It wa=
s a
miniature copy of all the great men of Versailles, not giants themselves. I=
n it
there is enough to deceive the eye; add God save the Queen, which might have
been taken from Lulli, and the ensemble becomes an illusion. Not a personag=
e is
missing. Christopher Wren is a very passable Mansard; Somers is as good as
Lamoignon; Anne has a Racine in Dryden, a Boileau in Pope, a Colbert in
Godolphin, a Louvois in Pembroke, and a Turenne in Marlborough. Heighten the
wigs and lower the foreheads. The whole is solemn and pompous, and the Wind=
sor
of the time has a faded resemblance to Marly. Still the whole was effeminat=
e,
and Anne's Père Tellier was called Sarah Jennings. However, there is=
an
outline of incipient irony, which fifty years later was to turn to philosop=
hy,
in the literature of the age, and the Protestant Tartuffe is unmasked by Sw=
ift
just in the same way as the Catholic Tartuffe is denounced by Molièr=
e.
Although the England of the period quarrels and fights France, she imitates=
her
and draws enlightenment from her; and the light on the façade of Eng=
land
is French light. It is a pity that Anne's reign lasted but twelve years, or=
the
English would not hesitate to call it the century of Anne, as we say the ce=
ntury
of Louis XIV. Anne appeared in 1702, as Louis XIV. declined. It is one of t=
he
curiosities of history, that the rise of that pale planet coincides with the
setting of the planet of purple, and that at the moment in which France had=
the
king Sun, England should have had the queen Moon.
A detail to be no=
ted.
Louis XIV., although they made war with him, was greatly admired in England.
"He is the kind of king they want in France," said the English. T=
he
love of the English for their own liberty is mingled with a certain accepta=
nce
of servitude for others. That favourable regard of the chains which bind th=
eir
neighbours sometimes attains to enthusiasm for the despot next door.
To sum up, Anne
rendered her people hureux, as the French translator of Beeverell's book
repeats three times, with graceful reiteration at the sixth and ninth page =
of
his dedication and the third of his preface.
IV.
Queen Anne bore a little grudge to =
the
Duchess Josiana, for two reasons. Firstly, because she thought the Duchess =
Josiana
handsome. Secondly, because she thought the Duchess Josiana's betrothed
handsome. Two reasons for jealousy are sufficient for a woman. One is
sufficient for a queen. Let us add that she bore her a grudge for being her
sister. Anne did not like women to be pretty. She considered it against good
morals. As for herself, she was ugly. Not from choice, however. A part of h=
er religion
she derived from that ugliness. Josiana, beautiful and philosophical, was a
cause of vexation to the queen. To an ugly queen, a pretty duchess is not an
agreeable sister.
There was another
grievance, Josiana's "improper" birth. Anne was the daughter of A=
nne
Hyde, a simple gentlewoman, legitimately, but vexatiously, married by James=
II.
when Duke of York. Anne, having this inferior blood in her veins, felt hers=
elf
but half royal, and Josiana, having come into the world quite irregularly, =
drew
closer attention to the incorrectness, less great, but really existing, in =
the
birth of the queen. The daughter of mésalliance looked without love =
upon
the daughter of bastardy, so near her. It was an unpleasant resemblance. Jo=
siana
had a right to say to Anne, "My mother was at least as good as yours.&=
quot;
At court no one said so, but they evidently thought it. This was a bore for=
her
royal Majesty. Why this Josiana? What had put it into her head to be born? =
What
good was a Josiana? Certain relationships are detrimental. Nevertheless, An=
ne
smiled on Josiana. Perhaps she might even have liked her, had she not been =
her
sister.
It is useful to know what people do=
, and
a certain surveillance is wise. Josiana had Lord David watched by a little
creature of hers, in whom she reposed confidence, and whose name was
Barkilphedro.
Lord David had
Josiana discreetly observed by a creature of his, of whom he was sure, and
whose name was Barkilphedro.
Queen Anne, on her
part, kept herself secretly informed of the actions and conduct of the Duch=
ess
Josiana, her bastard sister, and of Lord David, her future brother-in-law by
the left hand, by a creature of hers, on whom she counted fully, and whose =
name
was Barkilphedro.
This Barkilphedro=
had
his fingers on that keyboard--Josiana, Lord David, a queen. A man between t=
wo
women. What modulations possible! What amalgamation of souls!
Barkilphedro had =
not
always held the magnificent position of whispering into three ears.
He was an old ser=
vant
of the Duke of York. He had tried to be a churchman but had failed. The Duk=
e of
York, an English and a Roman prince, compounded of royal Popery and legal
Anglicanism, had his Catholic house and his Protestant house, and might have
pushed Barkilphedro in one or the other hierarchy; but he did not judge him=
to be
Catholic enough to make him almoner, or Protestant enough to make him chapl=
ain.
So that between two religions, Barkilphedro found himself with his soul on =
the
ground.
Not a bad posture,
either, for certain reptile souls.
Certain ways are
impracticable, except by crawling flat on the belly.
An obscure but
fattening servitude had long made up Barkilphedro's whole existence. Servic=
e is
something; but he wanted power besides. He was, perhaps, about to reach it =
when
James II. fell. He had to begin all over again. Nothing to do under William
III., a sullen prince, and exercising in his mode of reigning a prudery whi=
ch
he believed to be probity. Barkilphedro, when his protector, James II., was
dethroned, did not lapse all at once into rags. There is a something which
survives deposed princes, and which feeds and sustains their parasites. The
remains of the exhaustible sap causes leaves to live on for two or three da=
ys
on the branches of the uprooted tree; then, all at once, the leaf yellows a=
nd
dries up: and thus it is with the courtier.
Thanks to that
embalming which is called legitimacy, the prince himself, although fallen a=
nd
cast away, lasts and keeps preserved; it is not so with the courtier, much =
more
dead than the king. The king, beyond there, is a mummy; the courtier, here,=
is
a phantom. To be the shadow of a shadow is leanness indeed. Hence Barkilphe=
dro
became famished. Then he took up the character of a man of letters.
But he was thrust
back even from the kitchens. Sometimes he knew not where to sleep. "Who
will give me shelter?" he would ask. He struggled on. All that is
interesting in patience in distress he possessed. He had, besides, the tale=
nt
of the termite--knowing how to bore a hole from the bottom to the top. By d=
int
of making use of the name of James II., of old memories, of fables of fidel=
ity,
of touching stories, he pierced as far as the Duchess Josiana's heart.
Josiana took a li=
king
to this man of poverty and wit, an interesting combination. She presented h=
im
to Lord Dirry-Moir, gave him a shelter in the servants' hall among her
domestics, retained him in her household, was kind to him, and sometimes ev=
en
spoke to him. Barkilphedro felt neither hunger nor cold again. Josiana
addressed him in the second person; it was the fashion for great ladies to =
do
so to men of letters, who allowed it. The Marquise de Mailly received Roy, =
whom
she had never seen before, in bed, and said to him, "C'est toi qui as =
fait
l'Année galante! Bonjour." Later on, the men of letters returned
the custom. The day came when Fabre d'Eglantine said to the Duchesse de Roh=
an,
"N'est-tu pas la Chabot?"
For Barkilphedro =
to
be "thee'd" and "thou'd" was a success; he was overjoye=
d by
it. He had aspired to this contemptuous familiarity. "Lady Josiana
thees-and-thous me," he would say to himself. And he would rub his han=
ds.
He profited by this theeing-and-thouing to make further way. He became a so=
rt
of constant attendant in Josiana's private rooms; in no way troublesome;
unperceived; the duchess would almost have changed her shift before him. All
this, however, was precarious. Barkilphedro was aiming at a position. A duc=
hess
was half-way; an underground passage which did not lead to the queen was ha=
ving
bored for nothing.
One day Barkilphe=
dro
said to Josiana,--
"Would your
Grace like to make my fortune?".
"What dost t=
hou
want?"
"An
appointment."
"An appointm=
ent?
for thee!"
"Yes,
madam."
"What an ide=
a!
thou to ask for an appointment! thou, who art good for nothing."
"That's just=
the
reason."
Josiana burst out
laughing.
"Among the
offices to which thou art unsuited, which dost thou desire?"
"That of cork
drawer of the bottles of the ocean."
Josiana's laugh
redoubled.
"What meanest
thou? Thou art fooling."
"No,
madam."
"To amuse
myself, I shall answer you seriously," said the duchess. "What do=
st
thou wish to be? Repeat it."
"Uncorker of=
the
bottles of the ocean."
"Everything =
is
possible at court. Is there an appointment of that kind?"
"Yes,
madam."
"This is new=
s to
me. Go on."
"There is su=
ch
an appointment."
"Swear it on=
the
soul which thou dost not possess."
"I swear
it."
"I do not
believe thee."
"Thank you,
madam."
"Then thou
wishest? Begin again."
"To uncork t=
he
bottles of the ocean."
"That is a
situation which can give little trouble. It is like grooming a bronze
horse."
"Very
nearly."
"Nothing to =
do.
Well 'tis a situation to suit thee. Thou art good for that much."
"You see I am
good for something."
"Come! thou =
art
talking nonsense. Is there such an appointment?"
Barkilphedro assu=
med
an attitude of deferential gravity. "Madam, you had an august father,
James II., the king, and you have an illustrious brother-in-law, George of
Denmark, Duke of Cumberland; your father was, and your brother is, Lord High
Admiral of England--"
"Is what thou
tellest me fresh news? I know all that as well as thou."
"But here is
what your Grace does not know. In the sea there are three kinds of things:
those at the bottom, lagan; those which float, flotsam; those which the sea
throws up on the shore, jetsam."
"And then?&q=
uot;
"These three things--lagan, flotsam, and jetsam--belong to the Lord High Admiral."<= o:p>
"And then?&q=
uot;
"Your Grace
understands."
"No."
"All that is=
in
the sea, all that sinks, all that floats, all that is cast ashore--all belo=
ngs
to the Admiral of England."
"Everything!
Really? And then?"
"Except the
sturgeon, which belongs to the king."
"I should ha=
ve
thought," said Josiana, "all that would have belonged to Neptune.=
"
"Neptune is a
fool. He has given up everything. He has allowed the English to take
everything."
"Finish what
thou wert saying."
"'Prizes of =
the
sea' is the name given to such treasure trove."
"Be it so.&q=
uot;
"It is
boundless: there is always something floating, something being cast up. It =
is
the contribution of the sea--the tax which the ocean pays to England."=
"With all my
heart. But pray conclude."
"Your Grace
understands that in this way the ocean creates a department."
"Where?"=
;
"At the
Admiralty."
"What
department?"
"The Sea Pri=
ze
Department."
"Well?"=
"The departm=
ent
is subdivided into three offices--Lagan, Flotsam, and Jetsam--and in each t=
here
is an officer."
"And then?&q=
uot;
"A ship at s=
ea
writes to give notice on any subject to those on land--that it is sailing in
such a latitude; that it has met a sea monster; that it is in sight of shor=
e;
that it is in distress; that it is about to founder; that it is lost, etc. =
The
captain takes a bottle, puts into it a bit of paper on which he has written=
the
information, corks up the flask, and casts it into the sea. If the bottle g=
oes
to the bottom, it is in the department of the lagan officer; if it floats, =
it is
in the department of the flotsam officer; if it be thrown upon shore, it
concerns the jetsam officer."
"And wouldst
thou like to be the jetsam officer?"
"Precisely
so."
"And that is
what thou callest uncorking the bottles of the ocean?"
"Since there=
is
such an appointment."
"Why dost th=
ou
wish for the last-named place in preference to both the others?"
"Because it =
is
vacant just now."
"In what does
the appointment consist?"
"Madam, in 1=
598
a tarred bottle, picked up by a man, conger-fishing on the strand of Epidium
Promontorium, was brought to Queen Elizabeth; and a parchment drawn out of =
it
gave information to England that Holland had taken, without saying anything
about it, an unknown country, Nova Zembla; that the capture had taken place=
in
June, 1596; that in that country people were eaten by bears; and that the
manner of passing the winter was described on a paper enclosed in a musket-=
case
hanging in the chimney of the wooden house built in the island, and left by=
the
Dutchmen, who were all dead: and that the chimney was built of a barrel with
the end knocked out, sunk into the roof."
"I don't
understand much of thy rigmarole."
"Be it so.
Elizabeth understood. A country the more for Holland was a country the less=
for
England. The bottle which had given the information was held to be of
importance; and thenceforward an order was issued that anybody who should f=
ind
a sealed bottle on the sea-shore should take it to the Lord High Admiral of
England, under pain of the gallows. The admiral entrusts the opening of such
bottles to an officer, who presents the contents to the queen, if there be
reason for so doing."
"Are many su=
ch
bottles brought to the Admiralty?"
"But few. But
it's all the same. The appointment exists. There is for the office a room a=
nd
lodgings at the Admiralty."
"And for that
way of doing nothing, how is one paid?"
"One hundred
guineas a year."
"And thou
wouldst trouble me for that much?"
"It is enoug=
h to
live upon."
"Like a
beggar."
"As it becom=
es
one of my sort."
"One hundred
guineas! It's a bagatelle."
"What keeps = you for a minute, keeps us for a year. That's the advantage of the poor."<= o:p>
"Thou shalt =
have
the place."
A week afterwards,
thanks to Josiana's exertions, thanks to the influence of Lord David
Dirry-Moir, Barkilphedro--safe thenceforward, drawn out of his precarious
existence, lodged, and boarded, with a salary of a hundred guineas--was
installed at the Admiralty.
CHAPTER VII - BARKILPHEDRO GNAWS HIS WAY.=
a>
There is one thing the most pressin=
g of
all: to be ungrateful.
Barkilphedro was =
not
wanting therein.
Having received so
many benefits from Josiana, he had naturally but one thought--to revenge
himself on her. When we add that Josiana was beautiful, great, young, rich,
powerful, illustrious, while Barkilphedro was ugly, little, old, poor,
dependent, obscure, he must necessarily revenge himself for all this as wel=
l.
When a man is made
out of night, how is he to forgive so many beams of light?
Barkilphedro was =
an
Irishman who had denied Ireland--a bad species.
Barkilphedro had =
but
one thing in his favour--that he had a very big belly. A big belly passes f=
or a
sign of kind-heartedness. But his belly was but an addition to Barkilphedro=
's
hypocrisy; for the man was full of malice.
What was
Barkilphedro's age? None. The age necessary for his project of the moment. =
He
was old in his wrinkles and gray hairs, young in the activity of his mind. =
He
was active and ponderous; a sort of hippopotamus-monkey. A royalist, certai=
nly;
a republican--who knows? a Catholic, perhaps; a Protestant, without doubt. =
For
Stuart, probably; for Brunswick, evidently. To be For is a power only on the
condition of being at the same time Against. Barkilphedro practised this
wisdom.
The appointment of
drawer of the bottles of the ocean was not as absurd as Barkilphedro had
appeared to make out. The complaints, which would in these times be termed
declamations, of Garcia Fernandez in his "Chart-Book of the Sea,"
against the robbery of jetsam, called right of wreck, and against the pilla=
ge
of wreck by the inhabitants of the coast, had created a sensation in Englan=
d,
and had obtained for the shipwrecked this reform--that their goods, chattel=
s,
and property, instead of being stolen by the country-people, were confiscat=
ed
by the Lord High Admiral. All the débris of the sea cast upon the
English shore--merchandise, broken hulls of ships, bales, chests,
etc.--belonged to the Lord High Admiral; but--and here was revealed the
importance of the place asked for by Barkilphedro--the floating receptacles
containing messages and declarations awakened particularly the attention of=
the
Admiralty. Shipwrecks are one of England's gravest cares. Navigation being =
her life,
shipwreck is her anxiety. England is kept in perpetual care by the sea. The
little glass bottle thrown to the waves by the doomed ship, contains final
intelligence, precious from every point of view. Intelligence concerning the
ship, intelligence concerning the crew, intelligence concerning the place, =
the
time, the manner of loss, intelligence concerning the winds which have brok=
en
up the vessel, intelligence concerning the currents which bore the floating
flask ashore. The situation filled by Barkilphedro has been abolished more =
than
a century, but it had its real utility. The last holder was William Hussey,=
of
Doddington, in Lincolnshire. The man who held it was a sort of guardian of =
the
things of the sea. All the closed and sealed-up vessels, bottles, flasks, j=
ars,
thrown upon the English coast by the tide were brought to him. He alone had=
the
right to open them; he was first in the secrets of their contents; he put t=
hem
in order, and ticketed them with his signature. The expression "loger =
un
papier au greffe," still used in the Channel Islands, is thence derive=
d.
However, one precaution was certainly taken. Not one of these bottles could=
be unsealed
except in the presence of two jurors of the Admiralty sworn to secrecy, who
signed, conjointly with the holder of the jetsam office, the official repor=
t of
the opening. But these jurors being held to secrecy, there resulted for
Barkilphedro a certain discretionary latitude; it depended upon him, to a
certain extent, to suppress a fact or bring it to light.
These fragile
floating messages were far from being what Barkilphedro had told Josiana, r=
are
and insignificant. Some times they reached land with little delay; at other=
s,
after many years. That depended on the winds and the currents. The fashion =
of
casting bottles on the surface of the sea has somewhat passed away, like th=
at
of vowing offerings, but in those religious times, those who were about to =
die
were glad thus to send their last thought to God and to men, and at times t=
hese
messages from the sea were plentiful at the Admiralty. A parchment preserve=
d in
the hall at Audlyene (ancient spelling), with notes by the Earl of Suffolk,
Grand Treasurer of England under James I., bears witness that in the one ye=
ar,
1615, fifty-two flasks, bladders, and tarred vessels, containing mention of
sinking ships, were brought and registered in the records of the Lord High
Admiral.
Court appointments
are the drop of oil in the widow's cruse, they ever increase. Thus it is th=
at
the porter has become chancellor, and the groom, constable. The special off=
icer
charged with the appointment desired and obtained by Barkilphedro was
invariably a confidential man. Elizabeth had wished that it should be so. At
court, to speak of confidence is to speak of intrigue, and to speak of intr=
igue
is to speak of advancement. This functionary had come to be a personage of =
some
consideration. He was a clerk, and ranked directly after the two grooms of =
the
almonry. He had the right of entrance into the palace, but we must add, what
was called the humble entrance--humilis introïtus--and even into the
bed-chamber. For it was the custom that he should inform the monarch, on
occasions of sufficient importance, of the objects found, which were often =
very
curious: the wills of men in despair, farewells cast to fatherland, revelat=
ions
of falsified logs, bills of lading, and crimes committed at sea, legacies to
the crown, etc., that he should maintain his records in communication with =
the
court, and should account, from time to time, to the king or queen, concern=
ing
the opening of these ill-omened bottles. It was the black cabinet of the oc=
ean.
Elizabeth, who was
always glad of an opportunity of speaking Latin, used to ask Tonfield, of C=
oley
in Berkshire, jetsam officer of her day, when he brought her one of these
papers cast up by the sea, "Quid mihi scribit Neptunus?" (What do=
es
Neptune write me?)
The way had been
eaten, the insect had succeeded. Barkilphedro approached the queen.
This was all he
wanted.
To make his fortu=
ne?
No.
To unmake that of
others?
A greater happine=
ss.
To hurt is to enj=
oy.
To have within one
the desire of injuring, vague but implacable, and never to lose sight of it=
, is
not given to all.
Barkilphedro
possessed that fixity of intention.
As the bulldog ho=
lds
on with his jaws, so did his thought.
To feel himself
inexorable gave him a depth of gloomy satisfaction. As long as he had a prey
under his teeth, or in his soul, a certainty of evil-doing, he wanted nothi=
ng.
He was happy,
shivering in the cold which his neighbour was suffering. To be malignant is=
an
opulence. Such a man is believed to be poor, and, in truth, is so; but he h=
as
all his riches in malice, and prefers having them so. Everything is in what
contents one. To do a bad turn, which is the same as a good turn, is better
than money. Bad for him who endures, good for him who does it. Catesby, the
colleague of Guy Fawkes, in the Popish powder plot, said: "To see
Parliament blown upside down, I wouldn't miss it for a million sterling.&qu=
ot;
What was
Barkilphedro? That meanest and most terrible of things--an envious man.
Envy is a thing e=
ver
easily placed at court.
Courts abound in
impertinent people, in idlers, in rich loungers hungering for gossip, in th=
ose
who seek for needles in trusses of hay, in triflers, in banterers bantered,=
in
witty ninnies, who cannot do without converse with an envious man.
What a refreshing
thing is the evil spoken to you of others.
Envy is good stuf=
f to
make a spy. There is a profound analogy between that natural passion, envy,=
and
that social function, espionage. The spy hunts on others' account, like the
dog. The envious man hunts on his own, like the cat.
A fierce Myself, =
such
is the envious man.
He had other
qualities. Barkilphedro was discreet, secret, concrete. He kept in everythi=
ng
and racked himself with his hate. Enormous baseness implies enormous vanity=
. He
was liked by those whom he amused, and hated by all others; but he felt tha=
t he
was disdained by those who hated him, and despised by those who liked him. =
He
restrained himself. All his gall simmered noiselessly in his hostile
resignation. He was indignant, as if rogues had the right to be so. He was =
the
furies' silent prey. To swallow everything was his talent. There were deaf =
wraths
within him, frenzies of interior rage, black and brooding flames unseen; he=
was
a smoke-consuming man of passion. The surface was smiling. He was kind, pro=
mpt,
easy, amiable, obliging. Never mind to whom, never mind where, he bowed. Fo=
r a
breath of wind he inclined to the earth. What a source of fortune to have a
reed for a spine! Such concealed and venomous beings are not so rare as is
believed. We live surrounded by ill-omened crawling things. Wherefore the
malevolent? A keen question! The dreamer constantly proposes it to himself,=
and
the thinker never resolves it. Hence the sad eye of the philosophers ever f=
ixed
upon that mountain of darkness which is destiny, and from the top of which =
the
colossal spectre of evil casts handfuls of serpents over the earth.
Barkilphedro's bo=
dy
was obese and his face lean. A fat bust and a bony countenance. His nails w=
ere
channelled and short, his fingers knotted, his thumbs flat, his hair coarse,
his temples wide apart, and his forehead a murderer's, broad and low. The
littleness of his eye was hidden under his bushy eyebrows. His nose, long,
sharp, and flabby, nearly met his mouth. Barkilphedro, properly attired, as=
an
emperor, would have somewhat resembled Domitian. His face of muddy yellow m=
ight
have been modelled in slimy paste--his immovable cheeks were like putty; he=
had
all kinds of ugly refractory wrinkles; the angle of his jaw was massive, his
chin heavy, his ear underbred. In repose, and seen in profile, his upper lip
was raised at an acute angle, showing two teeth. Those teeth seemed to look=
at
you. The teeth can look, just as the eye can bite.
Patience, tempera=
nce,
continence, reserve, self-control, amenity, deference, gentleness, politene=
ss,
sobriety, chastity, completed and finished Barkilphedro. He culumniated tho=
se
virtues by their possession.
In a short time
Barkilphedro took a foothold at court.
There are two ways of making a foot=
ing at
court. In the clouds, and you are august; in the mud, and you are powerful.=
In the first case,
you belong to Olympus.
In the second cas=
e,
you belong to the private closet.
He who belongs to
Olympus has but the thunderbolt, he who is of the private closet has the
police.
The private closet
contains all the instruments of government, and sometimes, for it is a trai=
tor,
its chastisement. Heliogabalus goes there to die. Then it is called the
latrines.
Generally it is l=
ess
tragic. It is there that Alberoni admires Vendôme. Royal personages
willingly make it their place of audience. It takes the place of the throne.
Louis XIV. receives the Duchess of Burgundy there. Philip V. is shoulder to
shoulder there with the queen. The priest penetrates into it. The private
closet is sometimes a branch of the confessional. Therefore it is that at c=
ourt
there are underground fortunes--not always the least. If, under Louis XI., =
you
would be great, be Pierre de Rohan, Marshal of France; if you would be
influential, be Olivier le Daim, the barber; if you would, under Mary de
Medicis, be glorious, be Sillery, the Chancellor; if you would be a person =
of consideration,
be La Hannon, the maid; if you would, under Louis XV., be illustrious, be
Choiseul, the minister; if you would be formidable, be Lebel, the valet. Gi=
ven,
Louis XIV., Bontemps, who makes his bed, is more powerful than Louvois, who
raises his armies, and Turenne, who gains his victories. From Richelieu, ta=
ke
Père Joseph, and you have Richelieu nearly empty. There is the myste=
ry
the less. His Eminence in scarlet is magnificent; his Eminence in gray is
terrible. What power in being a worm! All the Narvaez amalgamated with all =
the
O'Donnells do less work than one Sõr Patrocinio.
Of course the
condition of this power is littleness. If you would remain powerful, remain
petty. Be Nothingness. The serpent in repose, twisted into a circle, is a
figure at the same time of the infinite and of naught.
One of these
viper-like fortunes had fallen to Barkilphedro.
He had crawled wh=
ere
he wanted.
Flat beasts can g=
et
in everywhere. Louis XIV. had bugs in his bed and Jesuits in his policy.
The incompatibili=
ty
is nil.
In this world
everything is a clock. To gravitate is to oscillate. One pole is attracted =
to
the other. Francis I. is attracted by Triboulet; Louis XIV. is attracted by
Lebel. There exists a deep affinity between extreme elevation and extreme
debasement.
It is abasement w=
hich
directs. Nothing is easier of comprehension. It is he who is below who pulls
the strings. No position more convenient. He is the eye, and has the ear. H=
e is
the eye of the government; he has the ear of the king. To have the eye of t=
he
king is to draw and shut, at one's whim, the bolt of the royal conscience, =
and
to throw into that conscience whatever one wishes. The mind of the king is =
his
cupboard; if he be a rag-picker, it is his basket. The ears of kings belong=
not
to kings, and therefore it is that, on the whole, the poor devils are not a=
ltogether
responsible for their actions. He who does not possess his own thought does=
not
possess his own deed. A king obeys--what? Any evil spirit buzzing from outs=
ide
in his ear; a noisome fly of the abyss.
This buzzing
commands. A reign is a dictation.
The loud voice is=
the
sovereign; the low voice, sovereignty. Those who know how to distinguish, i=
n a
reign, this low voice, and to hear what it whispers to the loud, are the re=
al
historians.
CHAPTER IX - HATE IS AS STRONG AS LOVE.=
Queen Anne had several of these low
voices about her. Barkilphedro was one.
Besides the queen=
, he
secretly worked, influenced, and plotted upon Lady Josiana and Lord David. =
As
we have said, he whispered in three ears, one more than Dangeau. Dangeau
whispered in but two, in the days when, thrusting himself between Louis XIV=
.,
in love with Henrietta, his sister-in-law, and Henrietta, in love with Louis
XIV., her brother-in-law, he being Louis's secretary, without the knowledge=
of Henrietta,
and Henrietta's without the knowledge of Louis, he wrote the questions and
answers of both the love-making marionettes.
Barkilphedro was =
so
cheerful, so accepting, so incapable of taking up the defence of anybody,
possessing so little devotion at bottom, so ugly, so mischievous, that it w=
as
quite natural that a regal personage should come to be unable to do without
him. Once Anne had tasted Barkilphedro she would have no other flatterer. He
flattered her as they flattered Louis the Great, by stinging her neighbours.
"The king being ignorant," says Madame de Montchevreuil, "on=
e is
obliged to mock at the savants."
To poison the sti=
ng,
from time to time, is the acme of art. Nero loves to see Locusta at work.
Royal palaces are
very easily entered; these madrepores have a way in soon guessed at, contri=
ved,
examined, and scooped out at need by the gnawing thing which is called the
courtier. A pretext to enter is sufficient. Barkilphedro, having found this
pretext, his position with the queen soon became the same as that with the
Duchess Josiana--that of an indispensable domestic animal. A witticism risk=
ed
one day by him immediately led to his perfect understanding of the queen and
how to estimate exactly her kindness of heart. The queen was greatly attach=
ed to
her Lord Steward, William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, who was a great fo=
ol.
This lord, who had obtained every Oxford degree and did not know how to spe=
ll,
one fine morning committed the folly of dying. To die is a very imprudent t=
hing
at court, for there is then no further restraint in speaking of you. The qu=
een,
in the presence of Barkilphedro, lamented the event, finally exclaiming, wi=
th a
sigh,--
"It is a pity
that so many virtues should have been borne and served by so poor an
intellect."
"Dieu veuille
avoir son âne!" whispered Barkilphedro, in a low voice, and in
French.
The queen smiled.
Barkilphedro noted the smile. His conclusion was that biting pleased. Free
licence had been given to his spite. From that day he thrust his curiosity
everywhere, and his malignity with it. He was given his way, so much was he
feared. He who can make the king laugh makes the others tremble. He was a
powerful buffoon. Every day he worked his way forward--underground.
Barkilphedro became a necessity. Many great people honoured him with their
confidence, to the extent of charging him, when they required him, with the=
ir
disgraceful commissions.
There are wheels
within wheels at court. Barkilphedro became the motive power. Have you
remarked, in certain mechanisms, the smallness of the motive wheel?
Josiana, in
particular, who, as we have explained, made use of Barkilphedro's talents a=
s a
spy, reposed such confidence in him that she had not hesitated to entrust h=
im
with one of the master-keys of her apartments, by means of which he was abl=
e to
enter them at any hour. This excessive licence of insight into private life=
was
in fashion in the seventeenth century. It was called "giving the
key." Josiana had given two of these confidential keys--Lord David had
one, Barkilphedro the other. However, to enter straight into a bedchamber w=
as,
in the old code of manners, a thing not in the least out of the way. Thence=
resulted
incidents. La Ferté, suddenly drawing back the bed curtains of Madem=
oiselle
Lafont, found inside Sainson, the black musketeer, etc., etc.
Barkilphedro exce=
lled
in making the cunning discoveries which place the great in the power of the
little. His walk in the dark was winding, soft, clever. Like every perfect =
spy,
he was composed of the inclemency of the executioner and the patience of a
micograph. He was a born courtier. Every courtier is a noctambulist. The
courtier prowls in the night, which is called power. He carries a dark lant=
ern
in his hand. He lights up the spot he wishes, and remains in darkness himse=
lf.
What he seeks with his lantern is not a man, it is a fool. What he finds is=
the
king.
Kings do not like=
to
see those about them pretend to greatness. Irony aimed at any one except
themselves has a charm for them. The talent of Barkilphedro consisted in a
perpetual dwarfing of the peers and princes to the advantage of her Majesty=
's
stature, thus increased in proportion. The master-key held by Barkilphedro =
was
made with two sets of wards, one at each end, so as to open the inner
apartments in both Josiana's favourite residences--Hunkerville House in Lon=
don,
Corleone Lodge at Windsor. These two houses were part of the Clancharlie
inheritance. Hunkerville House was close to Oldgate. Oldgate was a gate of
London, which was entered by the Harwich road, and on which was displayed a=
statue
of Charles II., with a painted angel on his head, and beneath his feet a ca=
rved
lion and unicorn. From Hunkerville House, in an easterly wind, you heard the
peals of St. Marylebone. Corleone Lodge was a Florentine palace of brick and
stone, with a marble colonnade, built on pilework, at Windsor, at the head =
of
the wooden bridge, and having one of the finest courts in England.
In the latter pal=
ace,
near Windsor Castle, Josiana was within the queen's reach. Nevertheless,
Josiana liked it.
Scarcely anything=
in
appearance, everything in the root, such was the influence of Barkilphedro =
over
the queen. There is nothing more difficult than to drag up these bad grasse=
s of
the court--they take a deep root, and offer no hold above the surface. To r=
oot
out a Roquelaure, a Triboulet, or a Brummel, is almost impossible.
From day to day, =
and
more and more, did the queen take Barkilphedro into her good graces. Sarah
Jennings is famous; Barkilphedro is unknown. His existence remains ignored.=
The
name of Barkilphedro has not reached as far as history. All the moles are n=
ot
caught by the mole-trapper.
Barkilphedro, onc=
e a
candidate for orders, had studied a little of everything. Skimming all thin=
gs
leaves naught for result. One may be victim of the omnis res scibilis. Havi=
ng
the vessel of the Danaïdes in one's head is the misfortune of a whole =
race
of learned men, who may be termed the sterile. What Barkilphedro had put in=
to
his brain had left it empty.
The mind, like
nature, abhors vacuum. Into emptiness nature puts love; the mind often puts
hate. Hate occupies.
Hate for hate's s=
ake
exists. Art for art's sake exists in nature more than is believed. A man
hates--he must do something. Gratuitous hate--formidable word! It means hate
which is itself its own payment. The bear lives by licking his claws. Not
indefinitely, of course. The claws must be revictualled--something must be =
put
under them.
Hate indistinct is
sweet, and suffices for a time; but one must end by having an object. An
animosity diffused over creation is exhausting, like every solitary pleasur=
e.
Hate without an object is like a shooting-match without a target. What lends
interest to the game is a heart to be pierced. One cannot hate solely for
honour; some seasoning is necessary--a man, a woman, somebody, to destroy. =
This
service of making the game interesting; of offering an end; of throwing pas=
sion
into hate by fixing it on an object; of of amusing the hunter by the sight =
of
his living prey; giving the watcher the hope of the smoking and boiling blo=
od
about to flow; of amusing the bird-catcher by the credulity of the uselessl=
y-winged
lark; of being a victim, unknowingly reared for murder by a master-mind--all
this exquisite and horrible service, of which the person rendering it is
unconscious, Josiana rendered Barkilphedro.
Thought is a
projectile. Barkilphedro had, from the first day, begun to aim at Josiana t=
he
evil intentions which were in his mind. An intention and a carbine are alik=
e.
Barkilphedro aimed at Josiana, directing against the duchess all his secret
malice. That astonishes you! What has the bird done at which you fire? You =
want
to eat it, you say. And so it was with Barkilphedro.
Josiana could not=
be
struck in the heart--the spot where the enigma lies is hard to wound; but s=
he
could be struck in the head--that is, in her pride. It was there that she
thought herself strong, and that she was weak.
Barkilphedro had
found it out. If Josiana had been able to see clearly through the night of
Barkilphedro, if she had been able to distinguish what lay in ambush behind=
his
smile, that proud woman, so highly situated, would have trembled. Fortunate=
ly
for the tranquillity of her sleep, she was in complete ignorance of what wa=
s in
the man.
The unexpected
spreads, one knows not whence. The profound depths of life are dangerous. T=
here
is no small hate. Hate is always enormous. It preserves its stature in the
smallest being, and remains a monster. An elephant hated by a worm is in
danger.
Even before he
struck, Barkilphedro felt, with joy, the foretaste of the evil action which=
he
was about to commit. He did not as yet know what he was going to do to Josi=
ana;
but he had made up his mind to do something. To have come to this decision =
was
a great step taken. To crush Josiana utterly would have been too great a
triumph. He did not hope for so much; but to humiliate her, lessen her, bri=
ng
her grief, redden her proud eyes with tears of rage--what a success! He cou=
nted
on it. Tenacious, diligent, faithful to the torment of his neighbour, not t=
o be
torn from his purpose, nature had not formed him for nothing. He well under=
stood
how to find the flaw in Josiana's golden armour, and how to make the blood =
of
that Olympian flow.
What benefit, we =
ask
again, would accrue to him in so doing? An immense benefit--doing evil to o=
ne
who had done good to him. What is an envious man? An ungrateful one. He hat=
es
the light which lights and warms him. Zoilus hated that benefit to man, Hom=
er.
To inflict on Josiana what would nowadays be called vivisection--to place h=
er,
all convulsed, on his anatomical table; to dissect her alive, at his leisur=
e,
in some surgery; to cut her up, as an amateur, while she should scream--thi=
s dream
delighted Barkilphedro!
To arrive at this
result it was necessary to suffer somewhat himself; he did so willingly. We=
may
pinch ourselves with our own pincers. The knife as it shuts cuts our finger=
s.
What does it matter? That he should partake of Josiana's torture was a matt=
er
of little moment. The executioner handling the red-hot iron, when about to
brand a prisoner, takes no heed of a little burn. Because another suffers m=
uch,
he suffers nothing. To see the victim's writhings takes all pain from the i=
nflicter.
Do harm, whatever
happens.
To plan evil for
others is mingled with an acceptance of some hazy responsibility. We risk
ourselves in the danger which we impel towards another, because the chain of
events sometimes, of course, brings unexpected accidents. This does not stop
the man who is truly malicious. He feels as much joy as the patient suffers
agony. He is tickled by the laceration of the victim. The malicious man blo=
oms
in hideous joy. Pain reflects itself on him in a sense of welfare. The Duke=
of
Alva used to warm his hands at the stake. The pile was torture, the reflect=
ion
of it pleasure. That such transpositions should be possible makes one shudd=
er. Our
dark side is unfathomable. Supplice exquis (exquisite torture)--the express=
ion
is in Bodin[12]--has perhaps this terrible triple sense: search for the
torture; suffering of the tortured; delight of the torturer.
Ambition,
appetite--all such words signify some one sacrificed to some one satiated. =
It
is sad that hope should be wicked. Is it that the outpourings of our wishes
flow naturally to the direction to which we most incline--that of evil? One=
of
the hardest labours of the just man is to expunge from his soul a malevolen=
ce
which it is difficult to efface. Almost all our desires, when examined, con=
tain
what we dare not avow.
In the completely
wicked man this exists in hideous perfection. So much the worse for others,
signifies so much the better for himself. The shadows of the caverns of man=
's
mind.
Josiana, in a
plenitude of security the fruit of ignorant pride, had a contempt for all
danger. The feminine faculty of disdain is extraordinary. Josiana's disdain,
unreasoning, involuntary, and confident. Barkilphedro was to her so
contemptible that she would have been astonished had any one remarked to her
that such a creature existed. She went, and came, and laughed before this m=
an
who was looking at her with evil eyes. Thoughtful, he bided his time.
In proportion as =
he
waited, his determination to cast a despair into this woman's life augmente=
d.
Inexorable high tide of malice.
In the meantime he
gave himself excellent reasons for his determination. It must not be thought
that scoundrels are deficient in self-esteem. They enter into details with
themselves in their lofty monologues, and they take matters with a high han=
d.
How? This Josiana had bestowed charity on him! She had thrown some crumbs of
her enormous wealth to him, as to a beggar. She had nailed and riveted him =
to an
office which was unworthy him. Yes; that he, Barkilphedro, almost a clergym=
an,
of varied and profound talent, a learned man, with the material in him for a
bishop, should have for employ the registration of nasty patience-trying
shards, that he should have to pass his life in the garret of a
register-office, gravely uncorking stupid bottles, incrusted with all the
nastiness of the sea, deciphering musty parchments, like filthy
conjuring-books, dirty wills, and other illegible stuff of the kind, was th=
e fault
of this Josiana. Worst of all, this creature "thee'd" and
"thou'd" him! And he should not revenge himself--he should not pu=
nish
such conduct! Well, in that case there would no longer be justice on earth!=
CHAPTER X - THE FLAME WHICH WOULD BE SEEN IF MAN WERE
TRANSPARENT.=
span>
What! this woman, this extravagant =
thing,
this libidinous dreamer, a virgin until the opportunity occurred, this bit =
of
flesh as yet unfreed, this bold creature under a princess's coronet; this D=
iana
by pride, as yet untaken by the first comer, just because chance had so wil=
led
it; this bastard of a low-lived king who had not the intellect to keep his =
place;
this duchess by a lucky hit, who, being a fine lady, played the goddess, and
who, had she been poor, would have been a prostitute; this lady, more or le=
ss,
this robber of a proscribed man's goods, this overbearing strumpet, because=
one
day he, Barkilphedro, had not money enough to buy his dinner, and to get a
lodging--she had had the impudence to seat him in her house at the corner o=
f a
table, and to put him up in some hole in her intolerable palace. Where? nev=
er
mind where. Perhaps in the barn, perhaps in the cellar; what does it matter=
? A little
better than her valets, a little worse than her horses. She had abused his
distress--his, Barkilphedro's--in hastening to do him treacherous good; a t=
hing
which the rich do in order to humiliate the poor, and to tie them, like curs
led by a string. Besides, what did the service she rendered him cost her? A
service is worth what it costs. She had spare rooms in her house. She came =
to
Barkilphedro's aid! A great thing, indeed. Had she eaten a spoonful the les=
s of
turtle soup for it? had she deprived herself of anything in the hateful
overflowing of her superfluous luxuries? No. She had added to it a vanity, a
luxury, a good action like a ring on her finger, the relief of a man of wit,
the patronization of a clergyman. She could give herself airs: say, "I=
lavish
kindness; I fill the mouths of men of letters; I am his benefactress. How l=
ucky
the wretch was to find me out! What a patroness of the arts I am!" All=
for
having set up a truckle bed in a wretched garret in the roof. As for the pl=
ace
in the Admiralty, Barkilphedro owed it to Josiana; by Jove, a pretty
appointment! Josiana had made Barkilphedro what he was. She had created him=
. Be
it so. Yes, created nothing--less than nothing. For in his absurd situation=
he
felt borne down, tongue-tied, disfigured. What did he owe Josiana? The than=
ks
due from a hunchback to the mother who bore him deformed. Behold your privi=
leged
ones, your folks overwhelmed with fortune, your parvenus, your favourites of
that horrid stepmother Fortune! And that man of talent, Barkilphedro, was
obliged to stand on staircases, to bow to footmen, to climb to the top of t=
he house
at night, to be courteous, assiduous, pleasant, respectful, and to have eve=
r on
his muzzle a respectful grimace! Was not it enough to make him gnash his te=
eth
with rage! And all the while she was putting pearls round her neck, and mak=
ing
amorous poses to her fool, Lord David Dirry-Moir; the hussy!
Never let any one=
do
you a service. They will abuse the advantage it gives them. Never allow
yourself to be taken in the act of inanition. They would relieve you. Becau=
se
he was starving, this woman had found it a sufficient pretext to give him
bread. From that moment he was her servant; a craving of the stomach, and t=
here
is a chain for life! To be obliged is to be sold. The happy, the powerful, =
make
use of the moment you stretch out your hand to place a penny in it, and at =
the
crisis of your weakness make you a slave, and a slave of the worst kind, the
slave of an act of charity--a slave forced to love the enslaver. What infam=
y! what
want of delicacy! what an assault on your self-respect! Then all is over. Y=
ou
are sentenced for life to consider this man good, that woman beautiful; to
remain in the back rows; to approve, to applaud, to admire, to worship, to
prostrate yourself, to blister your knees by long genuflections, to sugar y=
our
words when you are gnawing your lips with anger, when you are biting down y=
our
cries of fury, and when you have within you more savage turbulence and more
bitter foam than the ocean!
It is thus that t=
he
rich make prisoners of the poor.
This slime of a g= ood action performed towards you bedaubs and bespatters you with mud for ever.<= o:p>
An alms is
irremediable. Gratitude is paralysis. A benefit is a sticky and repugnant
adherence which deprives you of free movement. Those odious, opulent, and
spoiled creatures whose pity has thus injured you are well aware of this. I=
t is
done--you are their creature. They have bought you--and how? By a bone taken
from their dog and cast to you. They have flung that bone at your head. You
have been stoned as much as benefited. It is all one. Have you gnawed the
bone--yes or no? You have had your place in the dog-kennel as well. Then be
thankful--be ever thankful. Adore your masters. Kneel on indefinitely. A
benefit implies an understood inferiority accepted by you. It means that you
feel them to be gods and yourself a poor devil. Your diminution augments th=
em. Your
bent form makes theirs more upright. In the tones of their voices there is =
an
impertinent inflexion. Their family matters--their marriages, their baptism=
s,
their child-bearings, their progeny--all concern you. A wolf cub is born to
them. Well, you have to compose a sonnet. You are a poet because you are lo=
w.
Isn't it enough to make the stars fall! A little more, and they would make =
you
wear their old shoes.
"Who have you
got there, my dear? How ugly he is! Who is that man?"
"I do not kn=
ow.
A sort of scholar, whom I feed."
Thus converse the=
se
idiots, without even lowering their voice. You hear, and remain mechanically
amiable. If you are ill, your masters will send for the doctor--not their o=
wn.
Occasionally they may even inquire after you. Being of a different species =
from
you, and at an inaccessible height above you, they are affable. Their height
makes them easy. They know that equality is impossible. By force of disdain
they are polite. At table they give you a little nod. Sometimes they absolu=
tely
know how your name is spelt! They only show that they are your protectors b=
y walking
unconsciously over all the delicacy and susceptibility you possess. They tr=
eat
you with good-nature. Is all this to be borne?
No doubt he was e=
ager
to punish Josiana. He must teach her with whom she had to deal!
O my rich gentry,
because you cannot eat up everything, because opulence produces indigestion
seeing that your stomachs are no bigger than ours, because it is, after all,
better to distribute the remainder than to throw it away, you exalt a morsel
flung to the poor into an act of magnificence. Oh, you give us bread, you g=
ive
us shelter, you give us clothes, you give us employment, and you push audac=
ity,
folly, cruelty, stupidity, and absurdity to the pitch of believing that we =
are
grateful! The bread is the bread of servitude, the shelter is a footman's
bedroom, the clothes are a livery, the employment is ridiculous, paid for, =
it
is true, but brutalizing.
Oh, you believe in
the right to humiliate us with lodging and nourishment, and you imagine tha=
t we
are your debtors, and you count on our gratitude! Very well; we will eat up
your substance, we will devour you alive and gnaw your heart-strings with o=
ur
teeth.
This Josiana! Was=
it
not absurd? What merit had she? She had accomplished the wonderful work of
coming into the world as a testimony of the folly of her father and the sha=
me
of her mother. She had done us the favour to exist, and for her kindness in=
becoming
a public scandal they paid her millions; she had estates and castles, warre=
ns,
parks, lakes, forests, and I know not what besides, and with all that she w=
as making
a fool of herself, and verses were addressed to her! And Barkilphedro, who =
had
studied and laboured and taken pains, and stuffed his eyes and his brain wi=
th
great books, who had grown mouldy in old works and in science, who was full=
of
wit, who could command armies, who could, if he would, write tragedies like
Otway and Dryden, who was made to be an emperor--Barkilphedro had been redu=
ced
to permit this nobody to prevent him from dying of hunger. Could the usurpa=
tion
of the rich, the hateful elect of chance, go further? They put on the sembl=
ance
of being generous to us, of protecting us, and of smiling on us, and we wou=
ld drink
their blood and lick our lips after it! That this low woman of the court sh=
ould
have the odious power of being a benefactress, and that a man so superior
should be condemned to pick up such bribes falling from such a hand, what a
frightful iniquity! And what social system is this which has for its base
disproportion and injustice? Would it not be best to take it by the four
corners, and to throw pell-mell to the ceiling the damask tablecloth, and t=
he
festival, and the orgies, and the tippling and drunkenness, and the guests,=
and
those with their elbows on the table, and those with their paws under it, a=
nd
the insolent who give and the idiots who accept, and to spit it all back ag=
ain
in the face of Providence, and fling all the earth to the heavens? In the
meantime let us stick our claws into Josiana.
Thus dreamed
Barkilphedro. Such were the ragings of his soul. It is the habit of the env=
ious
man to absolve himself, amalgamating with his personal grievance the public
wrongs.
All the wild form=
s of
hateful passions went and came in the intellect of this ferocious being. At=
the
corners of old maps of the world of the fifteenth century are great vague
spaces without shape or name, on which are written these three words, Hic s=
unt
leones. Such a dark corner is there also in man. Passions grow and growl
somewhere within us, and we may say of an obscure portion of our souls,
"There are lions here."
Is this scaffoldi=
ng
of wild reasoning absolutely absurd? does it lack a certain justice? We must
confess it does not.
It is fearful to
think that judgment within us is not justice. Judgment is the relative, jus=
tice
is the absolute. Think of the difference between a judge and a just man.
Wicked men lead
conscience astray with authority. There are gymnastics of untruth. A sophis=
t is
a forger, and this forger sometimes brutalizes good sense.
A certain logic, =
very
supple, very implacable, and very agile, is at the service of evil, and exc=
els
in stabbing truth in the dark. These are blows struck by the devil at
Providence.
The worst of it w=
as
that Barkilphedro had a presentiment. He was undertaking a heavy task, and =
he
was afraid that after all the evil achieved might not be proportionate to t=
he
work.
To be corrosive a=
s he
was, to have within himself a will of steel, a hate of diamond, a burning
curiosity for the catastrophe, and to burn nothing, to decapitate nothing, =
to
exterminate nothing; to be what he was, a force of devastation, a voracious
animosity, a devourer of the happiness of others, to have been created (for
there is a creator, whether God or devil), to have been created Barkilphedro
all over, and to inflict perhaps after all but a fillip of the finger--could
this be possible? could it be that Barkilphedro should miss his aim? To be =
a lever
powerful enough to heave great masses of rock, and when sprung to the utmost
power to succeed only in giving an affected woman a bump in the forehead--t=
o be
a catapult dealing ruin on a pole-kitten! To accomplish the task of Sisyphu=
s,
to crush an ant; to sweat all over with hate, and for nothing at all. Would=
not
this be humiliating, when he felt himself a mechanism of hostility capable =
of
reducing the world to powder! To put into movement all the wheels within
wheels, to work in the darkness all the mechanism of a Marly machine, and to
succeed perhaps in pinching the end of a little rosy finger! He was to turn
over and over blocks of marble, perchance with the result of ruffling a lit=
tle
the smooth surface of the court! Providence has a way of thus expending for=
ces
grandly. The movement of a mountain often only displaces a molehill.
Besides this, when
the court is the dangerous arena, nothing is more dangerous than to aim at =
your
enemy and miss him. In the first place, it unmasks you and irritates him; b=
ut
besides and above all, it displeases the master. Kings do not like the
unskilful. Let us have no contusions, no ugly gashes. Kill anybody, but giv=
e no
one a bloody nose. He who kills is clever, he who wounds awkward. Kings do =
not
like to see their servants lamed. They are displeased if you chip a porcela=
in
jar on their chimney-piece or a courtier in their cortège. The court
must be kept neat. Break and replace; that does not matter. Besides, all th=
is
agrees perfectly with the taste of princes for scandal. Speak evil, do none=
; or
if you do, let it be in grand style.
Stab, do not scra=
tch,
unless the pin be poisoned. This would be an extenuating circumstance, and =
was,
we may remember, the case with Barkilphedro.
Every malicious p=
igmy
is a phial in which is enclosed the dragon of Solomon. The phial is
microscopic, the dragon immense. A formidable condensation, awaiting the
gigantic hour of dilation! Ennui consoled by the premeditation of explosion!
The prisoner is larger than the prison. A latent giant! how wonderful! A mi=
nnow
in which is contained a hydra. To be this fearful magical box, to contain
within him a leviathan, is to the dwarf both a torture and a delight.
Nor would anything
have caused Barkilphedro to let go his hold. He awaited his time. Was it to
come? What mattered that? He watched for it. Self-love is mixed up in the
malice of the very wicked man. To make holes and gaps in a court fortune hi=
gher
than your own, to undermine it at all risks and perils, while encased and
concealed yourself, is, we repeat, exceedingly interesting. The player at s=
uch
a game becomes eager, even to passion. He throws himself into the work as i=
f he
were composing an epic. To be very mean, and to attack that which is great,=
is
in itself a brilliant action. It is a fine thing to be a flea on a lion.
The noble beast f=
eels
the bite, and expends his mighty anger against the atom. An encounter with a
tiger would weary him less; see how the actors exchange their parts. The li=
on,
humiliated, feels the sting of the insect; and the flea can say, "I ha=
ve
in my veins the blood of a lion."
However, these
reflections but half appeased the cravings of Barkilphedro's pride.
Consolations, palliations at most. To vex is one thing; to torment would be
infinitely better. Barkilphedro had a thought which returned to him without
ceasing: his success might not go beyond just irritating the epidermis of
Josiana. What could he hope for more--he so obscure against her so radiant?=
A
scratch is worth but little to him who longs to see the crimson blood of his
flayed victim, and to hear her cries as she lies before him more than naked,
without even that garment the skin! With such a craving, how sad to be powe=
rless!
Alas, there is
nothing perfect!
However, he resig=
ned
himself. Not being able to do better, he only dreamed half his dream. To pl=
ay a
treacherous trick is an object after all.
What a man is he =
who
revenges himself for a benefit received! Barkilphedro was a giant among such
men. Usually, ingratitude is forgetfulness. With this man, patented in
wickedness, it was fury. The vulgar ingrate is full of ashes; what was with=
in
Barkilphedro? A furnace--furnace walled round by hate, silence, and rancour,
awaiting Josiana for fuel. Never had a man abhorred a woman to such a point=
without
reason. How terrible! She was his dream, his preoccupation, his ennui, his
rage.
Perhaps he was a
little in love with her.
CHAPTER XI - BARKILPHEDRO IN AMBUSCADE.=
To find the vulnerable spot in Josi=
ana,
and to strike her there, was, for all the causes we have just mentioned, the
imperturbable determination of Barkilphedro. The wish is sufficient; the po=
wer
is required. How was he to set about it? There was the question.
Vulgar vagabonds =
set
the scene of any wickedness they intend to commit with care. They do not fe=
el
themselves strong enough to seize the opportunity as it passes, to take
possession of it by fair means or foul, and to constrain it to serve them. =
Deep
scoundrels disdain preliminary combinations. They start from their villaini=
es
alone, merely arming themselves all round, prepared to avail themselves of
various chances which may occur, and then, like Barkilphedro, await the opp=
ortunity.
They know that a ready-made scheme runs the risk of fitting ill into the ev=
ent
which may present itself. It is not thus that a man makes himself master of
possibilities and guides them as one pleases. You can come to no previous
arrangement with destiny. To-morrow will not obey you. There is a certain w=
ant
of discipline in chance.
Therefore they wa=
tch
for it, and summon it suddenly, authoritatively, on the spot. No plan, no
sketch, no rough model; no ready-made shoe ill-fitting the unexpected. They
plunge headlong into the dark. To turn to immediate and rapid profit any
circumstance that can aid him is the quality which distinguishes the able
scoundrel, and elevates the villain into the demon. To strike suddenly at
fortune, that is true genius.
The true scoundrel
strikes you from a sling with the first stone he can pick up. Clever
malefactors count on the unexpected, that senseless accomplice of so many
crimes. They grasp the incident and leap on it; there is no better Ars Poet=
ica
for this species of talent. Meanwhile be sure with whom you have to deal.
Survey the ground.
With Barkilphedro=
the
ground was Queen Anne. Barkilphedro approached the queen, and so close that
sometimes he fancied he heard the monologues of her Majesty. Sometimes he w=
as
present unheeded at conversations between the sisters. Neither did they for=
bid
his sliding in a word. He profited by this to lessen himself--a way of
inspiring confidence. Thus one day in the garden at Hampton Court, being be=
hind
the duchess, who was behind the queen, he heard Anne, following the fashion,
awkwardly enunciating sentiments.
"Animals are
happy," said the queen. "They run no risk of going to hell."=
"They are th=
ere
already," replied Josiana.
This answer, which
bluntly substituted philosophy for religion, displeased the queen. If,
perchance, there was depth in the observation, Anne felt shocked.
"My dear,&qu=
ot;
said she to Josiana, "we talk of hell like a couple of fools. Ask
Barkilphedro all about it. He ought to know such things."
"As a
devil?" said Josiana.
"As a
beast," replied Barkilphedro, with a bow.
"Madam,"
said the queen to Josiana, "he is cleverer than we."
For a man like
Barkilphedro to approach the queen was to obtain a hold on her. He could sa=
y,
"I hold her." Now, he wanted a means of taking advantage of his p=
ower
for his own benefit. He had his foothold in the court. To be settled there =
was
a fine thing. No chance could now escape him. More than once he had made the
queen smile maliciously. This was having a licence to shoot. But was there =
any
preserved game? Did this licence to shoot permit him to break the wing or t=
he
leg of one like the sister of her Majesty? The first point to make clear wa=
s,
did the queen love her sister? One false step would lose all. Barkilphedro
watched.
Before he plays t=
he
player looks at the cards. What trumps has he? Barkilphedro began by examin=
ing
the age of the two women. Josiana, twenty-three; Anne, forty-one. So far so
good. He held trumps. The moment that a woman ceases to count by springs, a=
nd
begins to count by winters, she becomes cross. A dull rancour possesses her
against the time of which she carries the proofs. Fresh-blown beauties,
perfumes for others, are to such a one but thorns. Of the roses she feels b=
ut
the prick. It seems as if all the freshness is stolen from her, and that be=
auty
decreases in her because it increases in others.
To profit by this=
secret
ill-humour, to dive into the wrinkle on the face of this woman of forty, who
was a queen, seemed a good game for Barkilphedro.
Envy excels in
exciting jealousy, as a rat draws the crocodile from its hole.
Barkilphedro fixed
his wise gaze on Anne. He saw into the queen as one sees into a stagnant po=
ol.
The marsh has its transparency. In dirty water we see vices, in muddy water=
we
see stupidity; Anne was muddy water.
Embryos of sentim=
ents
and larvæ of ideas moved in her thick brain. They were not distinct; =
they
had scarcely any outline. But they were realities, however shapeless. The q=
ueen
thought this; the queen desired that. To decide what was the difficulty. The
confused transformations which work in stagnant water are difficult to stud=
y.
The queen, habitually obscure, sometimes made sudden and stupid revelations=
. It
was on these that it was necessary to seize. He must take advantage of them=
on
the moment. How did the queen feel towards the Duchess Josiana? Did she wish
her good or evil?
Here was the prob=
lem.
Barkilphedro set himself to solve it. This problem solved, he might go furt=
her.
Divers chances se=
rved
Barkilphedro--his tenacity at the watch above all.
Anne was, on her
husband's side, slightly related to the new Queen of Prussia, wife of the k=
ing
with the hundred chamberlains. She had her portrait painted on enamel, after
the process of Turquet of Mayerne. This Queen of Prussia had also a younger
illegitimate sister, the Baroness Drika.
One day, in the
presence of Barkilphedro, Anne asked the Russian ambassador some question a=
bout
this Drika.
"They say sh=
e is
rich?"
"Very
rich."
"She has
palaces?"
"More
magnificent than those of her sister, the queen."
"Whom will s=
he
marry?"
"A great lor=
d,
the Count Gormo."
"Pretty?&quo=
t;
"Charming.&q=
uot;
"Is she
young?"
"Very
young."
"As beautifu=
l as
the queen?"
The ambassador
lowered his voice, and replied,--
"More
beautiful."
"That is
insolent," murmured Barkilphedro.
The queen was sil=
ent;
then she exclaimed,--
"Those
bastards!"
Barkilphedro noti=
ced the
plural.
Another time, when
the queen was leaving the chapel, Barkilphedro kept pretty close to her
Majesty, behind the two grooms of the almonry. Lord David Dirry-Moir, cross=
ing
the ranks of women, made a sensation by his handsome appearance. As he pass=
ed
there was an explosion of feminine exclamations.
"How elegant!
How gallant! What a noble air! How handsome!"
"How
disagreeable!" grumbled the queen.
Barkilphedro
overheard this; it decided him.
He could hurt the
duchess without displeasing the queen. The first problem was solved; but now
the second presented itself.
What could he do =
to
harm the duchess? What means did his wretched appointment offer to attain so
difficult an object?
Evidently none.
CHAPTER XII - SCOTLAND, IRELAND, AND ENGLAND.
Let us note a circumstance. Josiana=
had
le tour.
This is easy to
understand when we reflect that she was, although illegitimate, the queen's
sister--that is to say, a princely personage.
To have le tour--=
what
does it mean?
Viscount St. John,
otherwise Bolingbroke, wrote as follows to Thomas Lennard, Earl of Sussex:-=
-
"Two things =
mark
the great--in England, they have le tour; in France, le pour."
When the King of
France travelled, the courier of the court stopped at the halting-place in =
the
evening, and assigned lodgings to his Majesty's suite.
Amongst the gentl=
emen
some had an immense privilege. "They have le pour" says the Journ=
al
Historique for the year 1694, page 6; "which means that the courier who
marks the billets puts 'pour' before their names--as, 'Pour M. le Prince de
Soubise;' instead of which, when he marks the lodging of one who is not roy=
al,
he does not put pour, but simply the name--as, 'Le Duc de Gesvres, le Duc de
Mazarin.'" This pour on a door indicated a prince or a favourite. A fa=
vourite
is worse than a prince. The king granted le pour, like a blue ribbon or a p=
eerage.
Avoir le tour in
England was less glorious but more real. It was a sign of intimate
communication with the sovereign. Whoever might be, by birth or favour, in a
position to receive direct communications from majesty, had in the wall of
their bedchamber a shaft in which was adjusted a bell. The bell sounded, the
shaft opened, a royal missive appeared on a gold plate or on a cushion of
velvet, and the shaft closed. This was intimate and solemn, the mysterious =
in
the familiar. The shaft was used for no other purpose. The sound of the bell
announced a royal message. No one saw who brought it. It was of course mere=
ly
the page of the king or the queen. Leicester avait le tour under Elizabeth;
Buckingham under James I. Josiana had it under Anne, though not much in fav=
our.
Never was a privilege more envied.
This privilege
entailed additional servility. The recipient was more of a servant. At court
that which elevates, degrades. Avoir le tour was said in French; this
circumstance of English etiquette having, probably, been borrowed from some=
old
French folly.
Lady Josiana, a
virgin peeress as Elizabeth had been a virgin queen, led--sometimes in the
City, and sometimes in the country, according to the season--an almost prin=
cely
life, and kept nearly a court, at which Lord David was courtier, with many
others.
Not being married,
Lord David and Lady Josiana could show themselves together in public without
exciting ridicule, and they did so frequently. They often went to plays and
racecourses in the same carriage, and sat together in the same box. They we=
re
chilled by the impending marriage, which was not only permitted to them, but
imposed upon them; but they felt an attraction for each other's society. Th=
e privacy
permitted to the engaged has a frontier easily passed. From this they
abstained; that which is easy is in bad taste.
The best pugilist=
ic
encounters then took place at Lambeth, a parish in which the Lord Archbisho=
p of
Canterbury has a palace though the air there is unhealthy, and a rich libra=
ry
open at certain hours to decent people.
One evening in wi=
nter
there was in a meadow there, the gates of which were locked, a fight, at wh=
ich
Josiana, escorted by Lord David, was present. She had asked,--
"Are women
admitted?"
And David had
responded,--
"Sunt
fæminae magnates!"
Liberal translati=
on,
"Not shopkeepers." Literal translation, "Great ladies exist.=
A
duchess goes everywhere!"
This is why Lady
Josiana saw a boxing match.
Lady Josiana made
only this concession to propriety--she dressed as a man, a very common cust=
om
at that period. Women seldom travelled otherwise. Out of every six persons =
who
travelled by the coach from Windsor, it was rare that there were not one or=
two
amongst them who were women in male attire; a certain sign of high birth.
Lord David, being=
in
company with a woman, could not take any part in the match himself, and mer=
ely
assisted as one of the audience.
Lady Josiana betr=
ayed
her quality in one way; she had an opera-glass, then used by gentlemen only=
.
This encounter in=
the
noble science was presided over by Lord Germaine, great-grandfather, or
grand-uncle, of that Lord Germaine who, towards the end of the eighteenth
century, was colonel, ran away in a battle, was afterwards made Minister of
War, and only escaped from the bolts of the enemy, to fall by a worse fate,
shot through and through by the sarcasm of Sheridan.
Many gentlemen we=
re
betting. Harry Bellew, of Carleton, who had claims to the extinct peerage of
Bella-aqua, with Henry, Lord Hyde, member of Parliament for the borough of
Dunhivid, which is also called Launceston; the Honourable Peregrine Bertie,
member for the borough of Truro, with Sir Thomas Colpepper, member for
Maidstone; the Laird of Lamyrbau, which is on the borders of Lothian, with
Samuel Trefusis, of the borough of Penryn; Sir Bartholomew Gracedieu, of the
borough of Saint Ives, with the Honourable Charles Bodville, who was called
Lord Robartes, and who was Custos Rotulorum of the county of Cornwall; besi=
des
many others.
Of the two
combatants, one was an Irishman, named after his native mountain in Tippera=
ry,
Phelem-ghe-Madone, and the other a Scot, named Helmsgail.
They represented =
the
national pride of each country. Ireland and Scotland were about to set to; =
Erin
was going to fisticuff Gajothel. So that the bets amounted to over forty
thousand guineas, besides the stakes.
The two champions
were naked, excepting short breeches buckled over the hips, and spiked boots
laced as high as the ankles.
Helmsgail, the Sc=
ot,
was a youth scarcely nineteen, but he had already had his forehead sewn up,=
for
which reason they laid 2 1/3 to 1 on him. The month before he had broken the
ribs and gouged out the eyes of a pugilist named Sixmileswater. This explai=
ned
the enthusiasm he created. He had won his backers twelve thousand pounds.
Besides having his forehead sewn up Helmsgail's jaw had been broken. He was
neatly made and active. He was about the height of a small woman, upright,
thick-set, and of a stature low and threatening. And nothing had been lost =
of
the advantages given him by nature; not a muscle which was not trained to i=
ts
object, pugilism. His firm chest was compact, and brown and shining like br=
ass.
He smiled, and three teeth which he had lost added to his smile.
His adversary was
tall and overgrown--that is to say, weak.
He was a man of f=
orty
years of age, six feet high, with the chest of a hippopotamus, and a mild
expression of face. The blow of his fist would break in the deck of a vesse=
l,
but he did not know how to use it.
The Irishman,
Phelem-ghe-Madone, was all surface, and seemed to have entered the ring to
receive rather than to give blows. Only it was felt that he would take a de=
al
of punishment. Like underdone beef, tough to chew, and impossible to swallo=
w.
He was what was termed, in local slang, raw meat. He squinted. He seemed
resigned.
The two men had
passed the preceding night in the same bed, and had slept together. They had
each drunk port wine from the same glass, to the three-inch mark.
Each had his grou=
p of
seconds--men of savage expression, threatening the umpires when it suited t=
heir
side. Amongst Helmsgail's supporters was to be seen John Gromane, celebrated
for having carried an ox on his back; and one called John Bray, who had once
carried on his back ten bushels of flour, at fifteen pecks to the bushel,
besides the miller himself, and had walked over two hundred paces under the
weight. On the side of Phelem-ghe-Madone, Lord Hyde had brought from Launce=
ston
a certain Kilter, who lived at Green Castle, and could throw a stone weighi=
ng twenty
pounds to a greater height than the highest tower of the castle.
These three men,
Kilter, Bray, and Gromane, were Cornishmen by birth, and did honour to their
county.
The other seconds
were brutal fellows, with broad backs, bowed legs, knotted fists, dull face=
s;
ragged, fearing nothing, nearly all jail-birds.
Many of them
understood admirably how to make the police drunk. Each profession should h=
ave
its peculiar talents.
The field chosen =
was
farther off than the bear garden, where they formerly baited bears, bulls, =
and
dogs; it was beyond the line of the farthest houses, by the side of the rui=
ns
of the Priory of Saint Mary Overy, dismantled by Henry VIII. The wind was n=
ortherly,
and biting; a small rain fell, which was instantly frozen into ice. Some
gentlemen present were evidently fathers of families, recognized as such by
their putting up their umbrellas.
On the side of
Phelem-ghe-Madone was Colonel Moncreif, as umpire; and Kilter, as second, to
support him on his knee.
On the side of
Helmsgail, the Honourable Pughe Beaumaris was umpire, with Lord Desertum, f=
rom
Kilcarry, as bottle-holder, to support him on his knee.
The two combatants
stood for a few seconds motionless in the ring, whilst the watches were bei=
ng
compared. They then approached each other and shook hands.
Phelem-ghe-Madone
said to Helmsgail,--
"I should pr=
efer
going home."
Helmsgail answere=
d,
handsomely,--
"The gentlem=
en
must not be disappointed, on any account."
Naked as they wer=
e,
they felt the cold. Phelem-ghe-Madone shook. His teeth chattered.
Dr. Eleanor Sharp=
e,
nephew of the Archbishop of York, cried out to them,--
"Set to, boy=
s;
it will warm you."
Those friendly wo=
rds
thawed them.
They set to.
But neither one n=
or
the other was angry. There were three ineffectual rounds. The Rev. Doctor
Gumdraith, one of the forty Fellows of All Souls' College, cried,--
"Spirit them=
up
with gin."
But the two umpir=
es
and the two seconds adhered to the rule. Yet it was exceedingly cold.
First blood was
claimed.
They were again s=
et
face to face.
They looked at ea=
ch
other, approached, stretched their arms, touched each other's fists, and th=
en
drew back.
All at once,
Helmsgail, the little man, sprang forward. The real fight had begun.
Phelem-ghe-Madone=
was
struck in the face, between the Ryes. His whole face streamed with blood. T=
he
crowd cried,--
"Helmsgail h=
as
tapped his claret!"
There was applaus=
e.
Phelem-ghe-Madone, turning his arms like the sails of a windmill, struck ou=
t at
random.
The Honourable
Peregrine Bertie said, "Blinded;" but he was not blind yet.
Then Helmsgail he=
ard
on all sides these encouraging words,--
"Bung up his
peepers!"
On the whole, the=
two
champions were really well matched; and, notwithstanding the unfavourable
weather, it was seen that the fight would be a success.
The great giant,
Phelem-ghe-Madone, had to bear the inconveniences of his advantages; he mov=
ed
heavily. His arms were massive as clubs; but his chest was a mass. His litt=
le
opponent ran, struck, sprang, gnashed his teeth; redoubling vigour by
quickness, from knowledge of the science.
On the one side w=
as
the primitive blow of the fist--savage, uncultivated, in a state of ignoran=
ce;
on the other side, the civilized blow of the fist. Helmsgail fought as much
with his nerves as with his muscles, and with as much intention as force.
Phelem-ghe-Madone was a kind of sluggish mauler--somewhat mauled himself, to
begin with. It was art against nature. It was cultivated ferocity against
barbarism.
It was clear that=
the
barbarian would be beaten, but not very quickly. Hence the interest.
A little man agai=
nst
a big one, and the chances are in favour of the little one. The cat has the
best of it with a dog. Goliaths are always vanquished by Davids.
A hail of
exclamations followed the combatants.
"Bravo,
Helmsgail! Good! Well done, Highlander! Now, Phelem!"
And the friends of
Helmsgail repeated their benevolent exhortation,--
"Bung up his
peepers!"
Helmsgail did bet=
ter.
Rapidly bending down and back again, with the undulation of a serpent, he
struck Phelem-ghe-Madone in the sternum. The Colossus staggered.
"Foul
blow!" cried Viscount Barnard.
Phelem-ghe-Madone
sank down on the knee of his second, saying,--
"I am beginn=
ing
to get warm."
Lord Desertum
consulted the umpires, and said,--
"Five minutes
before time is called."
Phelem-ghe-Madone=
was
becoming weaker. Kilter wiped the blood from his face and the sweat from his
body with a flannel, and placed the neck of a bottle to his mouth. They had
come to the eleventh round. Phelem, besides the scar on his forehead, had h=
is
breast disfigured by blows, his belly swollen, and the fore part of the head
scarified. Helmsgail was untouched.
A kind of tumult
arose amongst the gentlemen.
Lord Barnard
repeated, "Foul blow."
"Bets
void!" said the Laird of Lamyrbau.
"I claim my
stake!" replied Sir Thomas Colpepper.
And the honourable
member for the borough of Saint Ives, Sir Bartholomew Gracedieu, added,
"Give me back my five hundred guineas, and I will go. Stop the
fight."
Phelem arose,
staggering like a drunken man, and said,--
"Let us go on
fighting, on one condition--that I also shall have the right to give one fo=
ul
blow."
They cried
"Agreed!" from all parts of the ring. Helmsgail shrugged his shou=
lders.
Five minutes elapsed, and they set to again.
The fighting, whi=
ch
was agony to Phelem, was play to Helmsgail. Such are the triumphs of scienc=
e.
The little man fo=
und
means of putting the big one into chancery--that is to say, Helmsgail sudde=
nly
took under his left arm, which was bent like a steel crescent, the huge hea=
d of
Phelem-ghe-Madone, and held it there under his armpits, the neck bent and
twisted, whilst Helmsgail's right fist fell again and again like a hammer o=
n a
nail, only from below and striking upwards, thus smashing his opponent's fa=
ce
at his ease. When Phelem, released at length, lifted his head, he had no lo=
nger
a face.
That which had be=
en a
nose, eyes, and a mouth now looked only like a black sponge, soaked in bloo=
d.
He spat, and on the ground lay four of his teeth.
Then he fell. Kil=
ter
received him on his knee.
Helmsgail was har=
dly
touched: he had some insignificant bruises and a scratch on his collar bone=
.
No one was cold n=
ow.
They laid sixteen and a quarter to one on Helmsgail.
Harry Carleton cr=
ied
out,--
"It is all o=
ver
with Phelem-ghe-Madone. I will lay my peerage of Bella-aqua, and my title of
Lord Bellew, against the Archbishop of Canterbury's old wig, on
Helmsgail."
"Give me your
muzzle," said Kilter to Phelem-ghe-Madone. And stuffing the bloody fla=
nnel
into the bottle, he washed him all over with gin. The mouth reappeared, and=
he
opened one eyelid. His temples seemed fractured.
"One round m=
ore,
my friend," said Kilter; and he added, "for the honour of the low
town."
The Welsh and the
Irish understand each other, still Phelem made no sign of having any power =
of
understanding left.
Phelem arose,
supported by Kilter. It was the twenty-fifth round. From the way in which t=
his
Cyclops, for he had but one eye, placed himself in position, it was evident
that this was the last round, for no one doubted his defeat. He placed his
guard below his chin, with the awkwardness of a failing man.
Helmsgail, with a
skin hardly sweating, cried out,--
"I'll back m=
yself,
a thousand to one."
Helmsgail, raising
his arm, struck out; and, what was strange, both fell. A ghastly chuckle was
heard. It was Phelem-ghe-Madone's expression of delight. While receiving the
terrible blow given him by Helmsgail on the skull, he had given him a foul =
blow
on the navel.
Helmsgail, lying =
on
his back, rattled in his throat.
The spectators lo=
oked
at him as he lay on the ground, and said, "Paid back!" All clapped
their hands, even those who had lost. Phelem-ghe-Madone had given foul blow=
for
foul blow, and had only asserted his right.
They carried Helmsgail off on a hand-barrow. The opinion was that he would not recover.<= o:p>
Lord Robartes
exclaimed, "I win twelve hundred guineas."
Phelem-ghe-Madone=
was
evidently maimed for life.
As she left, Josi=
ana
took the arm of Lord David, an act which was tolerated amongst people
"engaged." She said to him,--
"It is very
fine, but--"
"But what?&q=
uot;
"I thought it
would have driven away my spleen. It has not."
Lord David stoppe=
d,
looked at Josiana, shut his mouth, and inflated his cheeks, whilst he nodded
his head, which signified attention, and said to the duchess,--
"For spleen
there is but one remedy."
"What is
it?"
"Gwynplaine.=
"
The duchess asked=
,--
"And who is
Gwynplaine?"
CHAPTER I - WHEREIN WE SEE THE FACE OF HIM OF WHOM WE HAVE
HITHERTO SEEN ONLY THE ACTS.
Nature had been prodigal of her kin=
dness
to Gwynplaine. She had bestowed on him a mouth opening to his ears, ears
folding over to his eyes, a shapeless nose to support the spectacles of the
grimace maker, and a face that no one could look upon without laughing.
We have just said
that nature had loaded Gwynplaine with her gifts. But was it nature? Had she
not been assisted?
Two slits for eye=
s, a
hiatus for a mouth, a snub protuberance with two holes for nostrils, a
flattened face, all having for the result an appearance of laughter; it is
certain that nature never produces such perfection single-handed.
But is laughter a
synonym of joy?
If, in the presen=
ce
of this mountebank--for he was one--the first impression of gaiety wore off,
and the man were observed with attention, traces of art were to be recogniz=
ed.
Such a face could never have been created by chance; it must have resulted =
from
intention. Such perfect completeness is not in nature. Man can do nothing to
create beauty, but everything to produce ugliness. A Hottentot profile cann=
ot
be changed into a Roman outline, but out of a Grecian nose you may make a C=
almuck's.
It only requires to obliterate the root of the nose and to flatten the
nostrils. The dog Latin of the Middle Ages had a reason for its creation of=
the
verb denasare. Had Gwynplaine when a child been so worthy of attention that=
his
face had been subjected to transmutation? Why not? Needed there a greater
motive than the speculation of his future exhibition? According to all
appearance, industrious manipulators of children had worked upon his face. =
It
seemed evident that a mysterious and probably occult science, which was to =
surgery
what alchemy was to chemistry, had chiselled his flesh, evidently at a very
tender age, and manufactured his countenance with premeditation. That scien=
ce,
clever with the knife, skilled in obtusions and ligatures, had enlarged the
mouth, cut away the lips, laid bare the gums, distended the ears, cut the
cartilages, displaced the eyelids and the cheeks, enlarged the zygomatic
muscle, pressed the scars and cicatrices to a level, turned back the skin o=
ver
the lesions whilst the face was thus stretched, from all which resulted that
powerful and profound piece of sculpture, the mask, Gwynplaine.
Man is not born t=
hus.
However it may ha=
ve
been, the manipulation of Gwynplaine had succeeded admirably. Gwynplaine wa=
s a
gift of Providence to dispel the sadness of man.
Of what providenc=
e?
Is there a providence of demons as well as of God? We put the question with=
out
answering it.
Gwynplaine was a
mountebank. He showed himself on the platform. No such effect had ever befo=
re
been produced. Hypochondriacs were cured by the sight of him alone. He was
avoided by folks in mourning, because they were compelled to laugh when they
saw him, without regard to their decent gravity. One day the executioner ca=
me,
and Gwynplaine made him laugh. Every one who saw Gwynplaine held his sides;=
he
spoke, and they rolled on the ground. He was removed from sadness as is pole
from pole. Spleen at the one; Gwynplaine at the other.
Thus he rose rapi=
dly
in the fair ground and at the cross roads to the very satisfactory renown o=
f a
horrible man.
It was Gwynplaine=
's
laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself. H=
is
face laughed; his thoughts did not. The extraordinary face which chance or a
special and weird industry had fashioned for him, laughed alone. Gwynplaine=
had
nothing to do with it. The outside did not depend on the interior. The laugh
which he had not placed, himself, on his brow, on his eyelids, on his mouth=
, he
could not remove. It had been stamped for ever on his face. It was automati=
c, and
the more irresistible because it seemed petrified. No one could escape from
this rictus. Two convulsions of the face are infectious; laughing and yawni=
ng.
By virtue of the mysterious operation to which Gwynplaine had probably been
subjected in his infancy, every part of his face contributed to that rictus;
his whole physiognomy led to that result, as a wheel centres in the nave. A=
ll
his emotions, whatever they might have been, augmented his strange face of =
joy,
or to speak more correctly, aggravated it. Any astonishment which might sei=
ze
him, any suffering which he might feel, any anger which might take possessi=
on
of him, any pity which might move him, would only increase this hilarity of=
his
muscles. If he wept, he laughed; and whatever Gwynplaine was, whatever he
wished to be, whatever he thought, the moment that he raised his head, the
crowd, if crowd there was, had before them one impersonation: an overwhelmi=
ng
burst of laughter.
It was like a hea=
d of
Medusa, but Medusa hilarious. All feeling or thought in the mind of the
spectator was suddenly put to flight by the unexpected apparition, and laug=
hter
was inevitable. Antique art formerly placed on the outsides of the Greek
theatre a joyous brazen face, called comedy. It laughed and occasioned
laughter, but remained pensive. All parody which borders on folly, all irony
which borders on wisdom, were condensed and amalgamated in that face. The
burden of care, of disillusion, anxiety, and grief were expressed in its
impassive countenance, and resulted in a lugubrious sum of mirth. One corne=
r of
the mouth was raised, in mockery of the human race; the other side, in blas=
phemy
of the gods. Men confronted that model of the ideal sarcasm and exemplifica=
tion
of the irony which each one possesses within him; and the crowd, continuall=
y renewed
round its fixed laugh, died away with delight before its sepulchral immobil=
ity
of mirth.
One might almost =
have
said that Gwynplaine was that dark, dead mask of ancient comedy adjusted to=
the
body of a living man. That infernal head of implacable hilarity he supporte=
d on
his neck. What a weight for the shoulders of a man--an everlasting laugh!
An everlasting la=
ugh!
Let us understand
each other; we will explain. The Manichæans believed the absolute
occasionally gives way, and that God Himself sometimes abdicates for a time=
. So
also of the will. We do not admit that it can ever be utterly powerless. The
whole of existence resembles a letter modified in the postscript. For
Gwynplaine the postscript was this: by the force of his will, and by concen=
trating
all his attention, and on condition that no emotion should come to distract=
and
turn away the fixedness of his effort, he could manage to suspend the
everlasting rictus of his face, and to throw over it a kind of tragic veil,=
and
then the spectator laughed no longer; he shuddered.
This exertion
Gwynplaine scarcely ever made. It was a terrible effort, and an insupportab=
le
tension. Moreover, it happened that on the slightest distraction, or the
slightest emotion, the laugh, driven back for a moment, returned like a tide
with an impulse which was irresistible in proportion to the force of the
adverse emotion.
With this excepti=
on,
Gwynplaine's laugh was everlasting.
On seeing Gwynpla=
ine,
all laughed. When they had laughed they turned away their heads. Women
especially shrank from him with horror. The man was frightful. The joyous
convulsion of laughter was as a tribute paid; they submitted to it gladly, =
but
almost mechanically. Besides, when once the novelty of the laugh had passed
over, Gwynplaine was intolerable for a woman to see, and impossible to
contemplate. But he was tall, well made, and agile, and no way deformed,
excepting in his face.
This led to the
presumption that Gwynplaine was rather a creation of art than a work of nat=
ure.
Gwynplaine, beautiful in figure, had probably been beautiful in face. At his
birth he had no doubt resembled other infants. They had left the body intac=
t,
and retouched only the face.
Gwynplaine had be=
en
made to order--at least, that was probable. They had left him his teeth; te=
eth
are necessary to a laugh. The death's head retains them. The operation
performed on him must have been frightful. That he had no remembrance of it=
was
no proof that it had not taken place. Surgical sculpture of the kind could
never have succeeded except on a very young child, and consequently on one
having little consciousness of what happened to him, and who might easily t=
ake
a wound for a sickness. Besides, we must remember that they had in those ti=
mes means
of putting patients to sleep, and of suppressing all suffering; only then it
was called magic, while now it is called anæsthesia.
Besides this face,
those who had brought him up had given him the resources of a gymnast and an
athlete. His articulations usefully displaced and fashioned to bending the
wrong way, had received the education of a clown, and could, like the hinge=
s of
a door, move backwards and forwards. In appropriating him to the profession=
of mountebank
nothing had been neglected. His hair had been dyed with ochre once for all;=
a
secret which has been rediscovered at the present day. Pretty women use it,=
and
that which was formerly considered ugly is now considered an embellishment.
Gwynplaine had yellow hair. His hair having probably been dyed with some
corrosive preparation, had left it woolly and rough to the touch. Its yellow
bristles, rather a mane than a head of hair, covered and concealed a lofty
brow, evidently made to contain thought. The operation, whatever it had bee=
n,
which had deprived his features of harmony, and put all their flesh into
disorder, had had no effect on the bony structure of his head. The facial a=
ngle
was powerful and surprisingly grand. Behind his laugh there was a soul,
dreaming, as all our souls dream.
However, his laugh
was to Gwynplaine quite a talent. He could do nothing with it, so he turned=
it
to account. By means of it he gained his living.
Gwynplaine, as you
have doubtless already guessed, was the child abandoned one winter evening =
on
the coast of Portland, and received into a poor caravan at Weymouth.
That boy was at this time a man. Fi=
fteen
years had elapsed. It was in 1705. Gwynplaine was in his twenty-fifth year.=
Ursus had kept the
two children with him. They were a group of wanderers. Ursus and Homo had a=
ged.
Ursus had become quite bald. The wolf was growing gray. The age of wolves is
not ascertained like that of dogs. According to Molière, there are
wolves which live to eighty, amongst others the little koupara, and the rank
wolf, the Canis nubilus of Say.
The little girl f=
ound
on the dead woman was now a tall creature of sixteen, with brown hair, slig=
ht,
fragile, almost trembling from delicacy, and almost inspiring fear lest she
should break; admirably beautiful, her eyes full of light, yet blind. That
fatal winter night which threw down the beggar woman and her infant in the =
snow
had struck a double blow. It had killed the mother and blinded the child. G=
utta
serena had for ever paralysed the eyes of the girl, now become woman in her
turn. On her face, through which the light of day never passed, the depress=
ed
corners of the mouth indicated the bitterness of the privation. Her eyes, l=
arge
and clear, had a strange quality: extinguished for ever to her, to others t=
hey
were brilliant. They were mysterious torches lighting only the outside. They
gave light but possessed it not. These sightless eyes were resplendent. A
captive of shadow, she lighted up the dull place she inhabited. From the de=
pth
of her incurable darkness, from behind the black wall called blindness, she=
flung
her rays. She saw not the sun without, but her soul was perceptible from
within.
In her dead look
there was a celestial earnestness. She was the night, and from the irremedi=
able
darkness with which she was amalgamated she came out a star.
Ursus, with his m=
ania
for Latin names, had christened her Dea. He had taken his wolf into
consultation. He had said to him, "You represent man, I represent the
beasts. We are of the lower world; this little one shall represent the worl=
d on
high. Such feebleness is all-powerful. In this manner the universe shall be
complete in our hut in its three orders--human, animal, and Divine." T=
he
wolf made no objection. Therefore the foundling was called Dea.
As to Gwynplaine,
Ursus had not had the trouble of inventing a name for him. The morning of t=
he
day on which he had realized the disfigurement of the little boy and the
blindness of the infant he had asked him, "Boy, what is your name?&quo=
t;
and the boy had answered, "They call me Gwynplaine." "Be
Gwynplaine, then," said Ursus.
Dea assisted
Gwynplaine in his performances. If human misery could be summed up, it might
have been summed up in Gwynplaine and Dea. Each seemed born in a compartmen=
t of
the sepulchre; Gwynplaine in the horrible, Dea in the darkness. Their
existences were shadowed by two different kinds of darkness, taken from the=
two
formidable sides of night. Dea had that shadow in her, Gwynplaine had it on
him. There was a phantom in Dea, a spectre in Gwynplaine. Dea was sunk in t=
he
mournful, Gwynplaine in something worse. There was for Gwynplaine, who could
see, a heartrending possibility that existed not for Dea, who was blind; he=
could
compare himself with other men. Now, in a situation such as that of Gwynpla=
ine,
admitting that he should seek to examine it, to compare himself with others=
was
to understand himself no more. To have, like Dea, empty sight from which the
world is absent, is a supreme distress, yet less than to be an enigma to
oneself; to feel that something is wanting here as well, and that something=
, oneself;
to see the universe and not to see oneself. Dea had a veil over her, the ni=
ght;
Gwynplaine a mask, his face. Inexpressible fact, it was by his own flesh th=
at Gwynplaine
was masked! What his visage had been, he knew not. His face had vanished. T=
hey had
affixed to him a false self. He had for a face, a disappearance. His head
lived, his face was dead. He never remembered to have seen it. Mankind was =
for
Gwynplaine, as for Dea, an exterior fact. It was far-off. She was alone, he=
was
alone. The isolation of Dea was funereal, she saw nothing; that of Gwynplai=
ne
sinister, he saw all things. For Dea creation never passed the bounds of to=
uch
and hearing; reality was bounded, limited, short, immediately lost. Nothing=
was
infinite to her but darkness. For Gwynplaine to live was to have the crowd =
for
ever before him and outside him. Dea was the proscribed from light, Gwynpla=
ine
the banned of life. They were beyond the pale of hope, and had reached the
depth of possible calamity; they had sunk into it, both of them. An observer
who had watched them would have felt his reverie melt into immeasurable pit=
y.
What must they not have suffered! The decree of misfortune weighed visibly =
on
these human creatures, and never had fate encompassed two beings who had do=
ne
nothing to deserve it, and more clearly turned destiny into torture, and li=
fe
into hell.
They were in a
Paradise.
They were in love=
.
Gwynplaine adored
Dea. Dea idolized Gwynplaine.
"How beautif=
ul
you are!" she would say to him.
CHAPTER III - "OCULOS NON HABET, ET VIDET."
Only one woman on earth saw Gwynpla=
ine.
It was the blind girl. She had learned what Gwynplaine had done for her, fr=
om
Ursus, to whom he had related his rough journey from Portland to Weymouth, =
and
the many sufferings which he had endured when deserted by the gang. She knew
that when an infant dying upon her dead mother, suckling a corpse, a being =
scarcely
bigger than herself had taken her up; that this being, exiled, and, as it w=
ere,
buried under the refusal of the universe to aid him, had heard her cry; that
all the world being deaf to him, he had not been deaf to her; that the chil=
d,
alone, weak, cast off, without resting-place here below, dragging himself o=
ver
the waste, exhausted by fatigue, crushed, had accepted from the hands of ni=
ght
a burden, another child: that he, who had nothing to expect in that obscure
distribution which we call fate, had charged himself with a destiny; that
naked, in anguish and distress, he had made himself a Providence; that when
Heaven had closed he had opened his heart; that, himself lost, he had saved=
; that
having neither roof-tree nor shelter, he had been an asylum; that he had ma=
de
himself mother and nurse; that he who was alone in the world had responded =
to
desertion by adoption; that lost in the darkness he had given an example; t=
hat,
as if not already sufficiently burdened, he had added to his load another's
misery; that in this world, which seemed to contain nothing for him, he had
found a duty; that where every one else would have hesitated, he had advanc=
ed;
that where every one else would have drawn back, he consented; that he had =
put
his hand into the jaws of the grave and drawn out her--Dea. That, himself h=
alf
naked, he had given her his rags, because she was cold; that famished, he h=
ad
thought of giving her food and drink; that for one little creature, another
little creature had combated death; that he had fought it under every form;=
under
the form of winter and snow, under the form of solitude, under the form of
terror, under the form of cold, hunger, and thirst, under the form of
whirlwind, and that for her, Dea, this Titan of ten had given battle to the
immensity of night. She knew that as a child he had done this, and that now=
as
a man, he was strength to her weakness, riches to her poverty, healing to h=
er
sickness, and sight to her blindness. Through the mist of the unknown by wh=
ich
she felt herself encompassed, she distinguished clearly his devotion, his
abnegation, his courage. Heroism in immaterial regions has an outline; she
distinguished this sublime outline. In the inexpressible abstraction in whi=
ch
thought lives unlighted by the sun, Dea perceived this mysterious lineament=
of
virtue. In the surrounding of dark things put in motion, which was the only=
impression
made on her by reality; in the uneasy stagnation of a creature, always pass=
ive,
yet always on the watch for possible evil; in the sensation of being ever
defenceless, which is the life of the blind--she felt Gwynplaine above her;
Gwynplaine never cold, never absent, never obscured; Gwynplaine sympathetic,
helpful, and sweet-tempered. Dea quivered with certainty and gratitude, her
anxiety changed into ecstasy, and with her shadowy eyes she contemplated on=
the
zenith from the depth of her abyss the rich light of his goodness. In the i=
deal,
kindness is the sun; and Gwynplaine dazzled Dea.
To the crowd, whi=
ch
has too many heads to have a thought, and too many eyes to have a sight--to=
the
crowd who, superficial themselves, judge only of the surface, Gwynplaine wa=
s a
clown, a merry-andrew, a mountebank, a creature grotesque, a little more an=
d a
little less than a beast. The crowd knew only the face.
For Dea, Gwynplai=
ne
was the saviour, who had gathered her into his arms in the tomb, and borne =
her
out of it; the consoler, who made life tolerable; the liberator, whose hand,
holding her own, guided her through that labyrinth called blindness. Gwynpl=
aine
was her brother, friend, guide, support; the personification of heavenly po=
wer;
the husband, winged and resplendent. Where the multitude saw the monster, D=
ea
recognized the archangel. It was that Dea, blind, perceived his soul.
CHAPTER IV - WELL-MATCHED LOVERS.
Ursus being a philosopher understoo=
d. He
approved of the fascination of Dea. He said, The blind see the invisible. He
said, Conscience is vision. Then, looking at Gwynplaine, he murmured,
Semi-monster, but demi-god.
Gwynplaine, on the
other hand, was madly in love with Dea.
There is the
invisible eye, the spirit, and the visible eye, the pupil. He saw her with =
the
visible eye. Dea was dazzled by the ideal; Gwynplaine, by the real. Gwynpla=
ine
was not ugly; he was frightful. He saw his contrast before him: in proporti=
on
as he was terrible, Dea was sweet. He was horror; she was grace. Dea was his
dream. She seemed a vision scarcely embodied. There was in her whole person=
, in
her Grecian form, in her fine and supple figure, swaying like a reed; in he=
r shoulders,
on which might have been invisible wings; in the modest curves which indica=
ted
her sex, to the soul rather than to the senses; in her fairness, which amou=
nted
almost to transparency; in the august and reserved serenity of her look,
divinely shut out from earth; in the sacred innocence of her smile--she was
almost an angel, and yet just a woman.
Gwynplaine, we ha=
ve
said, compared himself and compared Dea.
His existence, su=
ch
as it was, was the result of a double and unheard-of choice. It was the poi=
nt
of intersection of two rays--one from below and one from above--a black and=
a
white ray. To the same crumb, perhaps pecked at at once by the beaks of evil
and good, one gave the bite, the other the kiss. Gwynplaine was this crumb-=
-an
atom, wounded and caressed. Gwynplaine was the product of fatality combined
with Providence. Misfortune had placed its finger on him; happiness as well=
. Two
extreme destinies composed his strange lot. He had on him an anathema and a
benediction. He was the elect, cursed. Who was he? He knew not. When he loo=
ked
at himself, he saw one he knew not; but this unknown was a monster. Gwynpla=
ine
lived as it were beheaded, with a face which did not belong to him. This fa=
ce
was frightful, so frightful that it was absurd. It caused as much fear as
laughter. It was a hell-concocted absurdity. It was the shipwreck of a human
face into the mask of an animal. Never had been seen so total an eclipse of
humanity in a human face; never parody more complete; never had apparition =
more
frightful grinned in nightmare; never had everything repulsive to woman been
more hideously amalgamated in a man. The unfortunate heart, masked and calu=
mniated
by the face, seemed for ever condemned to solitude under it, as under a
tombstone.
Yet no! Where unk=
nown
malice had done its worst, invisible goodness had lent its aid. In the poor
fallen one, suddenly raised up, by the side of the repulsive, it had placed=
the
attractive; on the barren shoal it had set the loadstone; it had caused a s=
oul
to fly with swift wings towards the deserted one; it had sent the dove to
console the creature whom the thunderbolt had overwhelmed, and had made bea=
uty
adore deformity. For this to be possible it was necessary that beauty should
not see the disfigurement. For this good fortune, misfortune was required. =
Providence
had made Dea blind.
Gwynplaine vaguely
felt himself the object of a redemption. Why had he been persecuted? He knew
not. Why redeemed? He knew not. All he knew was that a halo had encircled h=
is
brand. When Gwynplaine had been old enough to understand, Ursus had read and
explained to him the text of Doctor Conquest de Denasatis, and in another
folio, Hugo Plagon, the passage, Naves habensmutilas; but Ursus had prudent=
ly
abstained from "hypotheses," and had been reserved in his opinion=
of
what it might mean. Suppositions were possible. The probability of violence
inflicted on Gwynplaine when an infant was hinted at, but for Gwynplaine th=
e result
was the only evidence. His destiny was to live under a stigma. Why this sti=
gma?
There was no answer.
Silence and solit=
ude
were around Gwynplaine. All was uncertain in the conjectures which could be
fitted to the tragical reality; excepting the terrible fact, nothing was
certain. In his discouragement Dea intervened a sort of celestial interposi=
tion
between him and despair. He perceived, melted and inspirited by the sweetne=
ss
of the beautiful girl who turned to him, that, horrible as he was, a beauti=
fied
wonder affected his monstrous visage. Having been fashioned to create dread=
, he
was the object of a miraculous exception, that it was admired and adored in=
the
ideal by the light; and, monster that he was, he felt himself the contempla=
tion
of a star.
Gwynplaine and Dea
were united, and these two suffering hearts adored each other. One nest and=
two
birds--that was their story. They had begun to feel a universal law--to ple=
ase,
to seek, and to find each other.
Thus hatred had m=
ade
a mistake. The persecutors of Gwynplaine, whoever they might have been--the
deadly enigma, from wherever it came--had missed their aim. They had intend=
ed
to drive him to desperation; they had succeeded in driving him into
enchantment. They had affianced him beforehand to a healing wound. They had
predestined him for consolation by an infliction. The pincers of the
executioner had softly changed into the delicately-moulded hand of a girl.
Gwynplaine was horrible--artificially horrible--made horrible by the hand of
man. They had hoped to exile him for ever: first, from his family, if his
family existed, and then from humanity. When an infant, they had made him a=
ruin;
of this ruin Nature had repossessed herself, as she does of all ruins. This=
solitude
Nature had consoled, as she consoles all solitudes. Nature comes to the suc=
cour
of the deserted; where all is lacking, she gives back her whole self. She
flourishes and grows green amid ruins; she has ivy for the stones and love =
for
man.
Profound generosi=
ty
of the shadows!
CHAPTER V - THE BLUE SKY THROUGH THE BLACK CLOUD.<=
/span>
Thus lived these unfortunate creatu=
res
together--Dea, relying; Gwynplaine, accepted. These orphans were all in all=
to
each other, the feeble and the deformed. The widowed were betrothed. An
inexpressible thanksgiving arose out of their distress. They were grateful.=
To
whom? To the obscure immensity. Be grateful in your own hearts. That suffic=
es. Thanksgiving
has wings, and flies to its right destination. Your prayer knows its way be=
tter
than you can.
How many men have
believed that they prayed to Jupiter, when they prayed to Jehovah! How many
believers in amulets are listened to by the Almighty! How many atheists the=
re
are who know not that, in the simple fact of being good and sad, they pray =
to
God!
Gwynplaine and Dea
were grateful. Deformity is expulsion. Blindness is a precipice. The expell=
ed
one had been adopted; the precipice was habitable.
Gwynplaine had se=
en a
brilliant light descending on him, in an arrangement of destiny which seeme=
d to
put, in the perspective of a dream, a white cloud of beauty having the form=
of
a woman, a radiant vision in which there was a heart; and the phantom, almo=
st a
cloud and yet a woman, clasped him; and the apparition embraced him; and th=
e heart
desired him. Gwynplaine was no longer deformed. He was beloved. The rose de=
manded
the caterpillar in marriage, feeling that within the caterpillar there was a
divine butterfly. Gwynplaine the rejected was chosen. To have one's desire =
is
everything. Gwynplaine had his, Dea hers.
The abjection of =
the
disfigured man was exalted and dilated into intoxication, into delight, into
belief; and a hand was stretched out towards the melancholy hesitation of t=
he
blind girl, to guide her in her darkness.
It was the
penetration of two misfortunes into the ideal which absorbed them. The reje=
cted
found a refuge in each other. Two blanks, combining, filled each other up. =
They
held together by what they lacked: in that in which one was poor, the other=
was
rich. The misfortune of the one made the treasure of the other. Had Dea not
been blind, would she have chosen Gwynplaine? Had Gwynplaine not been
disfigured, would he have preferred Dea? She would probably have rejected t=
he
deformed, as he would have passed by the infirm. What happiness for Dea that
Gwynplaine was hideous! What good fortune for Gwynplaine that Dea was blind!
Apart from their providential matching, they were impossible to each other.=
A mighty
want of each other was at the bottom of their loves, Gwynplaine saved Dea. =
Dea
saved Gwynplaine. Apposition of misery produced adherence. It was the embra=
ce
of those swallowed in the abyss; none closer, none more hopeless, none more
exquisite.
Gwynplaine had a
thought--"What should I be without her?" Dea had a thought--"=
;What
should I be without him?" The exile of each made a country for both. T=
he
two incurable fatalities, the stigmata of Gwynplaine and the blindness of D=
ea,
joined them together in contentment. They sufficed to each other. They imag=
ined
nothing beyond each other. To speak to one another was a delight, to approa=
ch
was beatitude; by force of reciprocal intuition they became united in the s=
ame
reverie, and thought the same thoughts. In Gwynplaine's tread Dea believed =
that
she heard the step of one deified. They tightened their mutual grasp in a s=
ort
of sidereal chiaroscuro, full of perfumes, of gleams, of music, of the lumi=
nous
architecture of dreams. They belonged to each other; they knew themselves t=
o be
for ever united in the same joy and the same ecstasy; and nothing could be
stranger than this construction of an Eden by two of the damned.
They were
inexpressibly happy. In their hell they had created heaven. Such was thy po=
wer,
O Love! Dea heard Gwynplaine's laugh; Gwynplaine saw Dea's smile. Thus ideal
felicity was found, the perfect joy of life was realized, the mysterious
problem of happiness was solved; and by whom? By two outcasts.
For Gwynplaine, D=
ea
was splendour. For Dea, Gwynplaine was presence. Presence is that profound
mystery which renders the invisible world divine, and from which results th=
at
other mystery--confidence. In religions this is the only thing which is
irreducible; but this irreducible thing suffices. The great motive power is=
not
seen; it is felt.
Gwynplaine was the
religion of Dea. Sometimes, lost in her sense of love towards him, she knel=
t,
like a beautiful priestess before a gnome in a pagoda, made happy by her
adoration.
Imagine to yourse=
lf
an abyss, and in its centre an oasis of light, and in this oasis two creatu=
res
shut out of life, dazzling each other. No purity could be compared to their
loves. Dea was ignorant what a kiss might be, though perhaps she desired it;
because blindness, especially in a woman, has its dreams, and though trembl=
ing
at the approaches of the unknown, does not fear them all. As to Gwynplaine,=
his
sensitive youth made him pensive. The more delirious he felt, the more timi=
d he
became. He might have dared anything with this companion of his early youth,
with this creature as innocent of fault as of the light, with this blind gi=
rl
who saw but one thing--that she adored him! But he would have thought it a
theft to take what she might have given; so he resigned himself with a
melancholy satisfaction to love angelically, and the conviction of his
deformity resolved itself into a proud purity.
These happy creat=
ures
dwelt in the ideal. They were spouses in it at distances as opposite as the
spheres. They exchanged in its firmament the deep effluvium which is in
infinity attraction, and on earth the sexes. Their kisses were the kisses of
souls.
They had always l=
ived
a common life. They knew themselves only in each other's society. The infan=
cy
of Dea had coincided with the youth of Gwynplaine. They had grown up side by
side. For a long time they had slept in the same bed, for the hut was not a
large bedchamber. They lay on the chest, Ursus on the floor; that was the
arrangement. One fine day, whilst Dea was still very little, Gwynplaine felt
himself grown up, and it was in the youth that shame arose. He said to Ursu=
s,
"I will also sleep on the floor." And at night he stretched himse=
lf,
with the old man, on the bear skin. Then Dea wept. She cried for her
bed-fellow; but Gwynplaine, become restless because he had begun to love,
decided to remain where he was. From that time he always slept by the side =
of
Ursus on the planks. In the summer, when the nights were fine, he slept out=
side
with Homo.
When thirteen, Dea
had not yet become resigned to the arrangement. Often in the evening she sa=
id,
"Gwynplaine, come close to me; that will put me to sleep." A man
lying by her side was a necessity to her innocent slumbers.
Nudity is to see =
that
one is naked. She ignored nudity. It was the ingenuousness of Arcadia or
Otaheite. Dea untaught made Gwynplaine wild. Sometimes it happened that Dea,
when almost reaching youth, combed her long hair as she sat on her bed--her
chemise unfastened and falling off revealed indications of a feminine outli=
ne,
and a vague commencement of Eve--and would call Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine blus=
hed,
lowered his eyes, and knew not what to do in presence of this innocent
creature. Stammering, he turned his head, feared, and fled. The Daphnis of =
darkness
took flight before the Chloe of shadow.
Such was the idyll
blooming in a tragedy.
Ursus said to the=
m,--"Old
brutes, adore each other!"
CHAPTER VI - URSUS AS TUTOR, AND URSUS AS GUARDIAN.
Ursus added,--
"Some of the=
se
days I will play them a nasty trick. I will marry them."
Ursus taught
Gwynplaine the theory of love. He said to him,--
"Do you know=
how
the Almighty lights the fire called love? He places the woman underneath, t=
he
devil between, and the man at the top. A match--that is to say, a look--and
behold, it is all on fire."
"A look is
unnecessary," answered Gwynplaine, thinking of Dea.
And Ursus replied=
,--
"Booby! Do s=
ouls
require mortal eyes to see each other?"
Ursus was a good
fellow at times. Gwynplaine, sometimes madly in love with Dea, became
melancholy, and made use of the presence of Ursus as a guard on himself. One
day Ursus said to him,--
"Bah! do not=
put
yourself out. When in love, the cock shows himself."
"But the eag=
le
conceals himself," replied Gwynplaine.
At other times Ur=
sus
would say to himself, apart,--
"It is wise =
to
put spokes in the wheels of the Cytherean car. They love each other too muc=
h.
This may have its disadvantages. Let us avoid a fire. Let us moderate these
hearts."
Then Ursus had
recourse to warnings of this nature, speaking to Gwynplaine when Dea slept,=
and
to Dea when Gwynplaine's back was turned:--
"Dea, you mu=
st
not be so fond of Gwynplaine. To live in the life of another is perilous.
Egoism is a good root of happiness. Men escape from women. And then Gwynpla=
ine
might end by becoming infatuated with you. His success is so great! You hav=
e no
idea how great his success is!"
"Gwynplaine,
disproportions are no good. So much ugliness on one side and so much beauty=
on
another ought to compel reflection. Temper your ardour, my boy. Do not beco=
me
too enthusiastic about Dea. Do you seriously consider that you are made for
her? Just think of your deformity and her perfection! See the distance betw=
een
her and yourself. She has everything, this Dea. What a white skin! What hai=
r!
Lips like strawberries! And her foot! her hand! Those shoulders, with their=
exquisite
curve! Her expression is sublime. She walks diffusing light; and in speakin=
g,
the grave tone of her voice is charming. But for all this, to think that sh=
e is
a woman! She would not be such a fool as to be an angel. She is absolute
beauty. Repeat all this to yourself, to calm your ardour."
These speeches
redoubled the love of Gwynplaine and Dea, and Ursus was astonished at his w=
ant
of success, just as one who should say, "It is singular that with all =
the
oil I throw on fire I cannot extinguish it."
Did he, then, des=
ire
to extinguish their love, or to cool it even?
Certainly not. He
would have been well punished had he succeeded. At the bottom of his heart =
this
love, which was flame for them and warmth for him, was his delight.
But it is natural=
to
grate a little against that which charms us; men call it wisdom.
Ursus had been, in
his relations with Gwynplaine and Dea, almost a father and a mother. Grumbl=
ing
all the while, he had brought them up; grumbling all the while, he had
nourished them. His adoption of them had made the hut roll more heavily, an=
d he
had been oftener compelled to harness himself by Homo's side to help to draw
it.
We may observe,
however, that after the first few years, when Gwynplaine was nearly grown u=
p,
and Ursus had grown quite old, Gwynplaine had taken his turn, and drawn Urs=
us.
Ursus, seeing that
Gwynplaine was becoming a man, had cast the horoscope of his deformity.
"It has made your fortune!" he had told him.
This family of an=
old
man and two children, with a wolf, had become, as they wandered, a group mo=
re
and more intimately united. There errant life had not hindered education.
"To wander is to grow," Ursus said. Gwynplaine was evidently made=
to
exhibit at fairs. Ursus had cultivated in him feats of dexterity, and had
encrusted him as much as possible with all he himself possessed of science =
and
wisdom.
Ursus, contemplat=
ing
the perplexing mask of Gwynplaine's face, often growled,--
"He has begun
well." It was for this reason that he had perfected him with every
ornament of philosophy and wisdom.
He repeated
constantly to Gwynplaine,--
"Be a
philosopher. To be wise is to be invulnerable. You see what I am, I have ne=
ver
shed a tears. This is the result of my wisdom. Do you think that occasion f=
or
tears has been wanting, had I felt disposed to weep?"
Ursus, in one of =
his
monologues in the hearing of the wolf, said,--
"I have taug=
ht
Gwynplaine everything, Latin included. I have taught Dea nothing, music
included."
He had taught them
both to sing. He had himself a pretty talent for playing on the oaten reed,=
a
little flute of that period. He played on it agreeably, as also on the
chiffonie, a sort of beggar's hurdy-gurdy, mentioned in the Chronicle of
Bertrand Duguesclin as the "truant instrument," which started the
symphony. These instruments attracted the crowd. Ursus would show them the
chiffonie, and say, "It is called organistrum in Latin."
He had taught Dea=
and
Gwynplaine to sing, according to the method of Orpheus and of Egide Binchoi=
s.
Frequently he interrupted the lessons with cries of enthusiasm, such as
"Orpheus, musician of Greece! Binchois, musician of Picardy!"
These branches of
careful culture did not occupy the children so as to prevent their adoring =
each
other. They had mingled their hearts together as they grew up, as two sapli=
ngs
planted near mingle their branches as they become trees.
"No
matter," said Ursus. "I will marry them."
Then he grumbled =
to
himself,--
"They are qu=
ite
tiresome with their love."
The past--their
little past, at least--had no existence for Dea and Gwynplaine. They knew o=
nly
what Ursus had told them of it. They called Ursus father. The only remembra=
nce
which Gwynplaine had of his infancy was as of a passage of demons over his
cradle. He had an impression of having been trodden in the darkness under
deformed feet. Was this intentional or not? He was ignorant on this point. =
That
which he remembered clearly and to the slightest detail were his tragical a=
dventures
when deserted at Portland. The finding of Dea made that dismal night a radi=
ant
date for him.
The memory of Dea,
even more than that of Gwynplaine, was lost in clouds. In so young a child =
all
remembrance melts away. She recollected her mother as something cold. Had s=
he
ever seen the sun? Perhaps so. She made efforts to pierce into the blank wh=
ich
was her past life.
"The sun!--w=
hat
was it?"
She had some vague
memory of a thing luminous and warm, of which Gwynplaine had taken the plac=
e.
They spoke to each
other in low tones. It is certain that cooing is the most important thing in
the world. Dea often said to Gwynplaine,--
"Light means
that you are speaking."
Once, no longer
containing himself, as he saw through a muslin sleeve the arm of Dea,
Gwynplaine brushed its transparency with his lips--ideal kiss of a deformed
mouth! Dea felt a deep delight; she blushed like a rose. This kiss from a
monster made Aurora gleam on that beautiful brow full of night. However,
Gwynplaine sighed with a kind of terror, and as the neckerchief of Dea gape=
d,
he could not refrain from looking at the whiteness visible through that gli=
mpse
of Paradise.
Dea pulled up her
sleeve, and stretching towards Gwynplaine her naked arm, said,--
"Again!"=
;
Gwynplaine fled.<= o:p>
The next day the =
game
was renewed, with variations.
It was a heavenly
subsidence into that sweet abyss called love.
At such things he=
aven
smiles philosophically.
CHAPTER VII - BLINDNESS GIVES LESSONS IN CLAIRVOYANCE.
At times Gwynplaine reproached hims=
elf.
He made his happiness a case of conscience. He fancied that to allow a woman
who could not see him to love him was to deceive her.
What would she ha=
ve
said could she have suddenly obtained her sight? How she would have felt
repulsed by what had previously attracted her! How she would have recoiled =
from
her frightful loadstone! What a cry! What covering of her face! What a flig=
ht!
A bitter scruple harassed him. He told himself that such a monster as he ha=
d no
right to love. He was a hydra idolized by a star. It was his duty to enligh=
ten
the blind star.
One day he said to
Dea,--
"You know th=
at I
am very ugly."
"I know that=
you
are sublime," she answered.
He resumed,--
"When you he=
ar
all the world laugh, they laugh at me because I am horrible."
"I love
you," said Dea.
After a silence, =
she
added,--
"I was in de=
ath;
you brought me to life. When you are here, heaven is by my side. Give me yo=
ur
hand, that I may touch heaven."
Their hands met a=
nd
grasped each other. They spoke no more, but were silent in the plenitude of
love.
Ursus, who was
crabbed, had overheard this. The next day, when the three were together, he
said,--
"For that
matter, Dea is ugly also."
The word produced=
no
effect. Dea and Gwynplaine were not listening. Absorbed in each other, they
rarely heeded such exclamations of Ursus. Their depth was a dead loss.
This time, howeve=
r,
the precaution of Ursus, "Dea is also ugly," indicated in this
learned man a certain knowledge of women. It is certain that Gwynplaine, in=
his
loyalty, had been guilty of an imprudence. To have said, I am ugly, to any
other blind girl than Dea might have been dangerous. To be blind, and in lo=
ve,
is to be twofold blind. In such a situation dreams are dreamt. Illusion is =
the
food of dreams. Take illusion from love, and you take from it its aliment. =
It
is compounded of every enthusiasm, of both physical and moral admiration.
Moreover, you sho=
uld
never tell a woman a word difficult to understand. She will dream about it,=
and
she often dreams falsely. An enigma in a reverie spoils it. The shock cause=
d by
the fall of a careless word displaces that against which it strikes. At tim=
es
it happens, without our knowing why, that because we have received the obsc=
ure
blow of a chance word the heart empties itself insensibly of love. He who l=
oves
perceives a decline in his happiness. Nothing is to be feared more than this
slow exudation from the fissure in the vase.
Happily, Dea was =
not
formed of such clay. The stuff of which other women are made had not been u=
sed
in her construction. She had a rare nature. The frame, but not the heart, w=
as
fragile. A divine perseverance in love was in the heart of her being.
The whole disturb=
ance
which the word used by Gwynplaine had produced in her ended in her saying o=
ne
day,--
"To be
ugly--what is it? It is to do wrong. Gwynplaine only does good. He is
handsome."
Then, under the f=
orm
of interrogation so familiar to children and to the blind, she resumed,--
"To see--wha=
t is
it that you call seeing? For my own part, I cannot see; I know. It seems th=
at
to see means to hide."
"What do you
mean?" said Gwynplaine.
Dea answered,--
"To see is a
thing which conceals the true."
"No," s=
aid
Gwynplaine.
"But yes,&qu=
ot;
replied Dea, "since you say you are ugly."
She reflected a
moment, and then said, "Story-teller!"
Gwynplaine felt t=
he
joy of having confessed and of not being believed. Both his conscience and =
his
love were consoled.
Thus they had
reached, Dea sixteen, Gwynplaine nearly twenty-five. They were not, as it w=
ould
now be expressed, "more advanced" than the first day. Less even; =
for
it may be remembered that on their wedding night she was nine months and he=
ten
years old. A sort of holy childhood had continued in their love. Thus it
sometimes happens that the belated nightingale prolongs her nocturnal song =
till
dawn.
Their caresses we=
nt
no further than pressing hands, or lips brushing a naked arm. Soft,
half-articulate whispers sufficed them.
Twenty-four and sixteen! So it happ=
ened
that Ursus, who did not lose sight of the ill turn he intended to do them,
said,--
"One of these
days you must choose a religion."
"Wherefore?&=
quot;
inquired Gwynplaine.
"That you may
marry."
"That is alr=
eady
done," said Dea.
Dea did not
understand that they could be more man and wife than they were already.
At bottom, this
chimerical and virginal content, this innocent union of souls, this celibacy
taken for marriage, was not displeasing to Ursus.
Besides, were they
not already married? If the indissoluble existed anywhere, was it not in th=
eir
union? Gwynplaine and Dea! They were creatures worthy of the love they mutu=
ally
felt, flung by misfortune into each other's arms. And as if they were not
enough in this first link, love had survened on misfortune, and had attached
them, united and bound them together. What power could ever break that iron
chain, bound with knots of flowers? They were indeed bound together.
Dea had beauty,
Gwynplaine had sight. Each brought a dowry. They were more than coupled--th=
ey
were paired: separated solely by the sacred interposition of innocence.
Though dream as
Gwynplaine would, however, and absorb all meaner passions as he could in the
contemplation of Dea and before the tribunal of conscience, he was a man. F=
atal
laws are not to be eluded. He underwent, like everything else in nature, the
obscure fermentations willed by the Creator. At times, therefore, he looked=
at
the women who were in the crowd, but he immediately felt that the look was a
sin, and hastened to retire, repentant, into his own soul.
Let us add that he
met with no encouragement. On the face of every woman who looked upon him he
saw aversion antipathy, repugnance, and rejection. It was clear that no oth=
er
than Dea was possible for him. This aided his repentance.
CHAPTER VIII - NOT ONLY HAPPINESS, BUT PROSPERITY.=
What true things are told in storie=
s! The
burnt scar of the invisible fiend who has touched you is remorse for a wick=
ed
thought. In Gwynplaine evil thoughts never ripened, and he had therefore no
remorse. Sometimes he felt regret.
Vague mists of
conscience.
What was this?
Nothing.
Their happiness w=
as
complete--so complete that they were no longer even poor.
From 1680 to 1704=
a
great change had taken place.
It happened
sometimes, in the year 1704, that as night fell on some little village on t=
he
coast, a great, heavy van, drawn by a pair of stout horses, made its entry.=
It
was like the shell of a vessel reversed--the keel for a roof, the deck for a
floor, placed on four wheels. The wheels were all of the same size, and hig=
h as
wagon wheels. Wheels, pole, and van were all painted green, with a rhythmic=
al gradation
of shades, which ranged from bottle green for the wheels to apple green for=
the
roofing. This green colour had succeeded in drawing attention to the carria=
ge,
which was known in all the fair grounds as The Green Box. The Green Box had=
but
two windows, one at each extremity, and at the back a door with steps to let
down. On the roof, from a tube painted green like the rest, smoke arose. Th=
is
moving house was always varnished and washed afresh. In front, on a ledge
fastened to the van, with the window for a door, behind the horses and by t=
he
side of an old man who held the reins and directed the team, two gipsy wome=
n,
dressed as goddesses, sounded their trumpets. The astonishment with which t=
he villagers
regarded this machine was overwhelming.
This was the old
establishment of Ursus, its proportions augmented by success, and improved =
from
a wretched booth into a theatre. A kind of animal, between dog and wolf, was
chained under the van. This was Homo. The old coachman who drove the horses=
was
the philosopher himself.
Whence came this
improvement from the miserable hut to the Olympic caravan?
From this--Gwynpl=
aine
had become famous.
It was with a cor=
rect
scent of what would succeed amongst men that Ursus had said to Gwynplaine,-=
-
"They made y=
our
fortune."
Ursus, it may be
remembered, had made Gwynplaine his pupil. Unknown people had worked upon h=
is
face; he, on the other hand, had worked on his mind, and behind this
well-executed mask he had placed all that he could of thought. So soon as t=
he
growth of the child had rendered him fitted for it, he had brought him out =
on
the stage--that is, he had produced him in front of the van.
The effect of his
appearance had been surprising. The passers-by were immediately struck with
wonder. Never had anything been seen to be compared to this extraordinary m=
imic
of laughter. They were ignorant how the miracle of infectious hilarity had =
been
obtained. Some believed it to be natural, others declared it to be artifici=
al,
and as conjecture was added to reality, everywhere, at every cross-road on =
the
journey, in all the grounds of fairs and fêtes, the crowd ran after
Gwynplaine. Thanks to this great attraction, there had come into the poor p=
urse
of the wandering group, first a rain of farthings, then of heavy pennies, a=
nd
finally of shillings. The curiosity of one place exhausted, they passed on =
to
another. Rolling does not enrich a stone but it enriches a caravan; and yea=
r by
year, from city to city, with the increased growth of Gwynplaine's person a=
nd
of his ugliness, the fortune predicted by Ursus had come.
"What a good
turn they did you there, my boy!" said Ursus.
This
"fortune" had allowed Ursus, who was the administrator of Gwynpla=
ine's
success, to have the chariot of his dreams constructed--that is to say, a
caravan large enough to carry a theatre, and to sow science and art in the
highways. Moreover, Ursus had been able to add to the group composed of
himself, Homo, Gwynplaine, and Dea, two horses and two women, who were the
goddesses of the troupe, as we have just said, and its servants. A mytholog=
ical
frontispiece was, in those days, of service to a caravan of mountebanks.
"We are a
wandering temple," said Ursus.
These two gipsies,
picked up by the philosopher from amongst the vagabondage of cities and
suburbs, were ugly and young, and were called, by order of Ursus, the one
Phoebe, and the other Venus.
For these read Fi=
bi
and Vinos, that we may conform to English pronunciation.
Phoebe cooked; Ve=
nus
scrubbed the temple.
Moreover, on days=
of
performance they dressed Dea.
Mountebanks have
their public life as well as princes, and on these occasions Dea was arraye=
d,
like Fibi and Vinos, in a Florentine petticoat of flowered stuff, and a wom=
an's
jacket without sleeves, leaving the arms bare. Ursus and Gwynplaine wore me=
n's
jackets, and, like sailors on board a man-of-war, great loose trousers.
Gwynplaine had, besides, for his work and for his feats of strength, round =
his
neck and over his shoulders, an esclavine of leather. He took charge of the=
horses.
Ursus and Homo took charge of each other.
Dea, being used to
the Green Box, came and went in the interior of the wheeled house, with alm=
ost
as much ease and certainty as those who saw.
The eye which cou=
ld
penetrate within this structure and its internal arrangements might have
perceived in a corner, fastened to the planks, and immovable on its four
wheels, the old hut of Ursus, placed on half-pay, allowed to rust, and from
thenceforth dispensed the labour of rolling as Ursus was relieved from the
labour of drawing it.
This hut, in a co=
rner
at the back, to the right of the door, served as bedchamber and dressing-ro=
om
to Ursus and Gwynplaine. It now contained two beds. In the opposite corner =
was
the kitchen.
The arrangement o=
f a
vessel was not more precise and concise than that of the interior of the Gr=
een
Box. Everything within it was in its place--arranged, foreseen, and intende=
d.
The caravan was
divided into three compartments, partitioned from each other. These
communicated by open spaces without doors. A piece of stuff fell over them,=
and
answered the purpose of concealment. The compartment behind belonged to the
men, the compartment in front to the women; the compartment in the middle,
separating the two sexes, was the stage. The instruments of the orchestra a=
nd
the properties were kept in the kitchen. A loft under the arch of the roof
contained the scenes, and on opening a trap-door lamps appeared, producing
wonders of light.
Ursus was the poe=
t of
these magical representations; he wrote the pieces. He had a diversity of
talents; he was clever at sleight of hand. Besides the voices he imitated, =
he
produced all sorts of unexpected things--shocks of light and darkness;
spontaneous formations of figures or words, as he willed, on the partition;
vanishing figures in chiaroscuro; strange things, amidst which he seemed to
meditate, unmindful of the crowd who marvelled at him.
One day Gwynplaine
said to him,--
"Father, you
look like a sorcerer!"
And Ursus replied=
,--
"Then I look,
perhaps, like what I am."
The Green Box, bu=
ilt
on a clear model of Ursus's, contained this refinement of ingenuity--that
between the fore and hind wheels the central panel of the left side turned =
on
hinges by the aid of chains and pulleys, and could be let down at will like=
a
drawbridge. As it dropped it set at liberty three legs on hinges, which
supported the panel when let down, and which placed themselves straight on =
the
ground like the legs of a table, and supported it above the earth like a
platform. This exposed the stage, which was thus enlarged by the platform in
front.
This opening look=
ed
for all the world like a "mouth of hell," in the words of the
itinerant Puritan preachers, who turned away from it with horror. It was,
perhaps, for some such pious invention that Solon kicked out Thespis.
For all that Thes=
pis
has lasted much longer than is generally believed. The travelling theatre is
still in existence. It was on those stages on wheels that, in the sixteenth=
and
seventeenth centuries, they performed in England the ballets and dances of
Amner and Pilkington; in France, the pastorals of Gilbert Colin; in Flander=
s,
at the annual fairs, the double choruses of Clement, called Non Papa; in
Germany, the "Adam and Eve" of Theiles; and, in Italy, the Veneti=
an
exhibitions of Animuccia and of Cafossis, the "Silvæ" of
Gesualdo, the "Prince of Venosa," the "Satyr" of Laura
Guidiccioni, the "Despair of Philene," the "Death of Ugolina=
,"
by Vincent Galileo, father of the astronomer, which Vincent Galileo sang his
own music, and accompanied himself on his viol de gamba; as well as all the
first attempts of the Italian opera which, from 1580, substituted free
inspiration for the madrigal style.
The chariot, of t=
he
colour of hope, which carried Ursus, Gwynplaine, and their fortunes, and in
front of which Fibi and Vinos trumpeted like figures of Fame, played its pa=
rt
of this grand Bohemian and literary brotherhood. Thespis would no more have
disowned Ursus than Congrio would have disowned Gwynplaine.
Arrived at open
spaces in towns or villages, Ursus, in the intervals between the too-tooing=
of
Fibi and Vinos, gave instructive revelations as to the trumpetings.
"This sympho=
ny
is Gregorian," he would exclaim. "Citizens and townsmen, the
Gregorian form of worship, this great progress, is opposed in Italy to the
Ambrosial ritual, and in Spain to the Mozarabic ceremonial, and has achieved
its triumph over them with difficulty."
After which the G=
reen
Box drew up in some place chosen by Ursus, and evening having fallen, and t=
he
panel stage having been let down, the theatre opened, and the performance
began.
The scene of the
Green Box represented a landscape painted by Ursus; and as he did not know =
how
to paint, it represented a cavern just as well as a landscape. The curtain,
which we call drop nowadays, was a checked silk, with squares of contrasted
colours.
The public stood
without, in the street, in the fair, forming a semicircle round the stage,
exposed to the sun and the showers; an arrangement which made rain less
desirable for theatres in those days than now. When they could, they acted =
in an
inn yard, on which occasions the windows of the different stories made rows=
of
boxes for the spectators. The theatre was thus more enclosed, and the audie=
nce
a more paying one. Ursus was in everything--in the piece, in the company, i=
n the
kitchen, in the orchestra. Vinos beat the drum, and handled the sticks with
great dexterity. Fibi played on the morache, a kind of guitar. The wolf had
been promoted to be a utility gentleman, and played, as occasion required, =
his
little parts. Often when they appeared side by side on the stage--Ursus in =
his
tightly-laced bear's skin, Homo with his wolf's skin fitting still better--=
no
one could tell which was the beast. This flattered Ursus.
CHAPTER IX - ABSURDITIES WHICH FOLKS WITHOUT TASTE CALL
POETRY.
The pieces written by Ursus were
interludes--a kind of composition out of fashion nowadays. One of these pie=
ces,
which has not come down to us, was entitled "Ursus Rursus." It is
probable that he played the principal part himself. A pretended exit, follo=
wed
by a reappearance, was apparently its praiseworthy and sober subject. The
titles of the interludes of Ursus were sometimes Latin, as we have seen, and
the poetry frequently Spanish. The Spanish verses written by Ursus were rhy=
med,
as was nearly all the Castilian poetry of that period. This did not puzzle =
the
people. Spanish was then a familiar language; and the English sailors spoke
Castilian even as the Roman sailors spoke Carthaginian (see Plautus). Moreo=
ver,
at a theatrical representation, as at mass, Latin, or any other language
unknown to the audience, is by no means a subject of care with them. They g=
et
out of the dilemma by adapting to the sounds familiar words. Our old Gallic
France was particularly prone to this manner of being devout. At church, un=
der cover
of an Immolatus, the faithful chanted, "I will make merry;" and u=
nder
a Sanctus, "Kiss me, sweet."
The Council of Tr=
ent
was required to put an end to these familiarities.
Ursus had composed
expressly for Gwynplaine an interlude, with which he was well pleased. It w=
as
his best work. He had thrown his whole soul into it. To give the sum of all
one's talents in the production is the greatest triumph that any one can
achieve. The toad which produces a toad achieves a grand success. You doubt=
it?
Try, then, to do as much.
Ursus had careful=
ly
polished this interlude. This bear's cub was entitled "Chaos
Vanquished." Here it was:--A night scene. When the curtain drew up, the
crowd, massed around the Green Box, saw nothing but blackness. In this
blackness three confused forms moved in the reptile state--wolf, a bear, an=
d a
man. The wolf acted the wolf; Ursus, the bear; Gwynplaine, the man. The wolf
and the bear represented the ferocious forces of Nature--unreasoning hunger=
and
savage ignorance. Both rushed on Gwynplaine. It was chaos combating man. No
face could be distinguished. Gwynplaine fought infolded, in a winding-sheet,
and his face was covered by his thickly-falling locks. All else was shadow.=
The
bear growled, the wolf gnashed his teeth, the man cried out. The man was do=
wn;
the beasts overwhelmed him. He cried for aid and succour; he hurled to the
unknown an agonized appeal. He gave a death-rattle. To witness this agony of
the prostrate man, now scarcely distinguishable from the brutes, was appall=
ing.
The crowd looked on breathless; in one minute more the wild beasts would
triumph, and chaos reabsorb man. A struggle--cries--howlings; then, all at
once, silence.
A song in the
shadows. A breath had passed, and they heard a voice. Mysterious music floa=
ted,
accompanying this chant of the invisible; and suddenly, none knowing whence=
or
how, a white apparition arose. This apparition was a light; this light was a
woman; this woman was a spirit. Dea--calm, fair, beautiful, formidable in h=
er
serenity and sweetness--appeared in the centre of a luminous mist. A profil=
e of
brightness in a dawn! She was a voice--a voice light, deep, indescribable. =
She
sang in the new-born light--she, invisible, made visible. They thought that
they heard the hymn of an angel or the song of a bird. At this apparition t=
he
man, starting up in his ecstasy, struck the beasts with his fists, and
overthrew them.
Then the vision,
gliding along in a manner difficult to understand, and therefore the more
admired, sang these words in Spanish sufficiently pure for the English sail=
ors
who were present:--
"Ora! llora! De palabra Nace razon. De luz el son."[13]
Then looking down=
, as
if she saw a gulf beneath, she went on,--
"Noche, quita te de alli!
As she sang, the =
man
raised himself by degrees; instead of lying he was now kneeling, his hands
elevated towards the vision, his knees resting on the beasts, which lay
motionless, and as if thunder-stricken.
She continued,
turning towards him,--
"Es menester a cielos ir,
And approaching h=
im
with the majesty of a star, she added,--
"Gebra barzon; Deja, monstruo, A tu negro Caparazon."[16]
And she put hot h=
and
on his brow. Then another voice arose, deeper, and consequently still
sweeter--a voice broken and enwrapt with a gravity both tender and wild. It=
was
the human chant responding to the chant of the stars. Gwynplaine, still in
obscurity, his head under Dea's hand, and kneeling on the vanquished bear a=
nd
wolf, sang,--
"O ven! ama! Eres alma, Soy corazon."[17]
And suddenly from=
the
shadow a ray of light fell full upon Gwynplaine. Then, through the darkness,
was the monster full exposed.
To describe the
commotion of the crowd is impossible.
A sun of laughter
rising, such was the effect. Laughter springs from unexpected causes, and
nothing could be more unexpected than this termination. Never was sensation
comparable to that produced by the ray of light striking on that mask, at o=
nce
ludicrous and terrible. They laughed all around his laugh. Everywhere--abov=
e,
below, behind, before, at the uttermost distance; men, women, old gray-head=
s,
rosy-faced children; the good, the wicked, the gay, the sad, everybody. And
even in the streets, the passers-by who could see nothing, hearing the
laughter, laughed also. The laughter ended in clapping of hands and stampin=
g of
feet. The curtain dropped: Gwynplaine was recalled with frenzy. Hence an im=
mense
success. Have you seen "Chaos Vanquished?" Gwynplaine was run aft=
er.
The listless came to laugh, the melancholy came to laugh, evil consciences =
came
to laugh--a laugh so irresistible that it seemed almost an epidemic. But th=
ere
is a pestilence from which men do not fly, and that is the contagion of joy.
The success, it must be admitted, did not rise higher than the populace. A
great crowd means a crowd of nobodies. "Chaos Vanquished" could be
seen for a penny. Fashionable people never go where the price of admission =
is a
penny.
Ursus thought a g=
ood
deal of his work, which he had brooded over for a long time. "It is in=
the
style of one Shakespeare," he said modestly.
The juxtaposition=
of
Dea added to the indescribable effect produced by Gwynplaine. Her white fac=
e by
the side of the gnome represented what might have been called divine astoni=
shment.
The audience regarded Dea with a sort of mysterious anxiety. She had in her
aspect the dignity of a virgin and of a priestess, not knowing man and know=
ing
God. They saw that she was blind, and felt that she could see. She seemed to
stand on the threshold of the supernatural. The light that beamed on her se=
emed
half earthly and half heavenly. She had come to work on earth, and to work =
as
heaven works, in the radiance of morning. Finding a hydra, she formed a sou=
l.
She seemed like a creative power, satisfied but astonished at the result of=
her
creation; and the audience fancied that they could see in the divine surpri=
se
of that face desire of the cause and wonder at the result. They felt that s=
he
loved this monster. Did she know that he was one? Yes; since she touched hi=
m.
No; since she accepted him. This depth of night and this glory of day unite=
d,
formed in the mind of the spectator a chiaroscuro in which appeared endless=
perspectives.
How much divinity exists in the germ, in what manner the penetration of the
soul into matter is accomplished, how the solar ray is an umbilical cord, h=
ow
the disfigured is transfigured, how the deformed becomes heavenly--all these
glimpses of mysteries added an almost cosmical emotion to the convulsive
hilarity produced by Gwynplaine. Without going too deep--for spectators do =
not
like the fatigue of seeking below the surface--something more was understood
than was perceived. And this strange spectacle had the transparency of an a=
vatar.
As to Dea, what s=
he
felt cannot be expressed by human words. She knew that she was in the midst=
of
a crowd, and knew not what a crowd was. She heard a murmur, that was all. F=
or
her the crowd was but a breath. Generations are passing breaths. Man respir=
es,
aspires, and expires. In that crowd Dea felt herself alone, and shuddering =
as
one hanging over a precipice. Suddenly, in this trouble of innocence in
distress, prompt to accuse the unknown, in her dread of a possible fall, De=
a,
serene notwithstanding, and superior to the vague agonies of peril, but inw=
ardly
shuddering at her isolation, found confidence and support. She had seized h=
er
thread of safety in the universe of shadows; she put her hand on the powerf=
ul
head of Gwynplaine.
Joy unspeakable! =
she
placed her rosy fingers on his forest of crisp hair. Wool when touched give=
s an
impression of softness. Dea touched a lamb which she knew to be a lion. Her
whole heart poured out an ineffable love. She felt out of danger--she had f=
ound
her saviour. The public believed that they saw the contrary. To the spectat=
ors
the being loved was Gwynplaine, and the saviour was Dea. What matters? thou=
ght Ursus,
to whom the heart of Dea was visible. And Dea, reassured, consoled and
delighted, adored the angel whilst the people contemplated the monster, and=
endured,
fascinated herself as well, though in the opposite sense, that dread Promet=
hean
laugh.
True love is never
weary. Being all soul it cannot cool. A brazier comes to be full of cinders;
not so a star. Her exquisite impressions were renewed every evening for Dea,
and she was ready to weep with tenderness whilst the audience was in
convulsions of laughter. Those around her were but joyful; she was happy.
The sensation of
gaiety due to the sudden shock caused by the rictus of Gwynplaine was evide=
ntly
not intended by Ursus. He would have preferred more smiles and less laughte=
r,
and more of a literary triumph. But success consoles. He reconciled himself
every evening to his excessive triumph, as he counted how many shillings the
piles of farthings made, and how many pounds the piles of shillings; and
besides, he said, after all, when the laugh had passed, "Chaos
Vanquished" would be found in the depths of their minds, and something=
of
it would remain there.
Perhaps he was not
altogether wrong: the foundations of a work settle down in the mind of the
public. The truth is, that the populace, attentive to the wolf, the bear, to
the man, then to the music, to the howlings governed by harmony, to the nig=
ht
dissipated by dawn, to the chant releasing the light, accepted with a confu=
sed,
dull sympathy, and with a certain emotional respect, the dramatic poem of
"Chaos Vanquished," the victory of spirit over matter, ending with
the joy of man.
Such were the vul=
gar
pleasures of the people.
They sufficed the=
m.
The people had not the means of going to the noble matches of the gentry, a=
nd
could not, like lords and gentlemen, bet a thousand guineas on Helmsgail
against Phelem-ghe-madone.
CHAPTER X - AN OUTSIDER'S VIEW OF MEN AND THINGS.<=
/span>
Man has a notion of revenging himse=
lf on
that which pleases him. Hence the contempt felt for the comedian.
This being charms=
me,
diverts, distracts, teaches, enchants, consoles me; flings me into an ideal
world, is agreeable and useful to me. What evil can I do him in return?
Humiliate him. Disdain is a blow from afar. Let us strike the blow. He plea=
ses
me, therefore he is vile. He serves me, therefore I hate him. Where can I f=
ind
a stone to throw at him? Priest, give me yours. Philosopher, give me yours.
Bossuet, excommunicate him. Rousseau, insult him. Orator, spit the pebbles =
from
your mouth at him. Bear, fling your stone. Let us cast stones at the tree, =
hit
the fruit and eat it. "Bravo!" and "Down with him!" To
repeat poetry is to be infected with the plague. Wretched playactor, we wil=
l put
him in the pillory for his success. Let him follow up his triumph with our
hisses. Let him collect a crowd and create a solitude. Thus it is that the
wealthy, termed the higher classes, have invented for the actor that form of
isolation, applause.
The crowd is less
brutal. They neither hated nor despised Gwynplaine. Only the meanest calker=
of
the meanest crew of the meanest merchantman, anchored in the meanest English
seaport, considered himself immeasurably superior to this amuser of the
"scum," and believed that a calker is as superior to an actor as a
lord is to a calker.
Gwynplaine was,
therefore, like all comedians, applauded and kept at a distance. Truly, all
success in this world is a crime, and must be expiated. He who obtains the
medal has to take its reverse side as well.
For Gwynplaine th=
ere
was no reverse. In this sense, both sides of his medal pleased him. He was
satisfied with the applause, and content with the isolation. In applause he=
was
rich, in isolation happy.
To be rich in his=
low
estate means to be no longer wretchedly poor--to have neither holes in his
clothes, nor cold at his hearth, nor emptiness in his stomach. It is to eat
when hungry and drink when thirsty. It is to have everything necessary,
including a penny for a beggar. This indigent wealth, enough for liberty, w=
as
possessed by Gwynplaine. So far as his soul was concerned, he was opulent. =
He
had love. What more could he want? Nothing.
You may think that
had the offer been made to him to remove his deformity he would have graspe=
d at
it. Yet he would have refused it emphatically. What! to throw off his mask =
and
have his former face restored; to be the creature he had perchance been
created, handsome and charming? No, he would never have consented to it. For
what would he have to support Dea? What would have become of that poor chil=
d,
the sweet blind girl who loved him? Without his rictus, which made him a cl=
own
without parallel, he would have been a mountebank, like any other; a common
athlete, a picker up of pence from the chinks in the pavement, and Dea would
perhaps not have had bread every day. It was with deep and tender pride tha=
t he
felt himself the protector of the helpless and heavenly creature. Night,
solitude, nakedness, weakness, ignorance, hunger, and thirst--seven yawning
jaws of misery--were raised around her, and he was the St. George fighting =
the
dragon. He triumphed over poverty. How? By his deformity. By his deformity =
he
was useful, helpful, victorious, great. He had but to show himself, and mon=
ey
poured in. He was a master of crowds, the sovereign of the mob. He could do
everything for Dea. Her wants he foresaw; her desires, her tastes, her fanc=
ies,
in the limited sphere in which wishes are possible to the blind, he fulfill=
ed.
Gwynplaine and Dea were, as we have already shown, Providence to each other=
. He
felt himself raised on her wings; she felt herself carried in his arms. To
protect the being who loves you, to give what she requires to her who shine=
s on
you as your star, can anything be sweeter? Gwynplaine possessed this supreme
happiness, and he owed it to his deformity. His deformity had raised him ab=
ove
all. By it he had gained the means of life for himself and others; by it he=
had
gained independence, liberty, celebrity, internal satisfaction and pride. I=
n his
deformity he was inaccessible. The Fates could do nothing beyond this blow =
in
which they had spent their whole force, and which he had turned into a triu=
mph.
This lowest depth of misfortune had become the summit of Elysium. Gwynplaine
was imprisoned in his deformity, but with Dea. And this was, as we have alr=
eady
said, to live in a dungeon of paradise. A wall stood between them and the
living world. So much the better. This wall protected as well as enclosed t=
hem.
What could affect Dea, what could affect Gwynplaine, with such a fortress
around them? To take from him his success was impossible. They would have h=
ad
to deprive him of his face. Take from him his love. Impossible. Dea could n=
ot
see him. The blindness of Dea was divinely incurable. What harm did his def=
ormity
do Gwynplaine? None. What advantage did it give him? Every advantage. He was
beloved, notwithstanding its horror, and perhaps for that very cause. Infir=
mity
and deformity had by instinct been drawn towards and coupled with each othe=
r.
To be beloved, is not that everything? Gwynplaine thought of his disfigurem=
ent
only with gratitude. He was blessed in the stigma. With joy he felt that it=
was
irremediable and eternal. What a blessing that it was so! While there were
highways and fairgrounds, and journeys to take, the people below and the sk=
y above,
they would be sure to live, Dea would want nothing, and they should have lo=
ve.
Gwynplaine would not have changed faces with Apollo. To be a monster was his
form of happiness.
Thus, as we said
before, destiny had given him all, even to overflowing. He who had been
rejected had been preferred.
He was so happy t=
hat
he felt compassion for the men around him. He pitied the rest of the world.=
It
was, besides, his instinct to look about him, because no one is always
consistent, and a man's nature is not always theoretic; he was delighted to
live within an enclosure, but from time to time he lifted his head above the
wall. Then he retreated again with more joy into his loneliness with Dea,
having drawn his comparisons. What did he see around him?
What were those
living creatures of which his wandering life showed him so many specimens,
changed every day? Always new crowds, always the same multitude, ever new
faces, ever the same miseries. A jumble of ruins. Every evening every phase=
of
social misfortune came and encircled his happiness.
The Green Box was
popular.
Low prices attract
the low classes. Those who came were the weak, the poor, the little. They
rushed to Gwynplaine as they rushed to gin. They came to buy a pennyworth of
forgetfulness. From the height of his platform Gwynplaine passed those wret=
ched
people in review. His spirit was enwrapt in the contemplation of every
succeeding apparition of widespread misery. The physiognomy of man is model=
led
by conscience, and by the tenor of life, and is the result of a crowd of
mysterious excavations. There was never a suffering, not an anger, not a sh=
ame,
not a despair, of which Gwynplaine did not see the wrinkle. The mouths of t=
hose
children had not eaten. That man was a father, that woman a mother, and beh=
ind
them their families might be guessed to be on the road to ruin. There was a
face already marked by vice, on the threshold of crime, and the reasons were
plain--ignorance and indigence. Another showed the stamp of original goodne=
ss,
obliterated by social pressure, and turned to hate. On the face of an old w=
oman
he saw starvation; on that of a girl, prostitution. The same fact, and alth=
ough
the girl had the resource of her youth, all the sadder for that! In the cro=
wd
were arms without tools; the workers asked only for work, but the work was =
wanting.
Sometimes a soldier came and seated himself by the workmen, sometimes a wou=
nded
pensioner; and Gwynplaine saw the spectre of war. Here Gwynplaine read want=
of
work; there man-farming, slavery. On certain brows he saw an indescribable
ebbing back towards animalism, and that slow return of man to beast, produc=
ed
on those below by the dull pressure of the happiness of those above. There =
was
a break in the gloom for Gwynplaine. He and Dea had a loophole of happiness;
the rest was damnation. Gwynplaine felt above him the thoughtless trampling=
of
the powerful, the rich, the magnificent, the great, the elect of chance. Be=
low
he saw the pale faces of the disinherited. He saw himself and Dea, with the=
ir
little happiness, so great to themselves, between two worlds. That which was
above went and came, free, joyous, dancing, trampling under foot; above him=
the
world which treads, below the world which is trodden upon. It is a fatal fa=
ct,
and one indicating a profound social evil, that light should crush the shad=
ow!
Gwynplaine thoroughly grasped this dark evil. What! a destiny so reptile? S=
hall
a man drag himself thus along with such adherence to dust and corruption, w=
ith
such vicious tastes, such an abdication of right, or such abjectness that o=
ne
feels inclined to crush him under foot? Of what butterfly is, then, this ea=
rthly
life the grub?
What! in the crowd
which hungers and which denies everywhere, and before all, the questions of
crime and shame (the inflexibility of the law producing laxity of conscienc=
e),
is there no child that grows but to be stunted, no virgin but matures for s=
in,
no rose that blooms but for the slime of the snail?
His eyes at times
sought everywhere, with the curiosity of emotion, to probe the depths of th=
at
darkness, in which there died away so many useless efforts, and in which th=
ere
struggled so much weariness: families devoured by society, morals tortured =
by
the laws, wounds gangrened by penalties, poverty gnawed by taxes, wrecked
intelligence swallowed up by ignorance, rafts in distress alive with the
famished, feuds, dearth, death-rattles, cries, disappearances. He felt the
vague oppression of a keen, universal suffering. He saw the vision of the f=
oaming
wave of misery dashing over the crowd of humanity. He was safe in port hims=
elf,
as he watched the wreck around him. Sometimes he laid his disfigured head in
his hands and dreamed.
What folly to be
happy! How one dreams! Ideas were born within him. Absurd notions crossed h=
is
brain.
Because formerly =
he
had succoured an infant, he felt a ridiculous desire to succour the whole
world. The mists of reverie sometimes obscured his individuality, and he lo=
st
his ideas of proportion so far as to ask himself the question, "What c=
an
be done for the poor?" Sometimes he was so absorbed in his subject as =
to
express it aloud. Then Ursus shrugged his shoulders and looked at him fixed=
ly.
Gwynplaine continued his reverie.
"Oh; were I
powerful, would I not aid the wretched? But what am I? An atom. What can I =
do?
Nothing."
He was mistaken. =
He
was able to do a great deal for the wretched. He could make them laugh; and=
, as
we have said, to make people laugh is to make them forget. What a benefacto=
r on
earth is he who can bestow forgetfulness! CHAPTER XI.
GWYNPLAINE THINKS
JUSTICE, AND URSUS TALKS TRUTH.
A philosopher is a spy. Ursus, a wa=
tcher
of dreams, studied his pupil.
Our monologues le=
ave
on our brows a faint reflection, distinguishable to the eye of a physiognom=
ist.
Hence what occurred to Gwynplaine did not escape Ursus. One day, as Gwynpla=
ine
was meditating, Ursus pulled him by his jacket, and exclaimed,--
"You strike =
me
as being an observer! You fool! Take care; it is no business of yours. You =
have
one thing to do--to love Dea. You have two causes of happiness--the first i=
s,
that the crowd sees your muzzle; the second is, that Dea does not. You have=
no
right to the happiness you possess, for no woman who saw your mouth would
consent to your kiss; and that mouth which has made your fortune, and that =
face
which has given you riches, are not your own. You were not born with that
countenance. It was borrowed from the grimace which is at the bottom of the
infinite. You have stolen your mask from the devil. You are hideous; be
satisfied with having drawn that prize in the lottery. There are in this wo=
rld (and
a very good thing too) the happy by right and the happy by luck. You are ha=
ppy
by luck. You are in a cave wherein a star is enclosed. The poor star belong=
s to
you. Do not seek to leave the cave, and guard your star, O spider! You have=
in
your web the carbuncle, Venus. Do me the favour to be satisfied. I see your
dreams are troubled. It is idiotic of you. Listen; I am going to speak to y=
ou
in the language of true poetry. Let Dea eat beefsteaks and mutton chops, an=
d in
six months she will be as strong as a Turk; marry her immediately, give her=
a
child, two children, three children, a long string of children. That is wha=
t I
call philosophy. Moreover, it is happiness, which is no folly. To have chil=
dren
is a glimpse of heaven. Have brats--wipe them, blow their noses, dirt them,
wash them, and put them to bed. Let them swarm about you. If they laugh, it=
is
well; if they howl, it is better--to cry is to live. Watch them suck at six
months, crawl at a year, walk at two, grow tall at fifteen, fall in love at
twenty. He who has these joys has everything For myself, I lacked the
advantage; and that is the reason why I am a brute. God, a composer of
beautiful poems and the first of men of letters, said to his fellow-workman,
Moses, 'Increase and multiply.' Such is the text. Multiply, you beast! As to
the world, it is as it is; you cannot make nor mar it. Do not trouble yours=
elf
about it. Pay no attention to what goes on outside. Leave the horizon alone=
. A comedian
is made to be looked at, not to look. Do you know what there is outside? The
happy by right. You, I repeat, are the happy by chance. You are the pickpoc=
ket
of the happiness of which they are the proprietors. They are the legitimate
possessors; you are the intruder. You live in concubinage with luck. What do
you want that you have not already? Shibboleth help me! This fellow is a
rascal. To multiply himself by Dea would be pleasant, all the same. Such
happiness is like a swindle. Those above who possess happiness by privilege=
do
not like folks below them to have so much enjoyment. If they ask you what r=
ight
you have to be happy, you will not know what to answer. You have no patent,=
and
they have. Jupiter, Allah, Vishnu, Sabaoth, it does not matter who, has giv=
en
them the passport to happiness. Fear them. Do not meddle with them, lest th=
ey should
meddle with you. Wretch! do you know what the man is who is happy by right?=
He
is a terrible being. He is a lord. A lord! He must have intrigued pretty we=
ll
in the devil's unknown country before he was born, to enter life by the doo=
r he
did. How difficult it must have been to him to be born! It is the only trou=
ble
he has given himself; but, just heavens, what a one!--to obtain from destin=
y,
the blind blockhead, to mark him in his cradle a master of men. To bribe the
box-keeper to give him the best place at the show. Read the memoranda in the
old hut, which I have placed on half-pay. Read that breviary of my wisdom, =
and you
will see what it is to be a lord. A lord is one who has all and is all. A l=
ord
is one who exists above his own nature. A lord is one who has when young the
rights of an old man; when old, the success in intrigue of a young one; if
vicious, the homage of respectable people; if a coward, the command of brave
men; if a do-nothing, the fruits of labour; if ignorant, the diploma of
Cambridge or Oxford; if a fool, the admiration of poets; if ugly, the smile=
s of
women; if a Thersites, the helm of Achilles; if a hare, the skin of a lion.=
Do
not misunderstand my words. I do not say that a lord must necessarily be
ignorant, a coward, ugly, stupid, or old. I only mean that he may be all th=
ose
things without any detriment to himself. On the contrary. Lords are princes=
. The
King of England is only a lord, the first peer of the peerage; that is all,=
but
it is much. Kings were formerly called lords--the Lord of Denmark, the Lord=
of
Ireland, the Lord of the Isles. The Lord of Norway was first called king th=
ree
hundred years ago. Lucius, the most ancient king in England, was spoken to =
by
Saint Telesphonis as my Lord Lucius. The lords are peers--that is to say,
equals--of whom? Of the king. I do not commit the mistake of confounding the
lords with parliament. The assembly of the people which the Saxons before t=
he
Conquest called wittenagemote, the Normans, after the Conquest, entitled pa=
rliamentum.
By degrees the people were turned out. The king's letters clause convoking =
the
Commons, addressed formerly ad concilium impendendum, are now addressed ad
consentiendum. To say yes is their liberty. The peers can say no; and the p=
roof
is that they have said it. The peers can cut off the king's head. The people
cannot. The stroke of the hatchet which decapitated Charles I. is an
encroachment, not on the king, but on the peers, and it was well to place on
the gibbet the carcass of Cromwell. The lords have power. Why? Because they
have riches. Who has turned over the leaves of the Doomsday Book? It is the=
proof
that the lords possess England. It is the registry of the estates of subjec=
ts,
compiled under William the Conqueror; and it is in the charge of the Chance=
llor
of the Exchequer. To copy anything in it you have to pay twopence a line. I=
t is
a proud book. Do you know that I was domestic doctor to a lord, who was cal=
led
Marmaduke, and who had thirty-six thousand a year? Think of that, you hideo=
us
idiot! Do you know that, with rabbits only from the warrens of Earl Lindsay,
they could feed all the riffraff of the Cinque Ports? And the good order ke=
pt!
Every poacher is hung. For two long furry ears sticking out of a game bag I=
saw
the father of six children hanging on the gibbet. Such is the peerage. The
rabbit of a great lord is of more importance than God's image in a man.
"Lords exist,
you trespasser, do you see? and we must think it good that they do; and eve=
n if
we do not, what harm will it do them? The people object, indeed! Why? Plaut=
us
himself would never have attained the comicality of such an idea. A philoso=
pher
would be jesting if he advised the poor devil of the masses to cry out agai=
nst
the size and weight of the lords. Just as well might the gnat dispute with =
the
foot of an elephant. One day I saw a hippopotamus tread upon a molehill; he
crushed it utterly. He was innocent. The great soft-headed fool of a mastod=
on did
not even know of the existence of moles. My son, the moles that are trodden=
on
are the human race. To crush is a law. And do you think that the mole himse=
lf
crushes nothing? Why, it is the mastodon of the fleshworm, who is the masto=
don
of the globeworm. But let us cease arguing. My boy, there are coaches in the
world; my lord is inside, the people under the wheels; the philosopher gets=
out
of the way. Stand aside, and let them pass. As to myself, I love lords, and
shun them. I lived with one; the beauty of my recollections suffices me. I
remember his country house, like a glory in a cloud. My dreams are all retr=
ospective.
Nothing could be more admirable than Marmaduke Lodge in grandeur, beautiful
symmetry, rich avenues, and the ornaments and surroundings of the edifice. =
The
houses, country seats, and palaces of the lords present a selection of all =
that
is greatest and most magnificent in this flourishing kingdom. I love our lo=
rds.
I thank them for being opulent, powerful, and prosperous. I myself am cloth=
ed
in shadow, and I look with interest upon the shred of heavenly blue which is
called a lord. You enter Marmaduke Lodge by an exceedingly spacious courtya=
rd,
which forms an oblong square, divided into eight spaces, each surrounded by=
a
balustrade; on each side is a wide approach, and a superb hexagonal fountain
plays in the midst; this fountain is formed of two basins, which are surmou=
nted
by a dome of exquisite openwork, elevated on six columns. It was there that=
I
knew a learned Frenchman, Monsieur l'Abbé du Cros, who belonged to t=
he
Jacobin monastery in the Rue Saint Jacques. Half the library of Erpenius is=
at
Marmaduke Lodge, the other half being at the theological gallery at Cambrid=
ge.
I used to read the books, seated under the ornamented portal. These things =
are only
shown to a select number of curious travellers. Do you know, you ridiculous
boy, that William North, who is Lord Grey of Rolleston, and sits fourteenth=
on
the bench of Barons, has more forest trees on his mountains than you have h=
airs
on your horrible noddle? Do you know that Lord Norreys of Rycote, who is Ea=
rl
of Abingdon, has a square keep a hundred feet high, having this device--Vir=
tus
ariete fortior; which you would think meant that virtue is stronger than a =
ram,
but which really means, you idiot, that courage is stronger than a batterin=
g-machine.
Yes, I honour, accept, respect, and revere our lords. It is the lords who, =
with
her royal Majesty, work to procure and preserve the advantages of the natio=
n.
Their consummate wisdom shines in intricate junctures. Their precedence over
others I wish they had not; but they have it. What is called principality in
Germany, grandeeship in Spain, is called peerage in England and France. The=
re
being a fair show of reason for considering the world a wretched place enou=
gh,
heaven felt where the burden was most galling, and to prove that it knew ho=
w to
make happy people, created lords for the satisfaction of philosophers. This=
acts
as a set-off, and gets heaven out of the scrape, affording it a decent esca=
pe
from a false position. The great are great. A peer, speaking of himself, sa=
ys
we. A peer is a plural. The king qualifies the peer consanguinei nostri. The
peers have made a multitude of wise laws; amongst others, one which condemn=
s to
death any one who cuts down a three-year-old poplar tree. Their supremacy is
such that they have a language of their own. In heraldic style, black, whic=
h is
called sable for gentry, is called saturne for princes, and diamond for pee=
rs. Diamond
dust, a night thick with stars, such is the night of the happy! Even amongst
themselves these high and mighty lords have their own distinctions. A baron
cannot wash with a viscount without his permission. These are indeed excell=
ent
things, and safeguards to the nation. What a fine thing it is for the peopl=
e to
have twenty-five dukes, five marquises, seventy-six earls, nine viscounts, =
and
sixty-one barons, making altogether a hundred and seventy-six peers, of whi=
ch
some are your grace, and some my lord! What matter a few rags here and ther=
e, withal:
everybody cannot be dressed in gold. Let the rags be. Cannot you see the
purple? One balances the other. A thing must be built of something. Yes, of
course, there are the poor--what of them! They line the happiness of the
wealthy. Devil take it! our lords are our glory! The pack of hounds belongi=
ng
to Charles, Baron Mohun, costs him as much as the hospital for lepers in
Moorgate, and for Christ's Hospital, founded for children, in 1553, by Edwa=
rd
VI. Thomas Osborne, Duke of Leeds, spends yearly on his liveries five thous=
and
golden guineas. The Spanish grandees have a guardian appointed by law to
prevent their ruining themselves. That is cowardly. Our lords are extravaga=
nt
and magnificent. I esteem them for it. Let us not abuse them like envious f=
olks.
I feel happy when a beautiful vision passes. I have not the light, but I ha=
ve
the reflection. A reflection thrown on my ulcer, you will say. Go to the de=
vil!
I am a Job, delighted in the contemplation of Trimalcion. Oh, that beautiful
and radiant planet up there! But the moonlight is something. To suppress the
lords was an idea which Orestes, mad as he was, would not have dared to
entertain. To say that the lords are mischievous or useless is as much as to
say that the state should be revolutionized, and that men are not made to l=
ive
like cattle, browsing the grass and bitten by the dog. The field is shorn by
the sheep, the sheep by the shepherd. It is all one to me. I am a philosoph=
er,
and I care about life as much as a fly. Life is but a lodging. When I think=
that
Henry Bowes Howard, Earl of Berkshire, has in his stable twenty-four state
carriages, of which one is mounted in silver and another in gold--good heav=
ens!
I know that every one has not got twenty-four state carriages; but there is=
no
need to complain for all that. Because you were cold one night, what was th=
at
to him? It concerns you only. Others besides you suffer cold and hunger. Do=
n't
you know that without that cold, Dea would not have been blind, and if Dea =
were
not blind she would not love you? Think of that, you fool! And, besides, if=
all
the people who are lost were to complain, there would be a pretty tumult!
Silence is the rule. I have no doubt that heaven imposes silence on the dam=
ned,
otherwise heaven itself would be punished by their everlasting cry. The
happiness of Olympus is bought by the silence of Cocytus. Then, people, be
silent! I do better myself; I approve and admire. Just now I was enumerating
the lords, and I ought to add to the list two archbishops and twenty-four
bishops. Truly, I am quite affected when I think of it! I remember to have =
seen
at the tithe-gathering of the Rev. Dean of Raphoe, who combined the peerage
with the church, a great tithe of beautiful wheat taken from the peasants in
the neighbourhood, and which the dean had not been at the trouble of growin=
g.
This left him time to say his prayers. Do you know that Lord Marmaduke, my
master, was Lord Grand Treasurer of Ireland, and High Seneschal of the
sovereignty of Knaresborough in the county of York? Do you know that the Lo=
rd
High Chamberlain, which is an office hereditary in the family of the Dukes =
of
Ancaster, dresses the king for his coronation, and receives for his trouble
forty yards of crimson velvet, besides the bed on which the king has slept;=
and
that the Usher of the Black Rod is his deputy? I should like to see you deny
this, that the senior viscount of England is Robert Brent, created a viscou=
nt
by Henry V. The lords' titles imply sovereignty over land, except that of E=
arl Rivers,
who takes his title from his family name. How admirable is the right which =
they
have to tax others, and to levy, for instance, four shillings in the pound
sterling income-tax, which has just been continued for another year! And all
the time taxes on distilled spirits, on the excise of wine and beer, on ton=
nage
and poundage, on cider, on perry, on mum, malt, and prepared barley, on coa=
ls,
and on a hundred things besides. Let us venerate things as they are. The cl=
ergy
themselves depend on the lords. The Bishop of Man is subject to the Earl of
Derby. The lords have wild beasts of their own, which they place in their
armorial bearings. God not having made enough, they have invented others. T=
hey
have created the heraldic wild boar, who is as much above the wild boar as =
the
wild boar is above the domestic pig and the lord is above the priest. They =
have
created the griffin, which is an eagle to lions, and a lion to eagles,
terrifying lions by his wings, and eagles by his mane. They have the guivre,
the unicorn, the serpent, the salamander, the tarask, the dree, the dragon,=
and
the hippogriff. All these things, terrible to us, are to them but an orname=
nt
and an embellishment. They have a menagerie which they call the blazon, in =
which
unknown beasts roar. The prodigies of the forest are nothing compared to the
inventions of their pride. Their vanity is full of phantoms which move as i=
n a
sublime night, armed with helm and cuirass, spurs on their heels and the
sceptres in their hands, saying in a grave voice, 'We are the ancestors!' T=
he
canker-worms eat the roots, and panoplies eat the people. Why not? Are we to
change the laws? The peerage is part of the order of society. Do you know t=
hat
there is a duke in Scotland who can ride ninety miles without leaving his o=
wn estate?
Do you know that the Archbishop of Canterbury has a revenue of £40,00=
0 a
year? Do you know that her Majesty has £700,000 sterling from the civ=
il
list, besides castles, forests, domains, fiefs, tenancies, freeholds,
prebendaries, tithes, rent, confiscations, and fines, which bring in over a
million sterling? Those who are not satisfied are hard to please."
"Yes,"
murmured Gwynplaine sadly, "the paradise of the rich is made out of the
hell of the poor."
CHAPTER XII - URSUS THE POET DRAGS ON URSUS THE PHILOSOPH=
ER.
Then Dea entered. He looked at her,=
and
saw nothing but her. This is love; one may be carried away for a moment by =
the
importunity of some other idea, but the beloved one enters, and all that do=
es
not appertain to her presence immediately fades away, without her dreaming =
that
perhaps she is effacing in us a world.
Let us mention a
circumstance. In "Chaos Vanquished," the word monstruo, addressed=
to
Gwynplaine, displeased Dea. Sometimes, with the smattering of Spanish which
every one knew at the period, she took it into her head to replace it by
quiero, which signifies, "I wish it." Ursus tolerated, although n=
ot
without an expression of impatience, this alteration in his text. He might =
have
said to Dea, as in our day Moessard said to Vissot, Tu manques de respect au
repertoire.
"The Laughing
Man."
Such was the form=
of
Gwynplaine's fame. His name, Gwynplaine, little known at any time, had
disappeared under his nickname, as his face had disappeared under its grin.=
His popularity was
like his visage--a mask.
His name, however,
was to be read on a large placard in front of the Green Box, which offered =
the
crowd the following narrative composed by Ursus:--
"Here is to =
be
seen Gwynplaine, deserted at the age of ten, on the night of the 29th of
January, 1690, by the villainous Comprachicos, on the coast of Portland. The
little boy has grown up, and is called now, THE LAUGHING MAN."
The existence of
these mountebanks was as an existence of lepers in a leper-house, and of the
blessed in one of the Pleiades. There was every day a sudden transition from
the noisy exhibition outside, into the most complete seclusion. Every eveni=
ng
they made their exit from this world. They were like the dead, vanishing on
condition of being reborn next day. A comedian is a revolving light, appear=
ing
one moment, disappearing the next, and existing for the public but as a pha=
ntom
or a light, as his life circles round. To exhibition succeeded isolation. W=
hen
the performance was finished, whilst the audience were dispersing, and thei=
r murmur
of satisfaction was dying away in the streets, the Green Box shut up its
platform, as a fortress does its drawbridge, and all communication with man=
kind
was cut off. On one side, the universe; on the other, the caravan; and this
caravan contained liberty, clear consciences, courage, devotion, innocence,
happiness, love--all the constellations.
Blindness having
sight and deformity beloved sat side by side, hand pressing hand, brow touc=
hing
brow, and whispered to each other, intoxicated with love.
The compartment in
the middle served two purposes--for the public it was a stage, for the acto=
rs a
dining-room.
Ursus, ever delighting in comparisons, profited by the diversity of its uses to liken t= he central compartment in the Green Box to the arradach in an Abyssinian hut.<= o:p>
Ursus counted the
receipts, then they supped. In love all is ideal. In love, eating and drink=
ing
together affords opportunities for many sweet promiscuous touches, by which=
a
mouthful becomes a kiss. They drank ale or wine from the same glass, as they
might drink dew out of the same lily. Two souls in love are as full of grac=
e as
two birds. Gwynplaine waited on Dea, cut her bread, poured out her drink,
approached her too close.
"Hum!"
cried Ursus, and he turned away, his scolding melting into a smile.
The wolf supped u= nder the table, heedless of everything which did actually not concern his bone.<= o:p>
Fibi and Vinos sh=
ared
the repast, but gave little trouble. These vagabonds, half wild and as unco=
uth
as ever, spoke in the gipsy language to each other.
At length Dea
re-entered the women's apartment with Fibi and Vinos. Ursus chained up Homo
under the Green Box; Gwynplaine looked after the horses, the lover becoming=
a
groom, like a hero of Homer's or a paladin of Charlemagne's. At midnight, a=
ll
were asleep, except the wolf, who, alive to his responsibility, now and then
opened an eye. The next morning they met again. They breakfasted together,
generally on ham and tea. Tea was introduced into England in 1678. Then Dea=
, after
the Spanish fashion, took a siesta, acting on the advice of Ursus, who cons=
idered
her delicate, and slept some hours, while Gwynplaine and Ursus did all the
little jobs of work, without and within, which their wandering life made
necessary. Gwynplaine rarely wandered away from the Green Box, except on
unfrequented roads and in solitary places. In cities he went out only at ni=
ght,
disguised in a large, slouched hat, so as not to exhibit his face in the
street.
His face was to be
seen uncovered only on the stage.
The Green Box had
frequented cities but little. Gwynplaine at twenty-four had never seen towns
larger than the Cinque Ports. His renown, however, was increasing. It began=
to
rise above the populace, and to percolate through higher ground. Amongst th=
ose
who were fond of, and ran after, strange foreign curiosities and prodigies,=
it
was known that there was somewhere in existence, leading a wandering life, =
now here,
now there, an extraordinary monster. They talked about him, they sought him,
they asked where he was. The laughing man was becoming decidedly famous. A
certain lustre was reflected on "Chaos Vanquished."
So much so, that,=
one
day, Ursus, being ambitious, said,--
"We must go =
to
London."
BOOK THE THIRD =3D THE BEGINNING OF THE FISSURE.=
span>
CHAPTER I - THE TADCASTER INN.
At that period London had but one
bridge--London Bridge, with houses built upon it. This bridge united London=
to
Southwark, a suburb which was paved with flint pebbles taken from the Thame=
s,
divided into small streets and alleys, like the City, with a great number of
buildings, houses, dwellings, and wooden huts jammed together, a pell-mell
mixture of combustible matter, amidst which fire might take its pleasure, a=
s 1666
had proved. Southwark was then pronounced Soudric, it is now pronounced
Sousouorc, or near it; indeed, an excellent way of pronouncing English name=
s is
not to pronounce them. Thus, for Southampton, say Stpntn.
It was the time w=
hen
"Chatham" was pronounced je t'aime.
The Southwark of
those days resembles the Southwark of to-day about as much as Vaugirard
resembles Marseilles. It was a village--it is a city. Nevertheless, a
considerable trade was carried on there. The long old Cyclopean wall by the
Thames was studded with rings, to which were anchored the river barges.
This wall was cal=
led
the Effroc Wall, or Effroc Stone. York, in Saxon times, was called Effroc. =
The
legend related that a Duke of Effroc had been drowned at the foot of the wa=
ll.
Certainly the water there was deep enough to drown a duke. At low water it =
was
six good fathoms. The excellence of this little anchorage attracted sea
vessels, and the old Dutch tub, called the Vograat, came to anchor at the
Effroc Stone. The Vograat made the crossing from London to Rotterdam, and f=
rom
Rotterdam to London, punctually once a week. Other barges started twice a d=
ay, either
for Deptford, Greenwich, or Gravesend, going down with one tide and returni=
ng
with the next. The voyage to Gravesend, though twenty miles, was performed =
in
six hours.
The Vograat was o=
f a
model now no longer to be seen, except in naval museums. It was almost a ju=
nk.
At that time, while France copied Greece, Holland copied China. The Vograat=
, a
heavy hull with two masts, was partitioned perpendicularly, so as to be
water-tight, having a narrow hold in the middle, and two decks, one fore and
the other aft. The decks were flush as in the iron turret-vessels of the
present day, the advantage of which is that in foul weather, the force of t=
he
wave is diminished, and the inconvenience of which is that the crew is expo=
sed to
the action of the sea, owing to there being no bulwarks. There was nothing =
to
save any one on board from falling over. Hence the frequent falls overboard=
and
the losses of men, which have caused the model to fall into disuse. The Vog=
raat
went to Holland direct, and did not even call at Gravesend.
An old ridge of
stones, rock as much as masonry, ran along the bottom of the Effroc Stone, =
and
being passable at all tides, was used as a passage on board the ships moore=
d to
the wall. This wall was, at intervals, furnished with steps. It marked the
southern point of Southwark. An embankment at the top allowed the passers-b=
y to
rest their elbows on the Effroc Stone, as on the parapet of a quay. Thence =
they
could look down on the Thames; on the other side of the water London dwindl=
ed
away into fields.
Up the river from=
the
Effroc Stone, at the bend of the Thames which is nearly opposite St. James's
Palace, behind Lambeth House, not far from the walk then called Foxhall
(Vauxhall, probably), there was, between a pottery in which they made
porcelain, and a glass-blower's, where they made ornamental bottles, one of
those large unenclosed spaces covered with grass, called formerly in France
cultures and mails, and in England bowling-greens. Of bowling-green, a gree=
n on
which to roll a ball, the French have made boulingrin. Folks have this green
inside their houses nowadays, only it is put on the table, is a cloth inste=
ad of
turf, and is called billiards.
It is difficult to
see why, having boulevard (boule-vert), which is the same word as
bowling-green, the French should have adopted boulingrin. It is surprising =
that
a person so grave as the Dictionary should indulge in useless luxuries.
The bowling-green=
of
Southwark was called Tarrinzeau Field, because it had belonged to the Barons
Hastings, who are also Barons Tarrinzeau and Mauchline. From the Lords Hast=
ings
the Tarrinzeau Field passed to the Lords Tadcaster, who had made a speculat=
ion
of it, just as, at a later date, a Duke of Orleans made a speculation of the
Palais Royal. Tarrinzeau Field afterwards became waste ground and parochial
property.
Tarrinzeau Field =
was
a kind of permanent fair ground covered with jugglers, athletes, mountebank=
s,
and music on platforms; and always full of "fools going to look at the
devil," as Archbishop Sharp said. To look at the devil means to go to =
the
play.
Several inns, whi=
ch
harboured the public and sent them to these outlandish exhibitions, were
established in this place, which kept holiday all the year round, and there=
by
prospered. These inns were simply stalls, inhabited only during the day. In=
the
evening the tavern-keeper put into his pocket the key of the tavern and went
away.
One only of these
inns was a house, the only dwelling in the whole bowling-green, the caravan=
s of
the fair ground having the power of disappearing at any moment, considering=
the
absence of any ties in the vagabond life of all mountebanks.
Mountebanks have =
no
roots to their lives.
This inn, called =
the
Tadcaster, after the former owners of the ground, was an inn rather than a
tavern, an hotel rather than an inn, and had a carriage entrance and a large
yard.
The carriage
entrance, opening from the court on the field, was the legitimate door of t=
he
Tadcaster Inn, which had, beside it, a small bastard door, by which people
entered. To call it bastard is to mean preferred. This lower door was the o=
nly
one used, It opened into the tavern, properly so called, which was a large
taproom, full of tobacco smoke, furnished with tables, and low in the ceili=
ng.
Over it was a window on the first floor, to the iron bars of which was fast=
ened
and hung the sign of the inn. The principal door was barred and bolted, and=
always
remained closed.
It was thus neces=
sary
to cross the tavern to enter the courtyard.
At the Tadcaster =
Inn
there was a landlord and a boy. The landlord was called Master Nicless, the=
boy
Govicum. Master Nicless--Nicholas, doubtless, which the English habit of
contraction had made Nicless, was a miserly widower, and one who respected =
and
feared the laws. As to his appearance, he had bushy eyebrows and hairy hand=
s.
The boy, aged fourteen, who poured out drink, and answered to the name of
Govicum, wore a merry face and an apron. His hair was cropped close, a sign=
of servitude.
He slept on the
ground floor, in a nook in which they formerly kept a dog. This nook had for
window a bull's-eye looking on the bowling-green.
CHAPT=
ER II
- OPEN-AIR ELOQUENCE.
One very cold and windy evening, on=
which
there was every reason why folks should hasten on their way along the stree=
t, a
man, who was walking in Tarrinzeau Field close under the walls of the taver=
n,
stopped suddenly. It was during the last months of winter between 1704 and
1705. This man, whose dress indicated a sailor, was of good mien and fine f=
igure,
things imperative to courtiers, and not forbidden to common folk.
Why did he stop? =
To
listen. What to? To a voice apparently speaking in the court on the other s=
ide
of the wall, a voice a little weakened by age, but so powerful notwithstand=
ing
that it reached the passer-by in the street. At the same time might be hear=
d in
the enclosure, from which the voice came, the hubbub of a crowd.
This voice said,-=
-
"Men and wom=
en
of London, here I am! I cordially wish you joy of being English. You are a
great people. I say more: you are a great populace. Your fisticuffs are even
better than your sword thrusts. You have an appetite. You are the nation wh=
ich
eats other nations--a magnificent function! This suction of the world makes
England preeminent. As politicians and philosophers, in the management of
colonies, populations, and industry, and in the desire to do others any harm
which may turn to your own good, you stand alone. The hour will come when t=
wo boards
will be put up on earth--inscribed on one side, Men; on the other, Englishm=
en.
I mention this to your glory, I, who am neither English nor human, having t=
he
honour to be a bear. Still more--I am a doctor. That follows. Gentlemen, I
teach. What? Two kinds of things--things which I know, and things which I do
not. I sell my drugs and I sell my ideas. Approach and listen. Science invi=
tes
you. Open your ear; if it is small, it will hold but little truth; if large=
, a
great deal of folly will find its way in. Now, then, attention! I teach the=
Pseudoxia
Epidemica. I have a comrade who will make you laugh, but I can make you thi=
nk.
We live in the same box, laughter being of quite as old a family as thought.
When people asked Democritus, 'How do you know?' he answered, 'I laugh.' An=
d if
I am asked, 'Why do you laugh?' I shall answer, 'I know.' However, I am not
laughing. I am the rectifier of popular errors. I take upon myself the task=
of
cleaning your intellects. They require it. Heaven permits people to deceive
themselves, and to be deceived. It is useless to be absurdly modest. I fran=
kly
avow that I believe in Providence, even where it is wrong. Only when I see =
filth--errors
are filth--I sweep them away. How am I sure of what I know? That concerns o=
nly
myself. Every one catches wisdom as he can. Lactantius asked questions of, =
and
received answers from, a bronze head of Virgil. Sylvester II. conversed with
birds. Did the birds speak? Did the Pope twitter? That is a question. The d=
ead
child of the Rabbi Elcazer talked to Saint Augustine. Between ourselves, I
doubt all these facts except the last. The dead child might perhaps talk,
because under its tongue it had a gold plate, on which were engraved divers=
constellations.
Thus he deceived people. The fact explains itself. You see my moderation. I
separate the true from the false. See! here are other errors in which, no
doubt, you partake, poor ignorant folks that you are, and from which I wish=
to
free you. Dioscorides believed that there was a god in the henbane; Chrysip=
pus
in the cynopaste; Josephus in the root bauras; Homer in the plant moly. They
were all wrong. The spirits in herbs are not gods but devils. I have tested
this fact. It is not true that the serpent which tempted Eve had a human fa=
ce,
as Cadmus relates. Garcias de Horto, Cadamosto, and John Hugo, Archbishop o=
f Treves,
deny that it is sufficient to saw down a tree to catch an elephant. I incli=
ne
to their opinion. Citizens, the efforts of Lucifer are the cause of all fal=
se
impressions. Under the reign of such a prince it is natural that meteors of
error and of perdition should arise. My friends, Claudius Pulcher did not d=
ie
because the fowls refused to come out of the fowl house. The fact is, that
Lucifer, having foreseen the death of Claudius Pulcher, took care to prevent
the birds feeding. That Beelzebub gave the Emperor Vespasian the virtue of
curing the lame and giving sight to the blind, by his touch, was an act
praiseworthy in itself, but of which the motive was culpable. Gentlemen,
distrust those false doctors, who sell the root of the bryony and the white
snake, and who make washes with honey and the blood of a cock. See clearly
through that which is false. It is not quite true that Orion was the result=
of
a natural function of Jupiter. The truth is that it was Mercury who produced
this star in that way. It is not true that Adam had a navel. When St. George
killed the dragon he had not the daughter of a saint standing by his side. =
St.
Jerome had not a clock on the chimney-piece of his study; first, because li=
ving
in a cave, he had no study; secondly, because he had no chimney-piece; thir=
dly,
because clocks were not yet invented. Let us put these things right. Put th=
em
right. O gentlefolks, who listen to me, if any one tells you that a lizard =
will
be born in your head if you smell the herb valerian; that the rotting carca=
se
of the ox changes into bees, and that of the horse into hornets; that a man=
weighs
more when dead than when alive; that the blood of the he-goat dissolves
emeralds; that a caterpillar, a fly, and a spider, seen on the same tree,
announces famine, war, and pestilence; that the falling sickness is to be c=
ured
by a worm found in the head of a buck--do not believe him. These things are
errors. But now listen to truths. The skin of a sea-calf is a safeguard aga=
inst
thunder. The toad feeds upon earth, which causes a stone to come into his h=
ead.
The rose of Jericho blooms on Christmas Eve. Serpents cannot endure the sha=
dow
of the ash tree. The elephant has no joints, and sleeps resting upright aga=
inst
a tree. Make a toad sit upon a cock's egg, and he will hatch a scorpion whi=
ch
will become a salamander. A blind person will recover sight by putting one =
hand
on the left side of the altar and the other on his eyes. Virginity does not
hinder maternity. Honest people, lay these truths to heart. Above all, you =
can
believe in Providence in either of two ways, either as thirst believes in t=
he
orange, or as the ass believes in the whip. Now I am going to introduce you=
to
my family."
Here a violent gu=
st
of wind shook the window-frames and shutters of the inn, which stood detach=
ed.
It was like a prolonged murmur of the sky. The orator paused a moment, and =
then
resumed.
"An
interruption; very good. Speak, north wind. Gentlemen, I am not angry. The =
wind
is loquacious, like all solitary creatures. There is no one to keep him com=
pany
up there, so he jabbers. I resume the thread of my discourse. Here you see
associated artists. We are four--a lupo principium. I begin by my friend, w=
ho
is a wolf. He does not conceal it. See him! He is educated, grave, and
sagacious. Providence, perhaps, entertained for a moment the idea of making=
him
a doctor of the university; but for that one must be rather stupid, and tha=
t he
is not. I may add that he has no prejudices, and is not aristocratic. He ch=
ats sometimes
with bitches; he who, by right, should consort only with she-wolves. His he=
irs,
if he have any, will no doubt gracefully combine the yap of their mother wi=
th
the howl of their father. Because he does howl. He howls in sympathy with m=
en.
He barks as well, in condescension to civilization--a magnanimous concessio=
n.
Homo is a dog made perfect. Let us venerate the dog. The dog--curious anima=
l!
sweats with its tongue and smiles with its tail. Gentlemen, Homo equals in
wisdom, and surpasses in cordiality, the hairless wolf of Mexico, the wonde=
rful
xoloïtzeniski. I may add that he is humble. He has the modesty of a wo=
lf who
is useful to men. He is helpful and charitable, and says nothing about it. =
His
left paw knows not the good which his right paw does. These are his merits.=
Of
the other, my second friend, I have but one word to say. He is a monster. Y=
ou
will admire him. He was formerly abandoned by pirates on the shores of the =
wild
ocean. This third one is blind. Is she an exception? No, we are all blind. =
The
miser is blind; he sees gold, and he does not see riches. The prodigal is
blind; he sees the beginning, and does not see the end. The coquette is bli=
nd;
she does not see her wrinkles. The learned man is blind; he does not see his
own ignorance. The honest man is blind; he does not see the thief. The thie=
f is
blind; he does not see God. God is blind; the day that he created the world=
He
did not see the devil manage to creep into it. I myself am blind; I speak, =
and
do not see that you are deaf. This blind girl who accompanies us is a
mysterious priestess. Vesta has confided to her her torch. She has in her
character depths as soft as a division in the wool of a sheep. I believe he=
r to
be a king's daughter, though I do not assert it as a fact. A laudable distr=
ust
is the attribute of wisdom. For my own part, I reason and I doctor, I think=
and
I heal. Chirurgus sum. I cure fevers, miasmas, and plagues. Almost all our
melancholy and sufferings are issues, which if carefully treated relieve us
quietly from other evils which might be worse. All the same I do not recomm=
end you
to have an anthrax, otherwise called carbuncle. It is a stupid malady, and
serves no good end. One dies of it--that is all. I am neither uncultivated =
nor
rustic. I honour eloquence and poetry, and live in an innocent union with t=
hese
goddesses. I conclude by a piece of advice. Ladies and gentlemen, on the su=
nny
side of your dispositions, cultivate virtue, modesty, honesty, probity,
justice, and love. Each one here below may thus have his little pot of flow=
ers
on his window-sill. My lords and gentlemen, I have spoken. The play is abou=
t to
begin."
The man who was
apparently a sailor, and who had been listening outside, entered the lower =
room
of the inn, crossed it, paid the necessary entrance money, reached the
courtyard which was full of people, saw at the bottom of it a caravan on
wheels, wide open, and on the platform an old man dressed in a bearskin, a
young man looking like a mask, a blind girl, and a wolf.
"Gracious
heaven!" he cried, "what delightful people!"
CHAPTER III - WHERE THE PASSER-BY REAPPEARS.
The Green Box, as we have just seen=
, had
arrived in London. It was established at Southwark. Ursus had been tempted =
by
the bowling-green, which had one great recommendation, that it was always
fair-day there, even in winter.
The dome of St.
Paul's was a delight to Ursus.
London, take it a=
ll
in all, has some good in it. It was a brave thing to dedicate a cathedral to
St. Paul. The real cathedral saint is St. Peter. St. Paul is suspected of i=
magination,
and in matters ecclesiastical imagination means heresy. St. Paul is a saint
only with extenuating circumstances. He entered heaven only by the artists'
door.
A cathedral is a
sign. St. Peter is the sign of Rome, the city of the dogma; St. Paul that of
London, the city of schism.
Ursus, whose
philosophy had arms so long that it embraced everything, was a man who
appreciated these shades of difference, and his attraction towards London
arose, perhaps, from a certain taste of his for St. Paul.
The yard of the
Tadcaster Inn had taken the fancy of Ursus. It might have been ordered for =
the
Green Box. It was a theatre ready-made. It was square, with three sides bui=
lt
round, and a wall forming the fourth. Against this wall was placed the Green
Box, which they were able to draw into the yard, owing to the height of the
gate. A large wooden balcony, roofed over, and supported on posts, on which=
the
rooms of the first story opened, ran round the three fronts of the interior
façade of the house, making two right angles. The windows of the gro=
und
floor made boxes, the pavement of the court the pit, and the balcony the
gallery. The Green Box, reared against the wall, was thus in front of a
theatre. It was very like the Globe, where they played "Othello,"
"King Lear," and "The Tempest."
In a corner behind
the Green Box was a stable.
Ursus had made his
arrangements with the tavern keeper, Master Nicless, who, owing to his resp=
ect
for the law, would not admit the wolf without charging him extra.
The placard, &quo=
t;Gwynplaine,
the Laughing Man," taken from its nail in the Green Box, was hung up c=
lose
to the sign of the inn. The sitting-room of the tavern had, as we have seen=
, an
inside door which opened into the court. By the side of the door was
constructed off-hand, by means of an empty barrel, a box for the money-take=
r,
who was sometimes Fibi and sometimes Vinos. This was managed much as at
present. Pay and pass in. Under the placard announcing the Laughing Man was=
a
piece of wood, painted white, hung on two nails, on which was written in
charcoal in large letters the title of Ursus's grand piece, "Chaos
Vanquished."
In the centre of =
the
balcony, precisely opposite the Green Box, and in a compartment having for
entrance a window reaching to the ground, there had been partitioned off a
space "for the nobility." It was large enough to hold, in two row=
s,
ten spectators.
"We are in
London," said Ursus. "We must be prepared for the gentry."
He had furnished =
this
box with the best chairs in the inn, and had placed in the centre a grand
arm-chair of yellow Utrecht velvet, with a cherry-coloured pattern, in case
some alderman's wife should come.
They began their
performances. The crowd immediately flocked to them, but the compartment for
the nobility remained empty. With that exception their success became so gr=
eat
that no mountebank memory could recall its parallel. All Southwark ran in
crowds to admire the Laughing Man.
The merry-andrews=
and
mountebanks of Tarrinzeau Field were aghast at Gwynplaine. The effect he ca=
used
was as that of a sparrow-hawk flapping his wings in a cage of goldfinches, =
and
feeding in their seed-trough. Gwynplaine ate up their public.
Besides the small
fry, the swallowers of swords and the grimace makers, real performances took
place on the green. There was a circus of women, ringing from morning till
night with a magnificent peal of all sorts of instruments--psalteries, drum=
s,
rebecks, micamons, timbrels, reeds, dulcimers, gongs, chevrettes, bagpipes,
German horns, English eschaqueils, pipes, flutes, and flageolets.
In a large round =
tent
were some tumblers, who could not have equalled our present climbers of the
Pyrenees--Dulma, Bordenave, and Meylonga--who from the peak of Pierrefitte
descend to the plateau of Limaçon, an almost perpendicular height. T=
here
was a travelling menagerie, where was to be seen a performing tiger, who,
lashed by the keeper, snapped at the whip and tried to swallow the lash. Ev=
en
this comedian of jaws and claws was eclipsed in success.
Curiosity, applau=
se,
receipts, crowds, the Laughing Man monopolized everything. It happened in t=
he
twinkling of an eye. Nothing was thought of but the Green Box.
"'Chaos
Vanquished' is 'Chaos Victor,'" said Ursus, appropriating half Gwynpla=
ine's
success, and taking the wind out of his sails, as they say at sea. That suc=
cess
was prodigious. Still it remained local. Fame does not cross the sea easily=
. It
took a hundred and thirty years for the name of Shakespeare to penetrate fr=
om
England into France. The sea is a wall; and if Voltaire--a thing which he v=
ery
much regretted when it was too late--had not thrown a bridge over to
Shakespeare, Shakespeare might still be in England, on the other side of the
wall, a captive in insular glory.
The glory of
Gwynplaine had not passed London Bridge. It was not great enough yet to re-=
echo
throughout the city. At least not at first. But Southwark ought to have
sufficed to satisfy the ambition of a clown. Ursus said,--
"The money b=
ag
grows palpably bigger."
They played
"Ursus Rursus" and "Chaos Vanquished."
Between the acts
Ursus exhibited his power as an engastrimist, and executed marvels of
ventriloquism. He imitated every cry which occurred in the audience--a song=
, a
cry, enough to startle, so exact the imitation, the singer or the crier
himself; and now and then he copied the hubbub of the public, and whistled =
as
if there were a crowd of people within him. These were remarkable talents.
Besides this he harangued like Cicero, as we have just seen, sold his drugs,
attended sickness, and even healed the sick.
Southwark was
enthralled.
Ursus was satisfi=
ed
with the applause of Southwark, but by no means astonished.
"They are the
ancient Trinobantes," he said.
Then he added,
"I must not mistake them, for delicacy of taste, for the Atrobates, who
people Berkshire, or the Belgians, who inhabited Somersetshire, nor for the
Parisians, who founded York."
At every performa=
nce
the yard of the inn, transformed into a pit, was filled with a ragged and
enthusiastic audience. It was composed of watermen, chairmen, coachmen, and
bargemen, and sailors, just ashore, spending their wages in feasting and wo=
men.
In it there were felons, ruffians, and blackguards, who were soldiers conde=
mned
for some crime against discipline to wear their red coats, which were lined
with black, inside out, and from thence the name of blackguard, which the
French turn into blagueurs. All these flowed from the street into the theat=
re,
and poured back from the theatre into the tap. The emptying of tankards did=
not
decrease their success.
Amidst what it is
usual to call the scum, there was one taller than the rest, bigger, stronge=
r,
less poverty-stricken, broader in the shoulders; dressed like the common
people, but not ragged.
Admiring and
applauding everything to the skies, clearing his way with his fists, wearin=
g a
disordered periwig, swearing, shouting, joking, never dirty, and, at need,
ready to blacken an eye or pay for a bottle.
This frequenter w=
as
the passer-by whose cheer of enthusiasm has been recorded.
This connoisseur =
was
suddenly fascinated, and had adopted the Laughing Man. He did not come every
evening, but when he came he led the public--applause grew into
acclamation--success rose not to the roof, for there was none, but to the
clouds, for there were plenty of them. Which clouds (seeing that there was =
no
roof) sometimes wept over the masterpiece of Ursus.
His enthusiasm ca=
used
Ursus to remark this man, and Gwynplaine to observe him.
They had a great
friend in this unknown visitor.
Ursus and Gwynpla=
ine
wanted to know him; at least, to know who he was.
One evening Ursus=
was
in the side scene, which was the kitchen-door of the Green Box, seeing Mast=
er
Nicless standing by him, showed him this man in the crowd, and asked him,--=
"Do you know
that man?"
"Of course I
do."
"Who is he?&=
quot;
"A sailor.&q=
uot;
"What is his
name?" said Gwynplaine, interrupting.
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k,"
replied the inn-keeper.
Then as he
redescended the steps at the back of the Green Box, to enter the inn, Master
Nicless let fall this profound reflection, so deep as to be unintelligible,=
--
"What a pity
that he should not be a lord. He would make a famous scoundrel."
Otherwise, althou=
gh
established in the tavern, the group in the Green Box had in no way altered
their manner of living, and held to their isolated habits. Except a few wor=
ds
exchanged now and then with the tavern-keeper, they held no communication w=
ith
any of those who were living, either permanently or temporarily, in the inn;
and continued to keep to themselves.
Since they had be=
en
at Southwark, Gwynplaine had made it his habit, after the performance and t=
he
supper of both family and horses--when Ursus and Dea had gone to bed in the=
ir
respective compartments--to breathe a little the fresh air of the
bowling-green, between eleven o'clock and midnight.
A certain vagranc=
y in
our spirits impels us to take walks at night, and to saunter under the star=
s.
There is a mysterious expectation in youth. Therefore it is that we are pro=
ne
to wander out in the night, without an object.
At that hour there
was no one in the fair-ground, except, perhaps, some reeling drunkard, maki=
ng
staggering shadows in dark corners. The empty taverns were shut up, and the
lower room in the Tadcaster Inn was dark, except where, in some corner, a
solitary candle lighted a last reveller. An indistinct glow gleamed through=
the
window-shutters of the half-closed tavern, as Gwynplaine, pensive, content,=
and
dreaming, happy in a haze of divine joy, passed backwards and forwards in f=
ront
of the half-open door.
Of what was he
thinking? Of Dea--of nothing--of everything--of the depths.
He never wandered=
far
from the Green Box, being held, as by a thread, to Dea. A few steps away fr=
om
it was far enough for him.
Then he returned,
found the whole Green Box asleep, and went to bed himself.
CHAPTER IV - CONTRARIES FRATERNIZE IN HATE.=
Success is hateful, especially to t=
hose
whom it overthrows. It is rare that the eaten adore the eaters.
The Laughing Man =
had
decidedly made a hit. The mountebanks around were indignant. A theatrical
success is a syphon--it pumps in the crowd and creates emptiness all round.=
The
shop opposite is done for. The increased receipts of the Green Box caused a
corresponding decrease in the receipts of the surrounding shows. Those
entertainments, popular up to that time, suddenly collapsed. It was like a
low-water mark, showing inversely, but in perfect concordance, the rise her=
e,
the fall there. Theatres experience the effect of tides: they rise in one o=
nly
on condition of falling in another. The swarming foreigners who exhibited t=
heir
talents and their trumpetings on the neighbouring platforms, seeing themsel=
ves
ruined by the Laughing Man, were despairing, yet dazzled. All the grimacers,
all the clowns, all the merry-andrews envied Gwynplaine. How happy he must =
be
with the snout of a wild beast! The buffoon mothers and dancers on the
tight-rope, with pretty children, looked at them in anger, and pointing out
Gwynplaine, would say, "What a pity you have not a face like that!&quo=
t;
Some beat their babes savagely for being pretty. More than one, had she kno=
wn
the secret, would have fashioned her son's face in the Gwynplaine style. The
head of an angel, which brings no money in, is not as good as that of a
lucrative devil. One day the mother of a little child who was a marvel of
beauty, and who acted a cupid, exclaimed,--
"Our children
are failures! They only succeeded with Gwynplaine." And shaking her fi=
st
at her son, she added, "If I only knew your father, wouldn't he catch
it!"
Gwynplaine was the
goose with the golden eggs! What a marvellous phenomenon! There was an upro=
ar
through all the caravans. The mountebanks, enthusiastic and exasperated, lo=
oked
at Gwynplaine and gnashed their teeth. Admiring anger is called envy. Then =
it
howls! They tried to disturb "Chaos Vanquished;" made a cabal,
hissed, scolded, shouted! This was an excuse for Ursus to make out-of-door
harangues to the populace, and for his friend Tom-Jim-Jack to use his fists=
to re-establish
order. His pugilistic marks of friendship brought him still more under the
notice and regard of Ursus and Gwynplaine. At a distance, however, for the
group in the Green Box sufficed to themselves, and held aloof from the rest=
of
the world, and because Tom-Jim-Jack, this leader of the mob, seemed a sort =
of
supreme bully, without a tie, without a friend; a smasher of windows, a man=
ager
of men, now here, now gone, hail-fellow-well-met with every one, companion =
of
none.
This raging envy
against Gwynplaine did not give in for a few friendly hits from Tom-Jim-Jac=
k.
The outcries having miscarried, the mountebanks of Tarrinzeau Field fell ba=
ck
on a petition. They addressed to the authorities. This is the usual course.
Against an unpleasant success we first try to stir up the crowd and then we
petition the magistrate.
With the
merry-andrews the reverends allied themselves. The Laughing Man had inflict=
ed a
blow on the preachers. There were empty places not only in the caravans, bu=
t in
the churches. The congregations in the churches of the five parishes in
Southwark had dwindled away. People left before the sermon to go to Gwynpla=
ine.
"Chaos Vanquished," the Green Box, the Laughing Man, all the
abominations of Baal, eclipsed the eloquence of the pulpit. The voice cryin=
g in
the desert, vox clamantis in deserto, is discontented, and is prone to call=
for
the aid of the authorities. The clergy of the five parishes complained to t=
he
Bishop of London, who complained to her Majesty.
The complaint of =
the
merry-andrews was based on religion. They declared it to be insulted. They
described Gwynplaine as a sorcerer, and Ursus as an atheist. The reverend
gentlemen invoked social order. Setting orthodoxy aside they took action on=
the
fact that Acts of Parliament were violated. It was clever. Because it was t=
he
period of Mr. Locke, who had died but six months previously--28th October,
1704--and when scepticism, which Bolingbroke had imbibed from Voltaire, was
taking root. Later on Wesley came and restored the Bible, as Loyola restore=
d the
papacy.
Thus the Green Box
was battered on both sides; by the merry-andrews, in the name of the
Pentateuch, and by chaplains in the name of the police. In the name of Heav=
en
and of the inspectors of nuisances. The Green Box was denounced by the prie=
sts
as an obstruction, and by the jugglers as sacrilegious.
Had they any pret=
ext?
Was there any excuse? Yes. What was the crime? This: there was the wolf. A =
dog
was allowable; a wolf forbidden. In England the wolf is an outlaw. England
admits the dog which barks, but not the dog which howls--a shade of differe=
nce
between the yard and the woods.
The rectors and
vicars of the five parishes of Southwark called attention in their petition=
s to
numerous parliamentary and royal statutes putting the wolf beyond the
protection of the law. They moved for something like the imprisonment of
Gwynplaine and the execution of the wolf, or at any rate for their banishme=
nt.
The question was one of public importance, the danger to persons passing, e=
tc.
And on this point, they appealed to the Faculty. They cited the opinion of =
the Eighty
physicians of London, a learned body which dates from Henry VIII., which ha=
s a
seal like that of the State, which can raise sick people to the dignity of
being amenable to their jurisdiction, which has the right to imprison those=
who
infringe its law and contravene its ordinances, and which, amongst other us=
eful
regulations for the health of the citizens, put beyond doubt this fact acqu=
ired
by science; that if a wolf sees a man first, the man becomes hoarse for lif=
e.
Besides, he may be bitten.
Homo, then, was a
pretext.
Ursus heard of th=
ese
designs through the inn-keeper. He was uneasy. He was afraid of two claws--=
the
police and the justices. To be afraid of the magistracy, it is sufficient t=
o be
afraid, there is no need to be guilty. Ursus had no desire for contact with
sheriffs, provosts, bailiffs, and coroners. His eagerness to make their
acquaintance amounted to nil. His curiosity to see the magistrates was abou=
t as
great as the hare's to see the greyhound.
He began to regret
that he had come to London. "'Better' is the enemy of 'good,'"
murmured he apart. "I thought the proverb was ill-considered. I was wr=
ong.
Stupid truths are true truths."
Against the coali=
tion
of powers--merry-andrews taking in hand the cause of religion, and chaplain=
s,
indignant in the name of medicine--the poor Green Box, suspected of sorcery=
in
Gwynplaine and of hydrophobia in Homo, had only one thing in its favour (bu=
t a
thing of great power in England), municipal inactivity. It is to the local
authorities letting things take their own course that Englishmen owe their
liberty. Liberty in England behaves very much as the sea around England. It=
is
a tide. Little by little manners surmount the law. A cruel system of
legislation drowned under the wave of custom; a savage code of laws still
visible through the transparency of universal liberty: such is England.
The Laughing Man,
"Chaos Vanquished," and Homo might have mountebanks, preachers,
bishops, the House of Commons, the House of Lords, her Majesty, London, and=
the
whole of England against them, and remain undisturbed so long as Southwark
permitted.
The Green Box was=
the
favourite amusement of the suburb, and the local authorities seemed disincl=
ined
to interfere. In England, indifference is protection. So long as the sherif=
f of
the county of Surrey, to the jurisdiction of which Southwark belongs, did n=
ot
move in the matter, Ursus breathed freely, and Homo could sleep on his wolf=
's
ears.
So long as the ha=
tred
which it excited did not occasion acts of violence, it increased success. T=
he
Green Box was none the worse for it, for the time. On the contrary, hints w=
ere
scattered that it contained something mysterious. Hence the Laughing Man be=
came
more and more popular. The public follow with gusto the scent of anything
contraband. To be suspected is a recommendation. The people adopt by instin=
ct
that at which the finger is pointed. The thing which is denounced is like t=
he savour
of forbidden fruit; we rush to eat it. Besides, applause which irritates so=
me
one, especially if that some one is in authority, is sweet. To perform, whi=
lst
passing a pleasant evening, both an act of kindness to the oppressed and of
opposition to the oppressor is agreeable. You are protecting at the same ti=
me
that you are being amused. So the theatrical caravans on the bowling-green =
continued
to howl and to cabal against the Laughing Man. Nothing could be better calc=
ulated
to enhance his success. The shouts of one's enemies are useful and give poi=
nt
and vitality to one's triumph. A friend wearies sooner in praise than an en=
emy
in abuse. To abuse does not hurt. Enemies are ignorant of this fact. They
cannot help insulting us, and this constitutes their use. They cannot hold
their tongues, and thus keep the public awake.
The crowds which
flocked to "Chaos Vanquished" increased daily.
Ursus kept what
Master Nicless had said of intriguers and complaints in high places to hims=
elf,
and did not tell Gwynplaine, lest it should trouble the ease of his acting =
by
creating anxiety. If evil was to come, he would be sure to know it soon eno=
ugh.
Once, however, he thought it his du=
ty to
derogate from this prudence, for prudence' sake, thinking that it might be =
well
to make Gwynplaine uneasy. It is true that this idea arose from a circumsta=
nce
much graver, in the opinion of Ursus, than the cabals of the fair or of the
church.
Gwynplaine, as he
picked up a farthing which had fallen when counting the receipts, had, in t=
he
presence of the innkeeper, drawn a contrast between the farthing, represent=
ing
the misery of the people, and the die, representing, under the figure of An=
ne,
the parasitical magnificence of the throne--an ill-sounding speech. This
observation was repeated by Master Nicless, and had such a run that it reac=
hed
to Ursus through Fibi and Vinos. It put Ursus into a fever. Seditious words,
lèse Majesté. He took Gwynplaine severely to task. "Watch
over your abominable jaws. There is a rule for the great--to do nothing; an=
d a rule
for the small--to say nothing. The poor man has but one friend, silence. He
should only pronounce one syllable: 'Yes.' To confess and to consent is all=
the
right he has. 'Yes,' to the judge; 'yes,' to the king. Great people, if it
pleases them to do so, beat us. I have received blows from them. It is their
prerogative; and they lose nothing of their greatness by breaking our bones.
The ossifrage is a species of eagle. Let us venerate the sceptre, which is =
the
first of staves. Respect is prudence, and mediocrity is safety. To insult t=
he
king is to put oneself in the same danger as a girl rashly paring the nails=
of
a lion. They tell me that you have been prattling about the farthing, which=
is
the same thing as the liard, and that you have found fault with the august
medallion, for which they sell us at market the eighth part of a salt herri=
ng.
Take care; let us be serious. Consider the existence of pains and penalties.
Suck in these legislative truths. You are in a country in which the man who
cuts down a tree three years old is quietly taken off to the gallows. As to
swearers, their feet are put into the stocks. The drunkard is shut up in a
barrel with the bottom out, so that he can walk, with a hole in the top,
through which his head is passed, and with two in the bung for his hands, so
that he cannot lie down. He who strikes another one in Westminster Hall is
imprisoned for life and has his goods confiscated. Whoever strikes any one =
in
the king's palace has his hand struck off. A fillip on the nose chances to
bleed, and, behold! you are maimed for life. He who is convicted of heresy =
in
the bishop's court is burnt alive. It was for no great matter that Cuthbert=
Simpson
was quartered on a turnstile. Three years since, in 1702, which is not long
ago, you see, they placed in the pillory a scoundrel, called Daniel Defoe, =
who
had had the audacity to print the names of the Members of Parliament who had
spoken on the previous evening. He who commits high treason is disembowelled
alive, and they tear out his heart and buffet his cheeks with it. Impress on
yourself notions of right and justice. Never allow yourself to speak a word,
and at the first cause of anxiety, run for it. Such is the bravery which I
counsel and which I practise. In the way of temerity, imitate the birds; in=
the
way of talking, imitate the fishes. England has one admirable point in her =
favour,
that her legislation is very mild."
His admonition ov=
er,
Ursus remained uneasy for some time. Gwynplaine not at all. The intrepidity=
of
youth arises from want of experience. However, it seemed that Gwynplaine had
good reason for his easy mind, for the weeks flowed on peacefully, and no b=
ad
consequences seemed to have resulted from his observations about the queen.=
Ursus, we know,
lacked apathy, and, like a roebuck on the watch, kept a lookout in every
direction. One day, a short time after his sermon to Gwynplaine, as he was
looking out from the window in the wall which commanded the field, he became
suddenly pale.
"Gwynplaine?=
"
"What?"=
"Look."=
"Where?"=
;
"In the
field."
"Well."=
"Do you see =
that
passer-by?"
"The man in
black?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Who has a k=
ind
of mace in his hand?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Well?"=
"Well,
Gwynplaine, that man is a wapentake."
"What is a
wapentake?"
"He is the
bailiff of the hundred."
"What is the
bailiff of the hundred?"
"He is the
proepositus hundredi."
"And what is=
the
proepositus hundredi?"
"He is a
terrible officer."
"What has he=
got
in his hand?"
"The iron
weapon."
"What is the
iron weapon?"
"A thing mad=
e of
iron."
"What does h=
e do
with that?"
"First of al=
l,
he swears upon it. It is for that reason that he is called the wapentake.&q=
uot;
"And then?&q=
uot;
"Then he tou=
ches
you with it."
"With
what?"
"With the ir=
on
weapon."
"The wapenta=
ke
touches you with the iron weapon?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"What does t=
hat
mean?"
"That means,
follow me."
"And must you
follow?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Whither?&qu=
ot;
"How should I
know?"
"But he tells
you where he is going to take you?"
"No."
"How is
that?"
"He says
nothing, and you say nothing."
"But--"=
"He touches =
you
with the iron weapon. All is over then. You must go."
"But
where?"
"After
him."
"But
where?"
"Wherever he
likes, Gwynplaine."
"And if you
resist?"
"You are
hanged."
Ursus looked out =
of
the window again, and drawing a long breath, said,--
"Thank God! =
He
has passed. He was not coming here."
Ursus was perhaps
unreasonably alarmed about the indiscreet remark, and the consequences like=
ly
to result from the unconsidered words of Gwynplaine.
Master Nicless, w=
ho
had heard them, had no interest in compromising the poor inhabitants of the
Green Box. He was amassing, at the same time as the Laughing Man, a nice li=
ttle
fortune. "Chaos Vanquished" had succeeded in two ways. While it m=
ade
art triumph on the stage, it made drunkenness prosper in the tavern.
CHAPTER VI - THE MOUSE EXAMINED BY THE CATS.
Ursus was soon afterwards startled =
by
another alarming circumstance. This time it was he himself who was concerne=
d.
He was summoned to Bishopsgate before a commission composed of three
disagreeable countenances. They belonged to three doctors, called overseers.
One was a Doctor of Theology, delegated by the Dean of Westminster; another=
, a Doctor
of Medicine, delegated by the College of Surgeons; the third, a Doctor in
History and Civil Law, delegated by Gresham College. These three experts in
omni re scibili had the censorship of everything said in public throughout =
the
bounds of the hundred and thirty parishes of London, the seventy-three of
Middlesex, and, by extension, the five of Southwark.
Such theological
jurisdictions still subsist in England, and do good service. In December, 1=
868,
by sentence of the Court of Arches, confirmed by the decision of the Privy
Council, the Reverend Mackonochie was censured, besides being condemned in
costs, for having placed lighted candles on a table. The liturgy allows no
jokes.
Ursus, then, one =
fine
day received from the delegated doctors an order to appear before them, whi=
ch
was, luckily, given into his own hands, and which he was therefore enabled =
to
keep secret. Without saying a word, he obeyed the citation, shuddering at t=
he
thought that he might be considered culpable to the extent of having the
appearance of being suspected of a certain amount of rashness. He who had so
recommended silence to others had here a rough lesson. Garrule, sana te ips=
um.
The three doctors,
delegated and appointed overseers, sat at Bishopsgate, at the end of a room=
on
the ground floor, in three armchairs covered with black leather, with three
busts of Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamanthus, in the wall above their head=
s, a
table before them, and at their feet a form for the accused.
Ursus, introduced=
by
a tipstaff, of placid but severe expression, entered, perceived the doctors,
and immediately in his own mind, gave to each of them the name of the judge=
of
the infernal regions represented by the bust placed above his head. Minos, =
the
president, the representative of theology, made him a sign to sit down on t=
he
form.
Ursus made a prop=
er
bow--that is to say, bowed to the ground; and knowing that bears are charme=
d by
honey, and doctors by Latin, he said, keeping his body still bent
respectfully,--
"Tres faciunt
capitulum!"
Then, with head
inclined (for modesty disarms) he sat down on the form.
Each of the three
doctors had before him a bundle of papers, of which he was turning the leav=
es.
Minos began.
"You speak in
public?"
"Yes,"
replied Ursus.
"By what
right?"
"I am a
philosopher."
"That gives =
no
right."
"I am also a
mountebank," said Ursus.
"That is a
different thing."
Ursus breathed ag=
ain,
but with humility.
Minos resumed,--<= o:p>
"As a
mountebank, you may speak; as a philosopher, you must keep silence."
"I will
try," said Ursus.
Then he thought to
himself.
"I may speak,
but I must be silent. How complicated."
He was much alarm=
ed.
The same overseer
continued,--
"You say thi=
ngs
which do not sound right. You insult religion. You deny the most evident
truths. You propagate revolting errors. For instance, you have said that the
fact of virginity excludes the possibility of maternity."
Ursus lifted his =
eyes
meekly, "I did not say that. I said that the fact of maternity excludes
the possibility of virginity."
Minos was thought=
ful,
and mumbled, "True, that is the contrary."
It was really the
same thing. But Ursus had parried the first blow.
Minos, meditating=
on
the answer just given by Ursus, sank into the depths of his own imbecility,=
and
kept silent.
The overseer of
history, or, as Ursus called him, Rhadamanthus, covered the retreat of Mino=
s by
this interpolation, "Accused! your audacity and your errors are of two
sorts. You have denied that the battle of Pharsalia would have been lost be=
cause
Brutus and Cassius had met a negro."
"I said,&quo=
t;
murmured Ursus "that there was something in the fact that Cæsar =
was
the better captain."
The man of history
passed, without transition, to mythology.
"You have
excused the infamous acts of Actæon."
"I think,&qu=
ot;
said Ursus, insinuatingly, "that a man is not dishonoured by having se=
en a
naked woman."
"Then you are
wrong," said the judge severely. Rhadamanthus returned to history.
"Apropos of =
the
accidents which happened to the cavalry of Mithridates, you have contested =
the
virtues of herbs and plants. You have denied that a herb like the securiduc=
a,
could make the shoes of horses fall off."
"Pardon
me," replied Ursus. "I said that the power existed only in the he=
rb
sferra cavallo. I never denied the virtue of any herb," and he added, =
in a
low voice, "nor of any woman."
By this extraneous
addition to his answer Ursus proved to himself that, anxious as he was, he =
was
not disheartened. Ursus was a compound of terror and presence of mind.
"To
continue," resumed Rhadamanthus; "you have declared that it was f=
olly
in Scipio, when he wished to open the gates of Carthage, to use as a key the
herb æthiopis, because the herb æthiopis has not the property of
breaking locks."
"I merely sa=
id
that he would have done better to have used the herb lunaria."
"That is a
matter of opinion," murmured Rhadamanthus, touched in his turn. And the
man of history was silent.
The theologian,
Minos, having returned to consciousness, questioned Ursus anew. He had had =
time
to consult his notes.
"You have
classed orpiment amongst the products of arsenic, and you have said that it=
is
a poison. The Bible denies this."
"The Bible
denies, but arsenic affirms it," sighed Ursus.
The man whom Ursus
called Æacus, and who was the envy of medicine, had not yet spoken, b=
ut
now looking down on Ursus, with proudly half-closed eyes, he said,--
"The answer =
is
not without some show of reason."
Ursus thanked him
with his most cringing smile. Minos frowned frightfully. "I resume,&qu=
ot;
said Minos. "You have said that it is false that the basilisk is the k=
ing
of serpents, under the name of cockatrice."
"Very revere=
nd
sir," said Ursus, "so little did I desire to insult the basilisk =
that
I have given out as certain that it has a man's head."
"Be it so,&q=
uot;
replied Minos severely; "but you added that Poerius had seen one with =
the
head of a falcon. Can you prove it?"
"Not
easily," said Ursus.
Here he had lost a
little ground.
Minos, seizing the
advantage, pushed it.
"You have sa=
id
that a converted Jew has not a nice smell."
"Yes. But I
added that a Christian who becomes a Jew has a nasty one."
Minos lost his ey=
es
over the accusing documents.
"You have
affirmed and propagated things which are impossible. You have said that Eli=
en
had seen an elephant write sentences."
"Nay, very
reverend gentleman! I simply said that Oppian had heard a hippopotamus disc=
uss
a philosophical problem."
"You have
declared that it is not true that a dish made of beech-wood will become cov=
ered
of itself with all the viands that one can desire."
"I said, tha=
t if
it has this virtue, it must be that you received it from the devil."
"That I rece=
ived
it!"
"No, most
reverend sir. I, nobody, everybody!"
Aside, Ursus thou=
ght,
"I don't know what I am saying."
But his outward
confusion, though extreme, was not distinctly visible. Ursus struggled with=
it.
"All this,&q=
uot;
Minos began again, "implies a certain belief in the devil."
Ursus held his ow=
n.
"Very revere=
nd
sir, I am not an unbeliever with regard to the devil. Belief in the devil i=
s the
reverse side of faith in God. The one proves the other. He who does not bel=
ieve
a little in the devil, does not believe much in God. He who believes in the=
sun
must believe in the shadow. The devil is the night of God. What is night? T=
he
proof of day."
Ursus here
extemporized a fathomless combination of philosophy and religion. Minos
remained pensive, and relapsed into silence.
Ursus breathed
afresh.
A sharp onslaught=
now
took place. Æacus, the medical delegate, who had disdainfully protect=
ed
Ursus against the theologian, now turned suddenly from auxiliary into
assailant. He placed his closed fist on his bundle of papers, which was lar=
ge
and heavy. Ursus received this apostrophe full in the breast,--
"It is proved
that crystal is sublimated ice, and that the diamond is sublimated crystal.=
It
is averred that ice becomes crystal in a thousand years, and crystal diamon=
d in
a thousand ages. You have denied this."
"Nay,"
replied Ursus, with sadness, "I only said that in a thousand years ice=
had
time to melt, and that a thousand ages were difficult to count."
The examination w=
ent
on; questions and answers clashed like swords.
"You have de=
nied
that plants can talk."
"Not at all.=
But
to do so they must grow under a gibbet."
"Do you own =
that
the mandragora cries?"
"No; but it
sings."
"You have de=
nied
that the fourth finger of the left hand has a cordial virtue."
"I only said
that to sneeze to the left was a bad sign."
"You have sp=
oken
rashly and disrespectfully of the phoenix."
"Learned jud=
ge,
I merely said that when he wrote that the brain of the phoenix was a delica=
te
morsel, but that it produced headache, Plutarch was a little out of his
reckoning, inasmuch as the phoenix never existed."
"A detestable
speech! The cinnamalker which makes its nest with sticks of cinnamon, the
rhintacus that Parysatis used in the manufacture of his poisons, the
manucodiatas which is the bird of paradise, and the semenda, which has a
threefold beak, have been mistaken for the phoenix; but the phoenix has
existed."
"I do not de=
ny
it."
"You are a
stupid ass."
"I desire to=
be
thought no better."
"You have
confessed that the elder tree cures the quinsy, but you added that it was n=
ot
because it has in its root a fairy excrescence."
"I said it w=
as
because Judas hung himself on an elder tree."
"A plausible
opinion," growled the theologian, glad to strike his little blow at
Æacus.
Arrogance repulsed
soon turns to anger. Æacus was enraged.
"Wandering
mountebank! you wander as much in mind as with your feet. Your tendencies a=
re
out of the way and suspicious. You approach the bounds of sorcery. You have
dealings with unknown animals. You speak to the populace of things that exi=
st
but for you alone, and the nature of which is unknown, such as the
hoemorrhoüs."
"The
hoemorrhoüs is a viper which was seen by Tremellius."
This repartee
produced a certain disorder in the irritated science of Doctor Æacus.=
Ursus added,
"The existence of the hoemorrhoüs is quite as true as that of the
odoriferous hyena, and of the civet described by Castellus."
Æacus got o=
ut
of the difficulty by charging home.
"Here are yo=
ur
own words, and very diabolical words they are. Listen."
With his eyes on =
his
notes, Æacus read,--
"Two plants,=
the
thalagssigle and the aglaphotis, are luminous in the evening, flowers by da=
y,
stars by night;" and looking steadily at Ursus, "What have you to=
say
to that?"
Ursus answered,--=
"Every plant=
is
a lamp. Its perfume is its light." Æacus turned over other pages=
.
"You have de=
nied
that the vesicles of the otter are equivalent to castoreum."
"I merely sa=
id
that perhaps it may be necessary to receive the teaching of Ætius on =
this
point with some reserve."
Æacus became
furious.
"You practise
medicine?"
"I practise
medicine," sighed Ursus timidly.
"On living
things?"
"Rather than=
on
dead ones," said Ursus.
Ursus defended
himself stoutly, but dully; an admirable mixture, in which meekness
predominated. He spoke with such gentleness that Doctor Æacus felt th=
at
he must insult him.
"What are you
murmuring there?" said he rudely.
Ursus was amazed,=
and
restricted himself to saying,--
"Murmurings =
are
for the young, and moans for the aged. Alas, I moan!"
Æacus
replied,--
"Be assured =
of
this--if you attend a sick person, and he dies, you will be punished by
death."
Ursus hazarded a
question.
"And if he g=
ets
well?"
"In that
case," said the doctor, softening his voice, "you will be punishe=
d by
death."
"There is li=
ttle
difference," said Ursus.
The doctor replie=
d,--
"If death
ensues, we punish gross ignorance; if recovery, we punish presumption. The
gibbet in either case."
"I was ignor=
ant
of the circumstance," murmured Ursus. "I thank you for teaching m=
e.
One does not know all the beauties of the law."
"Take care of
yourself."
"Religiously=
,"
said Ursus.
"We know wha=
t you
are about."
"As for
me," thought Ursus, "that is more than I always know myself."=
;
"We could se=
nd
you to prison."
"I see that
perfectly, gentlemen."
"You cannot =
deny
your infractions nor your encroachments."
"My philosop=
hy
asks pardon."
"Great audac=
ity
has been attributed to you."
"That is qui=
te a
mistake."
"It is said =
that
you have cured the sick."
"I am the vi=
ctim
of calumny."
The three pairs of
eyebrows which were so horribly fixed on Ursus contracted. The three wise f=
aces
drew near to each other, and whispered. Ursus had the vision of a vague foo=
l's
cap sketched out above those three empowered heads. The low and requisite
whispering of the trio was of some minutes' duration, during which time Urs=
us
felt all the ice and all the scorch of agony. At length Minos, who was
president, turned to him and said angrily,--
"Go away!&qu=
ot;
Ursus felt someth=
ing
like Jonas when he was leaving the belly of the whale.
Minos continued,-=
-
"You are
discharged."
Ursus said to
himself,--
"They won't
catch me at this again. Good-bye, medicine!"
And he added in h=
is
innermost heart,--
"From hencef=
orth
I will carefully allow them to die."
Bent double, he b=
owed
everywhere; to the doctors, to the busts, the tables, the walls, and retiri=
ng
backwards through the door, disappeared almost as a shadow melting into air=
.
He left the hall
slowly, like an innocent man, and rushed from the street rapidly, like a gu=
ilty
one. The officers of justice are so singular and obscure in their ways that
even when acquitted one flies from them.
As he fled he
mumbled,--
"I am well o=
ut
of it. I am the savant untamed; they the savants civilized. Doctors cavil at
the learned. False science is the excrement of the true, and is employed to=
the
destruction of philosophers. Philosophers, as they produce sophists, produce
their own scourge. Of the dung of the thrush is born the mistletoe, with wh=
ich
is made birdlime, with which the thrush is captured. Turdus sibi malum
cacat."
We do not represe=
nt
Ursus as a refined man. He was imprudent enough to use words which expressed
his thoughts. He had no more taste than Voltaire.
When Ursus return=
ed
to the Green Box, he told Master Nicless that he had been delayed by follow=
ing
a pretty woman, and let not a word escape him concerning his adventure.
Except in the eve=
ning
when he said in a low voice to Homo,--
"See here, I
have vanquished the three heads of Cerberus."
CHAPTER VII - WHY SHOULD A GOLD PIECE LOWER ITSELF BY MIX=
ING
WITH A HEAP OF PENNIES?
An event happened.
The Tadcaster Inn
became more and more a furnace of joy and laughter. Never was there more
resonant gaiety. The landlord and his boy were become insufficient to draw =
the
ale, stout, and porter. In the evening in the lower room, with its windows =
all
aglow, there was not a vacant table. They sang, they shouted; the great old
hearth, vaulted like an oven, with its iron bars piled with coals, shone out
brightly. It was like a house of fire and noise.
In the yard--that=
is
to say, in the theatre--the crowd was greater still.
Crowds as great as the suburb of Southwark could supply so thronged the performances of "Chaos Vanquished" that directly the curtain was raised--that is = to say, the platform of the Green Box was lowered--every place was filled. The windows were alive with spectators, the balcony was crammed. Not a single paving-stone in the paved yard was to be seen. It seemed paved with faces.<= o:p>
Only the compartm=
ent
for the nobility remained empty.
There was thus a
space in the centre of the balcony, a black hole, called in metaphorical sl=
ang,
an oven. No one there. Crowds everywhere except in that one spot.
One evening it was
occupied.
It was on a Satur=
day,
a day on which the English make all haste to amuse themselves before the en=
nui
of Sunday. The hall was full.
We say hall. Shak=
espeare
for a long time had to use the yard of an inn for a theatre, and he called =
it
hall.
Just as the curta=
in
rose on the prologue of "Chaos Vanquished," with Ursus, Homo, and
Gwynplaine on the stage, Ursus, from habit, cast a look at the audience, and
felt a sensation.
The compartment f=
or
the nobility was occupied. A lady was sitting alone in the middle of the bo=
x,
on the Utrecht velvet arm-chair. She was alone, and she filled the box. Cer=
tain
beings seem to give out light. This lady, like Dea, had a light in herself,=
but
a light of a different character.
Dea was pale, this
lady was pink. Dea was the twilight, this lady, Aurora. Dea was beautiful, =
this
lady was superb. Dea was innocence, candour, fairness, alabaster--this woman
was of the purple, and one felt that she did not fear the blush. Her
irradiation overflowed the box, she sat in the midst of it, immovable, in t=
he
spreading majesty of an idol.
Amidst the sordid
crowd she shone out grandly, as with the radiance of a carbuncle. She inund=
ated
it with so much light that she drowned it in shadow, and all the mean faces=
in
it underwent eclipse. Her splendour blotted out all else.
Every eye was tur=
ned
towards her.
Tom-Jim-Jack was =
in
the crowd. He was lost like the rest in the nimbus of this dazzling creatur=
e.
The lady at first
absorbed the whole attention of the public, who had crowded to the performa=
nce,
thus somewhat diminishing the opening effects of "Chaos Vanquished.&qu=
ot;
Whatever might be=
the
air of dreamland about her, for those who were near she was a woman; percha=
nce
too much a woman.
She was tall and
amply formed, and showed as much as possible of her magnificent person. She
wore heavy earrings of pearls, with which were mixed those whimsical jewels
called "keys of England." Her upper dress was of Indian muslin,
embroidered all over with gold--a great luxury, because those muslin dresses
then cost six hundred crowns. A large diamond brooch closed her chemise, the
which she wore so as to display her shoulders and bosom, in the immodest
fashion of the time; the chemisette was made of that lawn of which Anne of
Austria had sheets so fine that they could be passed through a ring. She wo=
re
what seemed like a cuirass of rubies--some uncut, but polished, and precious
stones were sewn all over the body of her dress. Then, her eyebrows were
blackened with Indian ink; and her arms, elbows, shoulders, chin, and nostr=
ils,
with the top of her eyelids, the lobes of her ears, the palms of her hands,=
the
tips of her fingers, were tinted with a glowing and provoking touch of colo=
ur.
Above all, she wore an expression of implacable determination to be beautif=
ul.
This reached the point of ferocity. She was like a panther, with the power =
of
turning cat at will, and caressing. One of her eyes was blue, the other bla=
ck.
Gwynplaine, as we=
ll
as Ursus, contemplated her.
The Green Box
somewhat resembled a phantasmagoria in its representations. "Chaos
Vanquished" was rather a dream than a piece; it generally produced on =
the
audience the effect of a vision. Now, this effect was reflected on the acto=
rs.
The house took the performers by surprise, and they were thunderstruck in t=
heir
turn. It was a rebound of fascination.
The woman watched
them, and they watched her.
At the distance at
which they were placed, and in that luminous mist which is the half-light o=
f a
theatre, details were lost and it was like a hallucination. Of course it wa=
s a
woman, but was it not a chimera as well? The penetration of her light into
their obscurity stupefied them. It was like the appearance of an unknown
planet. It came from a world of the happy. Her irradiation amplified her
figure. The lady was covered with nocturnal glitterings, like a milky way. =
Her
precious stones were stars. The diamond brooch was perhaps a pleiad. The
splendid beauty of her bosom seemed supernatural. They felt, as they looked
upon the star-like creature, the momentary but thrilling approach of the
regions of felicity. It was out of the heights of a Paradise that she leant=
towards
their mean-looking Green Box, and revealed to the gaze of its wretched audi=
ence
her expression of inexorable serenity. As she satisfied her unbounded
curiosity, she fed at the same time the curiosity of the public.
It was the Zenith
permitting the Abyss to look at it.
Ursus, Gwynplaine,
Vinos, Fibi, the crowd, every one had succumbed to her dazzling beauty, exc=
ept
Dea, ignorant in her darkness.
An apparition was
indeed before them; but none of the ideas usually evoked by the word were
realized in the lady's appearance.
There was nothing
about her diaphanous, nothing undecided, nothing floating, no mist. She was=
an
apparition; rose-coloured and fresh, and full of health. Yet, under the opt=
ical
condition in which Ursus and Gwynplaine were placed, she looked like a visi=
on.
There are fleshy phantoms, called vampires. Such a queen as she, though a
spirit to the crowd, consumes twelve hundred thousand a year, to keep her
health.
Behind the lady, =
in
the shadow, her page was to be perceived, el mozo, a little child-like man,
fair and pretty, with a serious face. A very young and very grave servant w=
as
the fashion at that period. This page was dressed from top to toe in scarlet
velvet, and had on his skull-cap, which was embroidered with gold, a bunch =
of
curled feathers. This was the sign of a high class of service, and indicated
attendance on a very great lady.
The lackey is par=
t of
the lord, and it was impossible not to remark, in the shadow of his mistres=
s,
the train-bearing page. Memory often takes notes unconsciously; and, without
Gwynplaine's suspecting it, the round cheeks, the serious mien, the embroid=
ered
and plumed cap of the lady's page left some trace on his mind. The page,
however, did nothing to call attention to himself. To do so is to be wantin=
g in
respect. He held himself aloof and passive at the back of the box, retiring=
as
far as the closed door permitted.
Notwithstanding t=
he
presence of her train-bearer, the lady was not the less alone in the
compartment, since a valet counts for nothing.
However powerful a
diversion had been produced by this person, who produced the effect of a
personage, the dénouement of "Chaos Vanquished" was more
powerful still. The impression which it made was, as usual, irresistible.
Perhaps, even, there occurred in the hall, on account of the radiant specta=
tor
(for sometimes the spectator is part of the spectacle), an increase of
electricity. The contagion of Gwynplaine's laugh was more triumphant than e=
ver.
The whole audience fell into an indescribable epilepsy of hilarity, through
which could be distinguished the sonorous and magisterial ha! ha! of
Tom-Jim-Jack.
Only the unknown =
lady
looked at the performance with the immobility of a statue, and with her eye=
s,
like those of a phantom, she laughed not. A spectre, but sun-born.
The performance o=
ver,
the platform drawn up, and the family reassembled in the Green Box, Ursus
opened and emptied on the supper-table the bag of receipts. From a heap of
pennies there slid suddenly forth a Spanish gold onza. "Hers!" cr=
ied
Ursus.
The onza amidst t=
he
pence covered with verdigris was a type of the lady amidst the crowd.
"She has pai=
d an
onza for her seat," cried Ursus with enthusiasm.
Just then, the
hotel-keeper entered the Green Box, and, passing his arm out of the window =
at
the back of it, opened the loophole in the wall of which we have already
spoken, which gave a view over the field, and which was level with the wind=
ow;
then he made a silent sign to Ursus to look out. A carriage, swarming with
plumed footmen carrying torches and magnificently appointed, was driving of=
f at
a fast trot.
Ursus took the pi=
ece
of gold between his forefinger and thumb respectfully, and, showing it to
Master Nicless, said,--
"She is a
goddess."
Then his eyes fal=
ling
on the carriage which was about to turn the corner of the field, and on the
imperial of which the footmen's torches lighted up a golden coronet, with e=
ight
strawberry leaves, he exclaimed,--
"She is more.
She is a duchess."
The carriage
disappeared: The rumbling of its wheels died away in the distance.
Ursus remained so=
me
moments in an ecstasy, holding the gold piece between his finger and thumb,=
as
in a monstrance, elevating it as the priest elevates the host.
Then he placed it= on the table, and, as he contemplated it, began to talk of "Madam."<= o:p>
The innkeeper
replied,--
"She was a
duchess." Yes. They knew her title. But her name? Of that they were
ignorant. Master Nicless had been close to the carriage, and seen the coat =
of
arms and the footmen covered with lace. The coachman had a wig on which mig=
ht
have belonged to a Lord Chancellor. The carriage was of that rare design
called, in Spain, cochetumbon, a splendid build, with a top like a tomb, wh=
ich
makes a magnificent support for a coronet. The page was a man in miniature,=
so
small that he could sit on the step of the carriage outside the door. The d=
uty
of those pretty creatures was to bear the trains of their mistresses. They =
also
bore their messages. And did you remark the plumed cap of the page? How gra=
nd
it was! You pay a fine if you wear those plumes without the right of doing =
so.
Master Nicless had seen the lady, too, quite close. A kind of queen. Such
wealth gives beauty. The skin is whiter, the eye more proud, the gait more
noble, and grace more insolent. Nothing can equal the elegant impertinence =
of
hands which never work. Master Nicless told the story of all the magnificen=
ce,
of the white skin with the blue veins, the neck, the shoulders, the arms, t=
he
touch of paint everywhere, the pearl earrings, the head-dress powdered with
gold; the profusion of stones, the rubies, the diamonds.
"Less brilli=
ant
than her eyes," murmured Ursus.
Gwynplaine said
nothing.
Dea listened.
"And do you
know," said the tavern-keeper, "the most wonderful thing of all?&=
quot;
"What?"
said Ursus.
"I saw her g=
et
into her carriage."
"What
then?"
"She did not=
get
in alone."
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
"Some one go=
t in
with her."
"Who?"<= o:p>
"Guess."=
;
"The king,&q=
uot;
said Ursus.
"In the first
place," said Master Nicless, "there is no king at present. We are=
not
living under a king. Guess who got into the carriage with the duchess."=
;
"Jupiter,&qu=
ot;
said Ursus.
The hotel-keeper
replied,--
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k!"
Gwynplaine, who h=
ad
not said a word, broke silence.
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k!"
he cried.
There was a pause=
of
astonishment, during which the low voice of Dea was heard to say,--
"Cannot this
woman be prevented coming."
CHAPTER VIII - SYMPTOMS OF POISONING.
The "apparition" did not
return. It did not reappear in the theatre, but it reappeared to the memory=
of
Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine was, to a certain degree, troubled. It seemed to him
that for the first time in his life he had seen a woman.
He made that first
stumble, a strange dream. We should beware of the nature of the reveries th=
at
fasten on us. Reverie has in it the mystery and subtlety of an odour. It is=
to
thought what perfume is to the tuberose. It is at times the exudation of a
venomous idea, and it penetrates like a vapour. You may poison yourself with
reveries, as with flowers. An intoxicating suicide, exquisite and malignant.
The suicide of the soul is evil thought. In it is the poison. Reverie attra=
cts,
cajoles, lures, entwines, and then makes you its accomplice. It makes you b=
ear
your half in the trickeries which it plays on conscience. It charms; then it
corrupts you. We may say of reverie as of play, one begins by being a dupe,=
and
ends by being a cheat.
Gwynplaine dreame=
d.
He had never befo=
re
seen Woman. He had seen the shadow in the women of the populace, and he had
seen the soul in Dea.
He had just seen =
the
reality.
A warm and living
skin, under which one felt the circulation of passionate blood; an outline =
with
the precision of marble and the undulation of the wave; a high and impassive
mien, mingling refusal with attraction, and summing itself up in its own gl=
ory;
hair of the colour of the reflection from a furnace; a gallantry of adornme=
nt
producing in herself and in others a tremor of voluptuousness, the
half-revealed nudity betraying a disdainful desire to be coveted at a dista=
nce
by the crowd; an ineradicable coquetry; the charm of impenetrability, tempt=
ation
seasoned by the glimpse of perdition, a promise to the senses and a menace =
to
the mind; a double anxiety, the one desire, the other fear. He had just seen
these things. He had just seen Woman.
He had seen more =
and
less than a woman; he had seen a female.
And at the same t=
ime
an Olympian. The female of a god.
The mystery of sex
had just been revealed to him.
And where? On
inaccessible heights--at an infinite distance.
O mocking destiny!
The soul, that celestial essence, he possessed; he held it in his hand. It =
was
Dea. Sex, that terrestrial embodiment, he perceived in the heights of heave=
n.
It was that woman.
A duchess!
"More than a
goddess," Ursus had said.
What a precipice!
Even dreams dissolved before such a perpendicular height to escalade.
Was he going to
commit the folly of dreaming about the unknown beauty?
He debated with
himself.
He recalled all t=
hat
Ursus had said of high stations which are almost royal. The philosopher's
disquisitions, which had hitherto seemed so useless, now became landmarks f=
or
his thoughts. A very thin layer of forgetfulness often lies over our memory,
through which at times we catch a glimpse of all beneath it. His fancy ran =
on
that august world, the peerage, to which the lady belonged, and which was so
inexorably placed above the inferior world, the common people, of which he =
was
one.
And was he even o=
ne
of the people? Was not he, the mountebank, below the lowest of the low? For=
the
first time since he had arrived at the age of reflection, he felt his heart
vaguely contracted by a sense of his baseness, and of that which we nowadays
call abasement. The paintings and the catalogues of Ursus, his lyrical
inventories, his dithyrambics of castles, parks, fountains, and colonnades,=
his
catalogues of riches and of power, revived in the memory of Gwynplaine in t=
he
relief of reality mingled with mist. He was possessed with the image of thi=
s zenith.
That a man should be a lord!--it seemed chimerical. It was so, however.
Incredible thing! There were lords! But were they of flesh and blood, like
ourselves? It seemed doubtful. He felt that he lay at the bottom of all
darkness, encompassed by a wall, while he could just perceive in the far
distance above his head, through the mouth of the pit, a dazzling confusion=
of
azure, of figures, and of rays, which was Olympus. In the midst of this glo=
ry
the duchess shone out resplendent.
He felt for this
woman a strange, inexpressible longing, combined with a conviction of the
impossibility of attainment. This poignant contradiction returned to his mi=
nd
again and again, notwithstanding every effort. He saw near to him, even wit=
hin
his reach, in close and tangible reality, the soul; and in the unattainable=
--in
the depths of the ideal--the flesh. None of these thoughts attained to cert=
ain
shape. They were as a vapour within him, changing every instant its form, a=
nd floating
away. But the darkness which the vapour caused was intense.
He did not form e=
ven
in his dreams any hope of reaching the heights where the duchess dwelt. Luc=
kily
for him.
The vibration of =
such
ladders of fancy, if ever we put our foot upon them, may render our brains
dizzy for ever. Intending to scale Olympus, we reach Bedlam; any distinct
feeling of actual desire would have terrified him. He entertained none of t=
hat
nature.
Besides, was he
likely ever to see the lady again? Most probably not. To fall in love with a
passing light on the horizon, madness cannot reach to that pitch. To make
loving eyes at a star even, is not incomprehensible. It is seen again, it
reappears, it is fixed in the sky. But can any one be enamoured of a flash =
of
lightning?
Dreams flowed and
ebbed within him. The majestic and gallant idol at the back of the box had =
cast
a light over his diffused ideas, then faded away. He thought, yet thought n=
ot
of it; turned to other things--returned to it. It rocked about in his
brain--nothing more. It broke his sleep for several nights. Sleeplessness i=
s as
full of dreams as sleep.
It is almost
impossible to express in their exact limits the abstract evolutions of the
brain. The inconvenience of words is that they are more marked in form than
ideas. All ideas have indistinct boundary lines, words have not. A certain
diffused phase of the soul ever escapes words. Expression has its frontiers,
thought has none.
The depths of our
secret souls are so vast that Gwynplaine's dreams scarcely touched Dea. Dea
reigned sacred in the centre of his soul; nothing could approach her.
Still (for such
contradictions make up the soul of man) there was a conflict within him. Wa=
s he
conscious of it? Scarcely.
In his heart of
hearts he felt a collision of desires. We all have our weak points. Its nat=
ure
would have been clear to Ursus; but to Gwynplaine it was not.
Two instincts--one
the ideal, the other sexual--were struggling within him. Such contests occur
between the angels of light and darkness on the edge of the abyss.
At length the ang=
el
of darkness was overthrown. One day Gwynplaine suddenly thought no more of =
the
unknown woman.
The struggle betw=
een
two principles--the duel between his earthly and his heavenly nature--had t=
aken
place within his soul, and at such a depth that he had understood it but di=
mly.
One thing was certain, that he had never for one moment ceased to adore Dea=
.
He had been attac=
ked
by a violent disorder, his blood had been fevered; but it was over. Dea alo=
ne
remained.
Gwynplaine would =
have
been much astonished had any one told him that Dea had ever been, even for a
moment, in danger; and in a week or two the phantom which had threatened the
hearts of both their souls faded away.
Within Gwynplaine
nothing remained but the heart, which was the hearth, and the love, which w=
as
its fire.
Besides, we have =
just
said that "the duchess" did not return.
Ursus thought it =
all
very natural. "The lady with the gold piece" is a phenomenon. She
enters, pays, and vanishes. It would be too much joy were she to return.
As to Dea, she ma=
de
no allusion to the woman who had come and passed away. She listened, perhap=
s,
and was sufficiently enlightened by the sighs of Ursus, and now and then by
some significant exclamation, such as,--
"One does not
get ounces of gold every day!"
She spoke no more=
of
the "woman." This showed deep instinct. The soul takes obscure
precautions, in the secrets of which it is not always admitted itself. To k=
eep
silence about any one seems to keep them afar off. One fears that questions=
may
call them back. We put silence between us, as if we were shutting a door.
So the incident f=
ell
into oblivion.
Was it ever anyth=
ing?
Had it ever occurred? Could it be said that a shadow had floated between
Gwynplaine and Dea? Dea did not know of it, nor Gwynplaine either. No; noth=
ing
had occurred. The duchess herself was blurred in the distant perspective li=
ke
an illusion. It had been but a momentary dream passing over Gwynplaine, out=
of
which he had awakened.
When it fades awa=
y, a
reverie, like a mist, leaves no trace behind; and when the cloud has passed=
on,
love shines out as brightly in the heart as the sun in the sky.
CHAPTER IX - ABYSSUS ABYSSUM VOCAT.
Another face,
disappeared--Tom-Jim-Jack's. Suddenly he ceased to frequent the Tadcaster I=
nn.
Persons so situat=
ed
as to be able to observe other phases of fashionable life in London, might =
have
seen that about this time the Weekly Gazette, between two extracts from par=
ish
registers, announced the departure of Lord David Dirry-Moir, by order of her
Majesty, to take command of his frigate in the white squadron then cruising=
off
the coast of Holland.
Ursus, perceiving
that Tom-Jim-Jack did not return, was troubled by his absence. He had not s=
een
Tom-Jim-Jack since the day on which he had driven off in the same carriage =
with
the lady of the gold piece. It was, indeed, an enigma who this Tom-Jim-Jack
could be, who carried off duchesses under his arm. What an interesting
investigation! What questions to propound! What things to be said. Therefore
Ursus said not a word.
Ursus, who had had
experience, knew the smart caused by rash curiosity. Curiosity ought always=
to
be proportioned to the curious. By listening, we risk our ear; by watching,=
we
risk our eye. Prudent people neither hear nor see. Tom-Jim-Jack had got int=
o a
princely carriage. The tavern-keeper had seen him. It appeared so extraordi=
nary
that the sailor should sit by the lady that it made Ursus circumspect. The
caprices of those in high life ought to be sacred to the lower orders. The
reptiles called the poor had best squat in their holes when they see anythi=
ng
out of the way. Quiescence is a power. Shut your eyes, if you have not the =
luck
to be blind; stop up your ears, if you have not the good fortune to be deaf;
paralyze your tongue, if you have not the perfection of being mute. The gre=
at
do what they like, the little what they can. Let the unknown pass unnoticed=
. Do
not importune mythology. Do not interrogate appearances. Have a profound
respect for idols. Do not let us direct our gossiping towards the lessening=
s or
increasings which take place in superior regions, of the motives of which we
are ignorant. Such things are mostly optical delusions to us inferior
creatures. Metamorphoses are the business of the gods: the transformations =
and
the contingent disorders of great persons who float above us are clouds
impossible to comprehend and perilous to study. Too much attention irritates
the Olympians engaged in their gyrations of amusement or fancy; and a thund=
erbolt
may teach you that the bull you are too curiously examining is Jupiter. Do =
not
lift the folds of the stone-coloured mantles of those terrible powers.
Indifference is intelligence. Do not stir, and you will be safe. Feign deat=
h,
and they will not kill you. Therein lies the wisdom of the insect. Ursus
practised it.
The tavern-keeper,
who was puzzled as well, questioned Ursus one day.
"Do you obse=
rve
that Tom-Jim-Jack never comes here now!"
"Indeed!&quo=
t;
said Ursus. "I have not remarked it."
Master Nicless ma=
de
an observation in an undertone, no doubt touching the intimacy between the
ducal carriage and Tom-Jim-Jack--a remark which, as it might have been
irreverent and dangerous, Ursus took care not to hear.
Still Ursus was t=
oo
much of an artist not to regret Tom-Jim-Jack. He felt some disappointment. =
He
told his feeling to Homo, of whose discretion alone he felt certain. He
whispered into the ear of the wolf, "Since Tom-Jim-Jack ceased to come=
, I
feel a blank as a man, and a chill as a poet." This pouring out of his
heart to a friend relieved Ursus.
His lips were sea=
led
before Gwynplaine, who, however, made no allusion to Tom-Jim-Jack. The fact=
was
that Tom-Jim-Jack's presence or absence mattered not to Gwynplaine, absorbe=
d as
he was in Dea.
Forgetfulness fell
more and more on Gwynplaine. As for Dea, she had not even suspected the
existence of a vague trouble. At the same time, no more cabals or complaints
against the Laughing Man were spoken of. Hate seemed to have let go its hol=
d.
All was tranquil in and around the Green Box. No more opposition from
strollers, merry-andrews, nor priests; no more grumbling outside. Their suc=
cess
was unclouded. Destiny allows of such sudden serenity. The brilliant happin=
ess
of Gwynplaine and Dea was for the present absolutely cloudless. Little by
little it had risen to a degree which admitted of no increase. There is one
word which expresses the situation--apogee. Happiness, like the sea, has its
high tide. The worst thing for the perfectly happy is that it recedes.
There are two way=
s of
being inaccessible: being too high and being too low. At least as much,
perhaps, as the first is the second to be desired. More surely than the eag=
le
escapes the arrow, the animalcule escapes being crushed. This security of
insignificance, if it had ever existed on earth, was enjoyed by Gwynplaine =
and
Dea, and never before had it been so complete. They lived on, daily more and
more ecstatically wrapt in each other. The heart saturates itself with love=
as
with a divine salt that preserves it, and from this arises the incorruptibl=
e constancy
of those who have loved each other from the dawn of their lives, and the
affection which keeps its freshness in old age. There is such a thing as th=
e embalmment
of the heart. It is of Daphnis and Chloë that Philemon and Baucis are
made. The old age of which we speak, evening resembling morning, was eviden=
tly
reserved for Gwynplaine and Dea. In the meantime they were young.
Ursus looked on t=
his
love as a doctor examines his case. He had what was in those days termed a
hippocratical expression of face. He fixed his sagacious eyes on Dea, fragi=
le
and pale, and growled out, "It is lucky that she is happy." At ot=
her
times he said, "She is lucky for her health's sake." He shook his
head, and at times read attentively a portion treating of heart-disease in
Aviccunas, translated by Vossiscus Fortunatus, Louvain, 1650, an old worm-e=
aten
book of his.
Dea, when fatigue=
d,
suffered from perspirations and drowsiness, and took a daily siesta, as we =
have
already seen. One day, while she was lying asleep on the bearskin, Gwynplai=
ne
was out, and Ursus bent down softly and applied his ear to Dea's heart. He
seemed to listen for a few minutes, and then stood up, murmuring, "She
must not have any shock. It would find out the weak place."
The crowd continu=
ed
to flock to the performance of "Chaos Vanquished." The success of=
the
Laughing Man seemed inexhaustible. Every one rushed to see him; no longer f=
rom
Southwark only, but even from other parts of London. The general public beg=
an
to mingle with the usual audience, which no longer consisted of sailors and
drivers only; in the opinion of Master Nicless, who was well acquainted with
crowds, there were in the crowd gentlemen and baronets disguised as common
people. Disguise is one of the pleasures of pride, and was much in fashion =
at
that period. This mixing of the aristocratic element with the mob was a good
sign, and showed that their popularity was extending to London. The fame of=
Gwynplaine
has decidedly penetrated into the great world. Such was the fact. Nothing w=
as
talked of but the Laughing Man. He was talked about even at the Mohawk Club,
frequented by noblemen.
In the Green Box =
they
had no idea of all this. They were content to be happy. It was intoxication=
to
Dea to feel, as she did every evening, the crisp and tawny head of Gwynplai=
ne.
In love there is nothing like habit. The whole of life is concentrated in i=
t.
The reappearance of the stars is the custom of the universe. Creation is
nothing but a mistress, and the sun is a lover. Light is a dazzling caryatid
supporting the world. Each day, for a sublime minute, the earth, covered by
night, rests on the rising sun. Dea, blind, felt a like return of warmth and
hope within her when she placed her hand on the head of Gwynplaine.
To adore each oth=
er
in the shadows, to love in the plenitude of silence; who could not become
reconciled to such an eternity?
One evening
Gwynplaine, feeling within him that overflow of felicity which, like the
intoxication of perfumes, causes a sort of delicious faintness, was strolli=
ng,
as he usually did after the performance, in the meadow some hundred paces f=
rom
the Green Box. Sometimes in those high tides of feeling in our souls we feel
that we would fain pour out the sensations of the overflowing heart. The ni=
ght
was dark but clear. The stars were shining. The whole fair-ground was deser=
ted.
Sleep and forgetfulness reigned in the caravans which were scattered over T=
arrinzeau
Field.
One light alone w=
as
unextinguished. It was the lamp of the Tadcaster Inn, the door of which was
left ajar to admit Gwynplaine on his return.
Midnight had just
struck in the five parishes of Southwark, with the breaks and differences of
tone of their various bells. Gwynplaine was dreaming of Dea. Of whom else
should he dream? But that evening, feeling singularly troubled, and full of=
a
charm which was at the same time a pang, he thought of Dea as a man thinks =
of a
woman. He reproached himself for this. It seemed to be failing in respect to
her. The husband's attack was forming dimly within him. Sweet and imperious=
impatience!
He was crossing the invisible frontier, on this side of which is the virgin=
, on
the other, the wife. He questioned himself anxiously. A blush, as it were,
overspread his mind. The Gwynplaine of long ago had been transformed, by
degrees, unconsciously in a mysterious growth. His old modesty was becoming
misty and uneasy. We have an ear of light, into which speaks the spirit; an=
d an
ear of darkness, into which speaks the instinct. Into the latter strange vo=
ices
were making their proposals. However pure-minded may be the youth who dream=
s of
love, a certain grossness of the flesh eventually comes between his dream a=
nd him.
Intentions lose their transparency. The unavowed desire implanted by nature
enters into his conscience. Gwynplaine felt an indescribable yearning of the
flesh, which abounds in all temptation, and Dea was scarcely flesh. In this
fever, which he knew to be unhealthy, he transfigured Dea into a more mater=
ial
aspect, and tried to exaggerate her seraphic form into feminine loveliness.=
It
is thou, O woman, that we require.
Love comes not to
permit too much of paradise. It requires the fevered skin, the troubled lif=
e,
the unbound hair, the kiss electrical and irreparable, the clasp of desire.=
The
sidereal is embarrassing, the ethereal is heavy. Too much of the heavenly in
love is like too much fuel on a fire: the flame suffers from it. Gwynplaine
fell into an exquisite nightmare; Dea to be clasped in his arms--Dea claspe=
d in
them! He heard nature in his heart crying out for a woman. Like a Pygmalion=
in a
dream modelling a Galathea out of the azure, in the depths of his soul he
worked at the chaste contour of Dea--a contour with too much of heaven, too
little of Eden. For Eden is Eve, and Eve was a female, a carnal mother, a
terrestrial nurse; the sacred womb of generations; the breast of unfailing
milk; the rocker of the cradle of the newborn world, and wings are incompat=
ible
with the bosom of woman. Virginity is but the hope of maternity. Still, in
Gwynplaine's dreams, Dea, until now, had been enthroned above flesh. Now,
however, he made wild efforts in thought to draw her downwards by that thre=
ad,
sex, which ties every girl to earth. Not one of those birds is free. Dea, l=
ike
all the rest, was within this law; and Gwynplaine, though he scarcely
acknowledged it, felt a vague desire that she should submit to it. This des=
ire
possessed him in spite of himself, and with an ever-recurring relapse. He p=
ictured
Dea as woman. He came to the point of regarding her under a hitherto unhear=
d-of
form; as a creature no longer of ecstasy only, but of voluptuousness; as De=
a,
with her head resting on the pillow. He was ashamed of this visionary
desecration. It was like an attempt at profanation. He resisted its assault=
. He
turned from it, but it returned again. He felt as if he were committing a
criminal assault. To him Dea was encompassed by a cloud. Cleaving that clou=
d,
he shuddered, as though he were raising her chemise. It was in April. The s=
pine
has its dreams. He rambled at random with the uncertain step caused by
solitude. To have no one by is a provocative to wander. Whither flew his
thoughts? He would not have dared to own it to himself. To heaven? No. To a=
bed.
You were looking down upon him, O ye stars.
Why talk of a man=
in
love? Rather say a man possessed. To be possessed by the devil, is the
exception; to be possessed by a woman, the rule. Every man has to bear this
alienation of himself. What a sorceress is a pretty woman! The true name of
love is captivity.
Man is made priso=
ner
by the soul of a woman; by her flesh as well, and sometimes even more by the
flesh than by the soul. The soul is the true love, the flesh, the mistress.=
We slander the de=
vil.
It was not he who tempted Eve. It was Eve who tempted him. The woman began.
Lucifer was passing by quietly. He perceived the woman, and became Satan.
The flesh is the
cover of the unknown. It is provocative (which is strange) by its modesty.
Nothing could be more distracting. It is full of shame, the hussey!
It was the terrib=
le
love of the surface which was then agitating Gwynplaine, and holding him in=
its
power. Fearful the moment in which man covets the nakedness of woman! What =
dark
things lurk beneath the fairness of Venus!
Something within =
him
was calling Dea aloud, Dea the maiden, Dea the other half of a man, Dea fle=
sh
and blood, Dea with uncovered bosom. That cry was almost driving away the
angel. Mysterious crisis through which all love must pass and in which the
Ideal is in danger! Therein is the predestination of Creation. Moment of
heavenly corruption! Gwynplaine's love of Dea was becoming nuptial. Virgin =
love
is but a transition. The moment was come. Gwynplaine coveted the woman.
He coveted a woma=
n!
Precipice of which
one sees but the first gentle slope!
The indistinct
summons of nature is inexorable. The whole of woman--what an abyss!
Luckily, there wa=
s no
woman for Gwynplaine but Dea--the only one he desired, the only one who cou=
ld
desire him.
Gwynplaine felt t=
hat
vague and mighty shudder which is the vital claim of infinity. Besides there
was the aggravation of the spring. He was breathing the nameless odours of =
the
starry darkness. He walked forward in a wild feeling of delight. The wander=
ing
perfumes of the rising sap, the heady irradiations which float in shadow, t=
he
distant opening of nocturnal flowers, the complicity of little hidden nests,
the murmurs of waters and of leaves, soft sighs rising from all things, the
freshness, the warmth, and the mysterious awakening of April and May, is the
vast diffusion of sex murmuring, in whispers, their proposals of voluptuous=
ness,
till the soul stammers in answer to the giddy provocation. The ideal no lon=
ger
knows what it is saying.
Any one observing
Gwynplaine walk would have said, "See!--a drunken man!"
He almost stagger=
ed
under the weight of his own heart, of spring, and of the night.
The solitude in t=
he
bowling-green was so peaceful that at times he spoke aloud. The consciousne=
ss
that there is no listener induces speech.
He walked with sl=
ow
steps, his head bent down, his hands behind him, the left hand in the right,
the fingers open.
Suddenly he felt
something slipped between his fingers.
He turned round
quickly.
In his hand was a
paper, and in front of him a man.
It was the man wh=
o,
coming behind him with the stealth of a cat, had placed the paper in his
fingers.
The paper was a
letter.
The man, as he
appeared pretty clearly in the starlight, was small, chubby-cheeked, young,
sedate, and dressed in a scarlet livery, exposed from top to toe through the
opening of a long gray cloak, then called a capenoche, a Spanish word
contracted; in French it was cape-de-nuit. His head was covered by a crimson
cap, like the skull-cap of a cardinal, on which servitude was indicated by a
strip of lace. On this cap was a plume of tisserin feathers. He stood
motionless before Gwynplaine, like a dark outline in a dream.
Gwynplaine recogn=
ized
the duchess's page.
Before Gwynplaine
could utter an exclamation of surprise, he heard the thin voice of the page=
, at
once childlike and feminine in its tone, saying to him,--
"At this hour
to-morrow, be at the corner of London Bridge. I will be there to conduct
you--"
"Whither?&qu=
ot;
demanded Gwynplaine.
"Where you a=
re
expected."
Gwynplaine dropped
his eyes on the letter, which he was holding mechanically in his hand.
When he looked up=
the
page was no longer with him.
He perceived a va=
gue
form lessening rapidly in the distance. It was the little valet. He turned =
the
corner of the street, and solitude reigned again.
Gwynplaine saw the
page vanish, then looked at the letter. There are moments in our lives when
what happens seems not to happen. Stupor keeps us for a moment at a distance
from the fact.
Gwynplaine raised=
the
letter to his eyes, as if to read it, but soon perceived that he could not =
do
so for two reasons--first, because he had not broken the seal; and, secondl=
y,
because it was too dark.
It was some minut=
es
before he remembered that there was a lamp at the inn. He took a few steps
sideways, as if he knew not whither he was going.
A somnambulist, to
whom a phantom had given a letter, might walk as he did.
At last he made up
his mind. He ran rather than walked towards the inn, stood in the light whi=
ch
broke through the half-open door, and by it again examined the closed lette=
r.
There was no design on the seal, and on the envelope was written, "To
Gwynplaine." He broke the seal, tore the envelope, unfolded the letter,
put it directly under the light, and read as follows:--
"You are
hideous; I am beautiful. You are a player; I am a duchess. I am the highest;
you are the lowest. I desire you! I love you! Come!"
BOOK THE FOURTH - THE CELL OF TORTURE.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
CHAPTER I - THE TEMPTATION OF ST. GWYNPLAINE.
One jet of flame hardly makes a pri=
ck in
the darkness; another sets fire to a volcano.
Some sparks are
gigantic.
Gwynplaine read t=
he
letter, then he read it over again. Yes, the words were there, "I love
you!"
Terrors chased ea=
ch
other through his mind.
The first was, th=
at
he believed himself to be mad.
He was mad; that =
was
certain: He had just seen what had no existence. The twilight spectres were
making game of him, poor wretch! The little man in scarlet was the
will-o'-the-wisp of a dream. Sometimes, at night, nothings condensed into f=
lame
come and laugh at us. Having had his laugh out, the visionary being had
disappeared, and left Gwynplaine behind him, mad.
Such are the frea=
ks
of darkness.
The second terror
was, to find out that he was in his right senses.
A vision? Certain=
ly
not. How could that be? Had he not a letter in his hand? Did he not see an
envelope, a seal, paper, and writing? Did he not know from whom that came? =
It
was all clear enough. Some one took a pen and ink, and wrote. Some one ligh=
ted
a taper, and sealed it with wax. Was not his name written on the
letter--"To Gwynplaine?" The paper was scented. All was clear.
Gwynplaine knew t=
he
little man. The dwarf was a page. The gleam was a livery. The page had given
him a rendezvous for the same hour on the morrow, at the corner of London
Bridge.
Was London Bridge=
an
illusion?
No, no. All was
clear. There was no delirium. All was reality. Gwynplaine was perfectly cle=
ar
in his intellect. It was not a phantasmagoria, suddenly dissolving above his
head, and fading into nothingness. It was something which had really happen=
ed
to him. No, Gwynplaine was not mad, nor was he dreaming. Again he read the
letter.
Well, yes! But th=
en?
That then was
terror-striking.
There was a woman=
who
desired him! If so, let no one ever again pronounce the word incredible! A
woman desire him! A woman who had seen his face! A woman who was not blind!=
And
who was this woman? An ugly one? No; a beauty. A gipsy? No; a duchess!
What was it all
about, and what could it all mean? What peril in such a triumph! And how wa=
s he
to help plunging into it headlong?
What! that woman!=
The
siren, the apparition, the lady in the visionary box, the light in the
darkness! It was she! Yes; it was she!
The crackling of =
the
fire burst out in every part of his frame. It was the strange, unknown lady,
she who had previously so troubled his thoughts; and his first tumultuous
feelings about this woman returned, heated by the evil fire. Forgetfulness =
is
nothing but a palimpsest: an incident happens unexpectedly, and all that was
effaced revives in the blanks of wondering memory.
Gwynplaine thought
that he had dismissed that image from his remembrance, and he found that it=
was
still there; and she had put her mark in his brain, unconsciously guilty of=
a dream.
Without his suspecting it, the lines of the engraving had been bitten deep =
by reverie.
And now a certain amount of evil had been done, and this train of thought,
thenceforth, perhaps, irreparable, he took up again eagerly. What! she desi=
red
him! What! the princess descend from her throne, the idol from its shrine, =
the
statue from its pedestal, the phantom from its cloud! What! from the depths=
of
the impossible had this chimera come! This deity of the sky! This irradiati=
on!
This nereid all glistening with jewels! This proud and unattainable beauty,
from the height of her radiant throne, was bending down to Gwynplaine! What!
had she drawn up her chariot of the dawn, with its yoke of turtle-doves and
dragons, before Gwynplaine, and said to him, "Come!" What! this
terrible glory of being the object of such abasement from the empyrean, for
Gwynplaine! This woman, if he could give that name to a form so starlike an=
d majestic,
this woman proposed herself, gave herself, delivered herself up to him! Won=
der
of wonders! A goddess prostituting herself for him! The arms of a courtesan
opening in a cloud to clasp him to the bosom of a goddess, and that without
degradation! Such majestic creatures cannot be sullied. The gods bathe
themselves pure in light; and this goddess who came to him knew what she was
doing. She was not ignorant of the incarnate hideousness of Gwynplaine. She=
had
seen the mask which was his face; and that mask had not caused her to draw
back. Gwynplaine was loved notwithstanding it!
Here was a thing
surpassing all the extravagance of dreams. He was loved in consequence of h=
is
mask. Far from repulsing the goddess, the mask attracted her. Gwynplaine was
not only loved; he was desired. He was more than accepted; he was chosen. H=
e,
chosen!
What! there, where
this woman dwelt, in the regal region of irresponsible splendour, and in the
power of full, free will; where there were princes, and she could take a
prince; nobles, and she could take a noble; where there were men handsome,
charming, magnificent, and she could take an Adonis: whom did she take?
Gnafron! She could choose from the midst of meteors and thunders, the mighty
six-winged seraphim, and she chose the larva crawling in the slime. On one =
side
were highnesses and peers, all grandeur, all opulence, all glory; on the ot=
her,
a mountebank. The mountebank carried it! What kind of scales could there be=
in
the heart of this woman? By what measure did she weigh her love? She took o=
ff
her ducal coronet, and flung it on the platform of a clown! She took from h=
er
brow the Olympian aureola, and placed it on the bristly head of a gnome! The
world had turned topsy-turvy. The insects swarmed on high, the stars were
scattered below, whilst the wonder-stricken Gwynplaine, overwhelmed by a
falling ruin of light, and lying in the dust, was enshrined in a glory. One
all-powerful, revolting against beauty and splendour, gave herself to the
damned of night; preferred Gwynplaine to Antinoüs; excited by curiosit=
y,
she entered the shadows, and descending within them, and from this abdicati=
on
of goddess-ship was rising, crowned and prodigious, the royalty of the
wretched. "You are hideous. I love you." These words touched
Gwynplaine in the ugly spot of pride. Pride is the heel in which all heroes=
are
vulnerable. Gwynplaine was flattered in his vanity as a monster. He was lov=
ed
for his deformity. He, too, was the exception, as much and perhaps more than
the Jupiters and the Apollos. He felt superhuman, and so much a monster as =
to
be a god. Fearful bewilderment!
Now, who was this
woman? What did he know about her? Everything and nothing. She was a duches=
s,
that he knew; he knew, also, that she was beautiful and rich; that she had
liveries, lackeys, pages, and footmen running with torches by the side of h=
er
coroneted carriage. He knew that she was in love with him; at least she said
so. Of everything else he was ignorant. He knew her title, but not her name=
. He
knew her thought; he knew not her life. Was she married, widow, maiden? Was=
she
free? Of what family was she? Were there snares, traps, dangers about her? =
Of
the gallantry existing on the idle heights of society; the caves on those s=
ummits,
in which savage charmers dream amid the scattered skeletons of the loves wh=
ich
they have already preyed on; of the extent of tragic cynicism to which the
experiments of a woman may attain who believes herself to be beyond the rea=
ch
of man--of things such as these Gwynplaine had no idea. Nor had he even in =
his
mind materials out of which to build up a conjecture, information concernin=
g such
things being very scanty in the social depths in which he lived. Still he
detected a shadow; he felt that a mist hung over all this brightness. Did h=
e understand
it? No. Could he guess at it? Still less. What was there behind that letter?
One pair of folding doors opening before him, another closing on him, and
causing him a vague anxiety. On the one side an avowal; on the other an
enigma--avowal and enigma, which, like two mouths, one tempting, the other
threatening, pronounce the same word, Dare!
Never had perfidi=
ous
chance taken its measures better, nor timed more fitly the moment of
temptation. Gwynplaine, stirred by spring, and by the sap rising in all thi=
ngs,
was prompt to dream the dream of the flesh. The old man who is not to be
stamped out, and over whom none of us can triumph, was awaking in that back=
ward
youth, still a boy at twenty-four.
It was just then,=
at
the most stormy moment of the crisis, that the offer was made him, and the
naked bosom of the Sphinx appeared before his dazzled eyes. Youth is an
inclined plane. Gwynplaine was stooping, and something pushed him forward.
What? the season, and the night. Who? the woman.
Were there no mon=
th
of April, man would be a great deal more virtuous. The budding plants are a=
set
of accomplices! Love is the thief, Spring the receiver.
Gwynplaine was
shaken.
There is a kind of
smoke of evil, preceding sin, in which the conscience cannot breathe. The
obscure nausea of hell comes over virtue in temptation. The yawning abyss
discharges an exhalation which warns the strong and turns the weak giddy.
Gwynplaine was suffering its mysterious attack.
Dilemmas, transie=
nt
and at the same time stubborn, were floating before him. Sin, presenting it=
self
obstinately again and again to his mind, was taking form. The morrow, midni=
ght?
London Bridge, the page? Should he go? "Yes," cried the flesh;
"No," cried the soul.
Nevertheless, we =
must
remark that, strange as it may appear at first sight, he never once put him=
self
the question, "Should he go?" quite distinctly. Reprehensible act=
ions
are like over-strong brandies--you cannot swallow them at a draught. You put
down your glass; you will see to it presently; there is a strange taste even
about that first drop. One thing is certain: he felt something behind him p=
ushing
him, forward towards the unknown. And he trembled. He could catch a glimpse=
of
a crumbling precipice, and he drew back, stricken by the terror encircling =
him.
He closed his eyes. He tried hard to deny to himself that the adventure had
ever occurred, and to persuade himself into doubting his reason. This was
evidently his best plan; the wisest thing he could do was to believe himself
mad.
Fatal fever! Every
man, surprised by the unexpected, has at times felt the throb of such tragic
pulsations. The observer ever listens with anxiety to the echoes resounding
from the dull strokes of the battering-ram of destiny striking against a
conscience.
Alas! Gwynplaine =
put
himself questions. Where duty is clear, to put oneself questions is to suff=
er
defeat.
There are invasio=
ns
which the mind may have to suffer. There are the Vandals of the soul--evil
thoughts coming to devastate our virtue. A thousand contrary ideas rushed i=
nto
Gwynplaine's brain, now following each other singly, now crowding together.
Then silence reigned again, and he would lean his head on his hands, in a k=
ind
of mournful attention, as of one who contemplates a landscape by night.
Suddenly he felt =
that
he was no longer thinking. His reverie had reached that point of utter dark=
ness
in which all things disappear.
He remembered, to=
o,
that he had not entered the inn. It might be about two o'clock in the morni=
ng.
He placed the let=
ter
which the page had brought him in his side-pocket; but perceiving that it w=
as
next his heart, he drew it out again, crumpled it up, and placed it in a po=
cket
of his hose. He then directed his steps towards the inn, which he entered
stealthily, and without awaking little Govicum, who, while waiting up for h=
im,
had fallen asleep on the table, with his arms for a pillow. He closed the d=
oor,
lighted a candle at the lamp, fastened the bolt, turned the key in the lock=
, taking,
mechanically, all the precautions usual to a man returning home late, ascen=
ded
the staircase of the Green Box, slipped into the old hovel which he used as=
a
bedroom, looked at Ursus who was asleep, blew out his candle, and did not g=
o to
bed.
Thus an hour pass=
ed
away. Weary, at length, and fancying that bed and sleep were one, he laid h=
is
head upon the pillow without undressing, making darkness the concession of
closing his eyes. But the storm of emotions which assailed him had not waned
for an instant. Sleeplessness is a cruelty which night inflicts on man.
Gwynplaine suffered greatly. For the first time in his life, he was not ple=
ased
with himself. Ache of heart mingled with gratified vanity. What was he to d=
o?
Day broke at last; he heard Ursus get up, but did not raise his eyelids. No
truce for him, however. The letter was ever in his mind. Every word of it c=
ame back
to him in a kind of chaos. In certain violent storms within the soul thought
becomes a liquid. It is convulsed, it heaves, and something rises from it, =
like
the dull roaring of the waves. Flood and flow, sudden shocks and whirls, the
hesitation of the wave before the rock; hail and rain clouds with the light
shining through their breaks; the petty flights of useless foam; wild swell
broken in an instant; great efforts lost; wreck appearing all around; darkn=
ess
and universal dispersion--as these things are of the sea, so are they of ma=
n. Gwynplaine
was a prey to such a storm.
At the acme of his
agony, his eyes still closed, he heard an exquisite voice saying, "Are=
you
asleep, Gwynplaine?" He opened his eyes with a start, and sat up. Dea =
was
standing in the half-open doorway. Her ineffable smile was in her eyes and =
on
her lips. She was standing there, charming in the unconscious serenity of h=
er
radiance. Then came, as it were, a sacred moment. Gwynplaine watched her,
startled, dazzled, awakened. Awakened from what?--from sleep? no, from
sleeplessness. It was she, it was Dea; and suddenly he felt in the depths of
his being the indescribable wane of the storm and the sublime descent of go=
od
over evil; the miracle of the look from on high was accomplished; the blind=
girl,
the sweet light-bearer, with no effort beyond her mere presence, dissipated=
all
the darkness within him; the curtain of cloud was dispersed from the soul a=
s if
drawn by an invisible hand, and a sky of azure, as though by celestial
enchantment, again spread over Gwynplaine's conscience. In a moment he beca=
me
by the virtue of that angel, the great and good Gwynplaine, the innocent ma=
n.
Such mysterious confrontations occur to the soul as they do to creation. Bo=
th
were silent--she, who was the light; he, who was the abyss; she, who was di=
vine;
he, who was appeased; and over Gwynplaine's stormy heart Dea shone with the
indescribable effect of a star shining on the sea.
CHAPTER II - FROM GAY TO GRAVE.
How simple is a miracle! It was bre=
akfast
hour in the Green Box, and Dea had merely come to see why Gwynplaine had not
joined their little breakfast table.
"It is
you!" exclaimed Gwynplaine; and he had said everything. There was no o=
ther
horizon, no vision for him now but the heavens where Dea was. His mind was
appeased--appeased in such a manner as he alone can understand who has seen=
the
smile spread swiftly over the sea when the hurricane had passed away. Over
nothing does the calm come so quickly as over the whirlpool. This results f=
rom
its power of absorption. And so it is with the human heart. Not always,
however.
Dea had but to sh=
ow
herself, and all the light that was in Gwynplaine left him and went to her,=
and
behind the dazzled Gwynplaine there was but a flight of phantoms. What a
peacemaker is adoration! A few minutes afterwards they were sitting opposite
each other, Ursus between them, Homo at their feet. The teapot, hung over a
little lamp, was on the table. Fibi and Vinos were outside, waiting.
They breakfasted =
as
they supped, in the centre compartment. From the position in which the narr=
ow
table was placed, Dea's back was turned towards the aperture in the partiti=
on
which was opposite the entrance door of the Green Box. Their knees were
touching. Gwynplaine was pouring out tea for Dea. Dea blew gracefully on her
cup. Suddenly she sneezed. Just at that moment a thin smoke rose above the
flame of the lamp, and something like a piece of paper fell into ashes. It =
was
the smoke which had caused Dea to sneeze.
"What was
that?" she asked.
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
replied Gwynplaine.
And he smiled. He=
had
just burnt the duchess's letter.
The conscience of=
the
man who loves is the guardian angel of the woman whom he loves.
Unburdened of the
letter, his relief was wondrous, and Gwynplaine felt his integrity as the e=
agle
feels its wings.
It seemed to him =
as
if his temptation had evaporated with the smoke, and as if the duchess had
crumbled into ashes with the paper.
Taking up their c=
ups
at random, and drinking one after the other from the same one, they talked.=
A
babble of lovers, a chattering of sparrows! Child's talk, worthy of Mother
Goose or of Homer! With two loving hearts, go no further for poetry; with t=
wo
kisses for dialogue, go no further for music.
"Do you know
something?"
"No."
"Gwynplaine,=
I
dreamt that we were animals, and had wings."
"Wings; that
means birds," murmured Gwynplaine.
"Fools! it m=
eans
angels," growled Ursus.
And their talk we=
nt
on.
"If you did =
not
exist, Gwynplaine?"
"What
then?"
"It could on=
ly
be because there was no God."
"The tea is =
too
hot; you will burn yourself, Dea."
"Blow on my
cup."
"How beautif=
ul
you are this morning!"
"Do you know
that I have a great many things to say to you?"
"Say them.&q=
uot;
"I love
you."
"I adore
you."
And Ursus said as=
ide,
"By heaven, they are polite!"
Exquisite to love=
rs
are their moments of silence! In them they gather, as it were, masses of lo=
ve,
which afterwards explode into sweet fragments.
"Do you know=
! In
the evening, when we are playing our parts, at the moment when my hand touc=
hes
your forehead--oh, what a noble head is yours, Gwynplaine!--at the moment w=
hen
I feel your hair under my fingers, I shiver; a heavenly joy comes over me, =
and
I say to myself, In all this world of darkness which encompasses me, in this
universe of solitude, in this great obscurity of ruin in which I am, in this
quaking fear of myself and of everything, I have one prop; and he is there.=
It is
he--it is you."
"Oh! you love
me," said Gwynplaine. "I, too, have but you on earth. You are all=
in
all to me. Dea, what would you have me do? What do you desire? What do you
want?"
Dea answered,--
"I do not kn=
ow.
I am happy."
"Oh,"
replied Gwynplaine, "we are happy."
Ursus raised his
voice severely,--
"Oh, you are
happy, are you? That's a crime. I have warned you already. You are happy! T=
hen
take care you aren't seen. Take up as little room as you can. Happiness oug=
ht
to stuff itself into a hole. Make yourselves still less than you are, if th=
at
can be. God measures the greatness of happiness by the littleness of the ha=
ppy.
The happy should conceal themselves like malefactors. Oh, only shine out li=
ke
the wretched glowworms that you are, and you'll be trodden on; and quite ri=
ght
too! What do you mean by all that love-making nonsense? I'm no duenna, whos=
e business
it is to watch lovers billing and cooing. I'm tired of it all, I tell you; =
and
you may both go to the devil."
And feeling that =
his
harsh tones were melting into tenderness, he drowned his emotion in a loud
grumble.
"Father,&quo=
t;
said Dea, "how roughly you scold!"
"It's becaus=
e I
don't like to see people too happy."
Here Homo re-echo=
ed
Ursus. His growl was heard from beneath the lovers' feet.
Ursus stooped dow=
n,
and placed his hand on Homo's head.
"That's righ=
t;
you're in bad humour, too. You growl. The bristles are all on end on your
wolf's pate. You don't like all this love-making. That's because you are wi=
se.
Hold your tongue, all the same. You have had your say and given your opinio=
n;
be it so. Now be silent."
The wolf growled
again. Ursus looked under the table at him.
"Be still, H=
omo!
Come, don't dwell on it, you philosopher!"
But the wolf sat =
up,
and looked towards the door, showing his teeth.
"What's wrong
with you now?" said Ursus. And he caught hold of Homo by the skin of t=
he
neck.
Heedless of the
wolf's growls, and wholly wrapped up in her own thoughts and in the sound of
Gwynplaine's voice, which left its after-taste within her, Dea was silent, =
and
absorbed by that kind of esctasy peculiar to the blind, which seems at time=
s to
give them a song to listen to in their souls, and to make up to them for the
light which they lack by some strain of ideal music. Blindness is a cavern,=
to
which reaches the deep harmony of the Eternal.
While Ursus,
addressing Homo, was looking down, Gwynplaine had raised his eyes. He was a=
bout
to drink a cup of tea, but did not drink it. He placed it on the table with=
the
slow movement of a spring drawn back; his fingers remained open, his eyes
fixed. He scarcely breathed.
A man was standin=
g in
the doorway, behind Dea. He was clad in black, with a hood. He wore a wig d=
own
to his eyebrows, and held in his hand an iron staff with a crown at each en=
d.
His staff was short and massive. He was like Medusa thrusting her head betw=
een
two branches in Paradise.
Ursus, who had he=
ard
some one enter and raised his head without loosing his hold of Homo, recogn=
ized
the terrible personage. He shook from head to foot, and whispered to
Gwynplaine,--
"It's the
wapentake."
Gwynplaine
recollected. An exclamation of surprise was about to escape him, but he
restrained it. The iron staff, with the crown at each end, was called the i=
ron
weapon. It was from this iron weapon, upon which the city officers of justi=
ce
took the oath when they entered on their duties, that the old wapentakes of=
the
English police derived their qualification.
Behind the man in=
the
wig, the frightened landlord could just be perceived in the shadow.
Without saying a
word, a personification of the Muta Themis of the old charters, the man
stretched his right arm over the radiant Dea, and touched Gwynplaine on the
shoulder with the iron staff, at the same time pointing with his left thumb=
to
the door of the Green Box behind him. These gestures, all the more imperious
for their silence, meant, "Follow me."
Pro signo exeundi,
sursum trahe, says the old Norman record.
He who was touche=
d by
the iron weapon had no right but the right of obedience. To that mute order
there was no reply. The harsh penalties of the English law threatened the
refractory. Gwynplaine felt a shock under the rigid touch of the law; then =
he
sat as though petrified.
If, instead of ha=
ving
been merely grazed on the shoulder, he had been struck a violent blow on the
head with the iron staff, he could not have been more stunned. He knew that=
the
police-officer summoned him to follow; but why? That he could not understan=
d.
On his part Ursus,
too, was thrown into the most painful agitation, but he saw through matters
pretty distinctly. His thoughts ran on the jugglers and preachers, his
competitors, on informations laid against the Green Box, on that delinquent=
the
wolf, on his own affair with the three Bishopsgate commissioners, and who
knows?--perhaps--but that would be too fearful--Gwynplaine's unbecoming and
factious speeches touching the royal authority.
He trembled
violently.
Dea was smiling.<= o:p>
Neither Gwynplaine
nor Ursus pronounced a word. They had both the same thought--not to frighten
Dea. It may have struck the wolf as well, for he ceased growling. True, Urs=
us
did not loose him.
Homo, however, wa=
s a
prudent wolf when occasion required. Who is there who has not remarked a ki=
nd
of intelligent anxiety in animals? It may be that to the extent to which a =
wolf
can understand mankind he felt that he was an outlaw.
Gwynplaine rose.<= o:p>
Resistance was
impracticable, as Gwynplaine knew. He remembered Ursus's words, and there w=
as
no question possible. He remained standing in front of the wapentake. The
latter raised the iron staff from Gwynplaine's shoulder, and drawing it bac=
k,
held it out straight in an attitude of command--a constable's attitude which
was well understood in those days by the whole people, and which expressed =
the
following order: "Let this man, and no other, follow me. The rest rema=
in
where they are. Silence!"
No curious follow=
ers
were allowed. In all times the police have had a taste for arrests of the k=
ind.
This description of seizure was termed sequestration of the person.
The wapentake tur=
ned
round in one motion, like a piece of mechanism revolving on its own pivot, =
and
with grave and magisterial step proceeded towards the door of the Green Box=
.
Gwynplaine looked=
at
Ursus. The latter went through a pantomime composed as follows: he shrugged=
his
shoulders, placed both elbows close to his hips, with his hands out, and
knitted his brows into chevrons--all which signifies, "We must submit =
to the
unknown."
Gwynplaine looked=
at
Dea. She was in her dream. She was still smiling. He put the ends of his
fingers to his lips, and sent her an unutterable kiss.
Ursus, relieved of
some portion of his terror now that the wapentake's back was turned, seized=
the
moment to whisper in Gwynplaine's ear,--
"On your lif=
e,
do not speak until you are questioned."
Gwynplaine, with =
the
same care to make no noise as he would have taken in a sickroom, took his h=
at
and cloak from the hook on the partition, wrapped himself up to the eyes in=
the
cloak, and pushed his hat over his forehead. Not having been to bed, he had=
his
working clothes still on, and his leather esclavin round his neck. Once mor=
e he
looked at Dea. Having reached the door, the wapentake raised his staff and
began to descend the steps; then Gwynplaine set out as if the man was dragg=
ing him
by an invisible chain. Ursus watched Gwynplaine leave the Green Box. At that
moment the wolf gave a low growl; but Ursus silenced him, and whispered,
"He is coming back."
In the yard, Mast=
er
Nicless was stemming, with servile and imperious gestures, the cries of ter=
ror
raised by Vinos and Fibi, as in great distress they watched Gwynplaine led
away, and the mourning-coloured garb and the iron staff of the wapentake.
The two girls were
like petrifactions: they were in the attitude of stalactites. Govicum, stun=
ned,
was looking open-mouthed out of a window.
The wapentake
preceded Gwynplaine by a few steps, never turning round or looking at him, =
in
that icy ease which is given by the knowledge that one is the law.
In death-like sil=
ence
they both crossed the yard, went through the dark taproom, and reached the
street. A few passers-by had collected about the inn door, and the justice =
of
the quorum was there at the head of a squad of police. The idlers, stupefie=
d,
and without breathing a word, opened out and stood aside, with English
discipline, at the sight of the constable's staff. The wapentake moved off =
in
the direction of the narrow street then called the Little Strand, running by
the Thames; and Gwynplaine, with the justice of the quorum's men in ranks on
each side, like a double hedge, pale, without a motion except that of his
steps, wrapped in his cloak as in a shroud, was leaving the inn farther and=
farther
behind him as he followed the silent man, like a statue following a spectre=
.
Unexplained arrest, which would gre=
atly
astonish an Englishman nowadays, was then a very usual proceeding of the
police. Recourse was had to it, notwithstanding the Habeas Corpus Act, up to
George II.'s time, especially in such delicate cases as were provided for by
lettres de cachet in France; and one of the accusations against which Walpo=
le
had to defend himself was that he had caused or allowed Neuhoff to be arres=
ted
in that manner. The accusation was probably without foundation, for Neuhoff,
King of Corsica, was put in prison by his creditors.
These silent capt=
ures
of the person, very usual with the Holy Væhme in Germany, were admitt=
ed
by German custom, which rules one half of the old English laws, and recomme=
nded
in certain cases by Norman custom, which rules the other half. Justinian's
chief of the palace police was called "silentiarius imperialis." =
The
English magistrates who practised the captures in question relied upon nume=
rous
Norman texts:--Canes latrant, sergentes silent. Sergenter agere, id est tac=
ere.
They quoted Lundulphus Sagax, paragraph 16: Facit imperator silentium. They
quoted the charter of King Philip in 1307: Multos tenebimus bastonerios qui=
, obmutescentes,
sergentare valeant. They quoted the statutes of Henry I. of England, cap. 5=
3:
Surge signo jussus. Taciturnior esto. Hoc est esse in captione regis. They =
took
advantage especially of the following description, held to form part of the
ancient feudal franchises of England:--"Sous les viscomtes sont les
serjans de l'espée, lesquels doivent justicier vertueusement à
l'espée tous ceux qui suient malveses compagnies, gens diffamez d'au=
cuns
crimes, et gens fuites et forbannis.... et les doivent si vigoureusement et
discrètement appréhender, que la bonne gent qui sont paisibles
soient gardez paisiblement et que les malfeteurs soient espoantés.&q=
uot;
To be thus arrested was to be seized "à le glaive de
l'espée." (Vetus Consuetudo Normanniæ, MS. part I, sect. =
I,
ch. 11.) The jurisconsults referred besides "in Charta Ludovici Hutum =
pro
Normannis, chapter Servientes spathæ." Servientes spathæ, =
in
the gradual approach of base Latin to our idioms, became sergentes spad&ael=
ig;.
These silent arre=
sts
were the contrary of the Clameur de Haro, and gave warning that it was
advisable to hold one's tongue until such time as light should be thrown up=
on
certain matters still in the dark. They signified questions reserved, and
showed in the operation of the police a certain amount of raison d'é=
tat.
The legal term
"private" was applied to arrests of this description. It was thus
that Edward III., according to some chroniclers, caused Mortimer to be seiz=
ed
in the bed of his mother, Isabella of France. This, again, we may take leav=
e to
doubt; for Mortimer sustained a siege in his town before being captured.
Warwick, the
king-maker, delighted in practising this mode of "attaching people.&qu=
ot;
Cromwell made use of it, especially in Connaught; and it was with this
precaution of silence that Trailie Arcklo, a relation of the Earl of Ormond,
was arrested at Kilmacaugh.
These captures of=
the
body by the mere motion of justice represented rather the mandat de comparu=
tion
than the warrant of arrest. Sometimes they were but processes of inquiry, a=
nd
even argued, by the silence imposed upon all, a certain consideration for t=
he
person seized. For the mass of the people, little versed as they were in the
estimate of such shades of difference, they had peculiar terrors.
It must not be fo=
rgotten
that in 1705, and even much later, England was far from being what she is
to-day. The general features of its constitution were confused and at times
very oppressive. Daniel Defoe, who had himself had a taste of the pillory,
characterizes the social order of England, somewhere in his writings, as the
"iron hands of the law." There was not only the law; there was its
arbitrary administration. We have but to recall Steele, ejected from
Parliament; Locke, driven from his chair; Hobbes and Gibbon, compelled to
flight; Charles Churchill, Hume, and Priestley, persecuted; John Wilkes sen=
t to
the Tower. The task would be a long one, were we to count over the victims =
of
the statute against seditious libel. The Inquisition had, to some extent,
spread its arrangements throughout Europe, and its police practice was take=
n as
a guide. A monstrous attempt against all rights was possible in England. We
have only to recall the Gazetier Cuirassé. In the midst of the
eighteenth century, Louis XV. had writers, whose works displeased him, arre=
sted
in Piccadilly. It is true that George II. laid his hands on the Pretender in
France, right in the middle of the hall at the opera. Those were two long
arms--that of the King of France reaching London; that of the King of Engla=
nd,
Paris! Such was the liberty of the period.
CHAPTER IV - URSUS SPIES THE POLICE.
As we have already said, according =
to the
very severe laws of the police of those days, the summons to follow the
wapentake, addressed to an individual, implied to all other persons present=
the
command not to stir.
Some curious idle=
rs,
however, were stubborn, and followed from afar off the cortège which=
had
taken Gwynplaine into custody.
Ursus was of them=
. He
had been as nearly petrified as any one has a right to be. But Ursus, so of=
ten
assailed by the surprises incident to a wandering life, and by the malice of
chance, was, like a ship-of-war, prepared for action, and could call to the
post of danger the whole crew--that is to say, the aid of all his intellige=
nce.
He flung off his
stupor and began to think. He strove not to give way to emotion, but to sta=
nd
face to face with circumstances.
To look fortune in
the face is the duty of every one not an idiot; to seek not to understand, =
but
to act.
Presently he asked
himself, What could he do?
Gwynplaine being
taken, Ursus was placed between two terrors--a fear for Gwynplaine, which
instigated him to follow; and a fear for himself, which urged him to remain
where he was.
Ursus had the
intrepidity of a fly and the impassibility of a sensitive plant. His agitat=
ion
was not to be described. However, he took his resolution heroically, and
decided to brave the law, and to follow the wapentake, so anxious was he
concerning the fate of Gwynplaine.
His terror must h=
ave
been great to prompt so much courage.
To what valiant a=
cts
will not fear drive a hare!
The chamois in
despair jumps a precipice. To be terrified into imprudence is one of the fo=
rms
of fear.
Gwynplaine had be=
en
carried off rather than arrested. The operation of the police had been exec=
uted
so rapidly that the Fair field, generally little frequented at that hour of=
the
morning, had scarcely taken cognizance of the circumstance.
Scarcely any one =
in
the caravans had any idea that the wapentake had come to take Gwynplaine. H=
ence
the smallness of the crowd.
Gwynplaine, thank=
s to
his cloak and his hat, which nearly concealed his face, could not be recogn=
ized
by the passers-by.
Before he went ou=
t to
follow Gwynplaine, Ursus took a precaution. He spoke to Master Nicless, to =
the
boy Govicum, and to Fibi and Vinos, and insisted on their keeping absolute
silence before Dea, who was ignorant of everything. That they should not ut=
ter
a syllable that could make her suspect what had occurred; that they should =
make
her understand that the cares of the management of the Green Box necessitat=
ed
the absence of Gwynplaine and Ursus; that, besides, it would soon be the ti=
me
of her daily siesta, and that before she awoke he and Gwynplaine would have=
returned;
that all that had taken place had arisen from a mistake; that it would be v=
ery
easy for Gwynplaine and himself to clear themselves before the magistrate a=
nd
police; that a touch of the finger would put the matter straight, after whi=
ch
they should both return; above all, that no one should say a word on the
subject to Dea. Having given these directions he departed.
Ursus was able to
follow Gwynplaine without being remarked. Though he kept at the greatest
possible distance, he so managed as not to lose sight of him. Boldness in
ambuscade is the bravery of the timid.
After all,
notwithstanding the solemnity of the attendant circumstances, Gwynplaine mi=
ght
have been summoned before the magistrate for some unimportant infraction of=
the
law.
Ursus assured him=
self
that the question would be decided at once.
The solution of t=
he
mystery would be made under his very eyes by the direction taken by the
cortège which took Gwynplaine from Tarrinzeau Field when it reached =
the
entrance of the lanes of the Little Strand.
If it turned to t=
he
left, it would conduct Gwynplaine to the justice hall in Southwark. In that
case there would be little to fear, some trifling municipal offence, an
admonition from the magistrate, two or three shillings to pay, and Gwynplai=
ne
would be set at liberty, and the representation of "Chaos Vanquished&q=
uot;
would take place in the evening as usual. In that case no one would know th=
at
anything unusual had happened.
If the cort&egrav=
e;ge
turned to the right, matters would be serious.
There were fright=
ful
places in that direction.
When the wapentak=
e,
leading the file of soldiers between whom Gwynplaine walked, arrived at the
small streets, Ursus watched them breathlessly. There are moments in which a
man's whole being passes into his eyes.
Which way were th=
ey
going to turn?
They turned to the
right.
Ursus, staggering
with terror, leant against a wall that he might not fall.
There is no hypoc=
risy
so great as the words which we say to ourselves, "I wish to know the
worst!" At heart we do not wish it at all. We have a dreadful fear of
knowing it. Agony is mingled with a dim effort not to see the end. We do not
own it to ourselves, but we would draw back if we dared; and when we have
advanced, we reproach ourselves for having done so.
Thus did Ursus. He
shuddered as he thought,--
"Here are th=
ings
going wrong. I should have found it out soon enough. What business had I to
follow Gwynplaine?"
Having made this
reflection, man being but self-contradiction, he increased his pace, and,
mastering his anxiety, hastened to get nearer the cortège, so as not=
to
break, in the maze of small streets, the thread between Gwynplaine and hims=
elf.
The cortèg=
e of
police could not move quickly, on account of its solemnity.
The wapentake led=
it.
The justice of the
quorum closed it.
This order compel=
led
a certain deliberation of movement.
All the majesty
possible in an official shone in the justice of the quorum. His costume hel=
d a
middle place between the splendid robe of a doctor of music of Oxford and t=
he
sober black habiliments of a doctor of divinity of Cambridge. He wore the d=
ress
of a gentleman under a long godebert, which is a mantle trimmed with the fu=
r of
the Norwegian hare. He was half Gothic and half modern, wearing a wig like
Lamoignon, and sleeves like Tristan l'Hermite. His great round eye watched =
Gwynplaine
with the fixedness of an owl's.
He walked with a
cadence. Never did honest man look fiercer.
Ursus, for a mome=
nt
thrown out of his way in the tangled skein of streets, overtook, close to S=
aint
Mary Overy, the cortège, which had fortunately been retarded in the
churchyard by a fight between children and dogs--a common incident in the
streets in those days. "Dogs and boys," say the old registers of
police, placing the dogs before the boys.
A man being taken
before a magistrate by the police was, after all, an everyday affair, and e=
ach
one having his own business to attend to, the few who had followed soon
dispersed. There remained but Ursus on the track of Gwynplaine.
They passed before
two chapels opposite to each other, belonging the one to the Recreative
Religionists, the other to the Hallelujah League--sects which flourished th=
en,
and which exist to the present day.
Then the
cortège wound from street to street, making a zigzag, choosing by
preference lanes not yet built on, roads where the grass grew, and deserted
alleys.
At length it stop=
ped.
It was in a little
lane with no houses except two or three hovels. This narrow alley was compo=
sed
of two walls--one on the left, low; the other on the right, high. The high =
wall
was black, and built in the Saxon style with narrow holes, scorpions, and l=
arge
square gratings over narrow loopholes. There was no window on it, but here =
and
there slits, old embrasures of pierriers and archegayes. At the foot of this
high wall was seen, like the hole at the bottom of a rat-trap, a little wic=
ket
gate, very elliptical in its arch.
This small door,
encased in a full, heavy girding of stone, had a grated peephole, a heavy
knocker, a large lock, hinges thick and knotted, a bristling of nails, an
armour of plates, and hinges, so that altogether it was more of iron than of
wood.
There was no one =
in
the lane--no shops, no passengers; but in it there was heard a continual no=
ise,
as if the lane ran parallel to a torrent. There was a tumult of voices and =
of
carriages. It seemed as if on the other side of the black edifice there mus=
t be
a great street, doubtless the principal street of Southwark, one end of whi=
ch
ran into the Canterbury road, and the other on to London Bridge.
All the length of=
the
lane, except the cortège which surrounded Gwynplaine, a watcher would
have seen no other human face than the pale profile of Ursus, hazarding a h=
all
advance from the shadow of the corner of the wall--looking, yet fearing to =
see.
He had posted himself behind the wall at a turn of the lane.
The constables
grouped themselves before the wicket. Gwynplaine was in the centre, the
wapentake and his baton of iron being now behind him.
The justice of the
quorum raised the knocker, and struck the door three times. The loophole
opened.
The justice of the
quorum said,--
"By order of=
her
Majesty."
The heavy door of=
oak
and iron turned on its hinges, making a chilly opening, like the mouth of a
cavern. A hideous depth yawned in the shadow.
Ursus saw Gwynpla=
ine
disappear within it.
The wapentake entered behind Gwynpl=
aine.
Then the justice =
of
the quorum.
Then the constabl=
es.
The wicket was
closed.
The heavy door sw=
ung
to, closing hermetically on the stone sills, without any one seeing who had
opened or shut it. It seemed as if the bolts re-entered their sockets of th=
eir
own act. Some of these mechanisms, the inventions of ancient intimidation,
still exist in old prisons--doors of which you saw no doorkeeper. With them=
the
entrance to a prison becomes like the entrance to a tomb.
This wicket was t=
he
lower door of Southwark Jail.
There was nothing=
in
the harsh and worm-eaten aspect of this prison to soften its appropriate ai=
r of
rigour.
Originally a pagan
temple, built by the Catieuchlans for the Mogons, ancient English gods, it
became a palace for Ethelwolf and a fortress for Edward the Confessor; then=
it
was elevated to the dignity of a prison, in 1199, by John Lackland. Such was
Southwark Jail. This jail, at first intersected by a street, like Chenoncea=
ux
by a river, had been for a century or two a gate--that is to say, the gate =
of
the suburb; the passage had then been walled up. There remain in England so=
me
prisons of this nature. In London, Newgate; at Canterbury, Westgate; at Edi=
nburgh,
Canongate. In France the Bastile was originally a gate.
Almost all the ja=
ils
of England present the same appearance--a high wall without and a hive of c=
ells
within. Nothing could be more funereal than the appearance of those prisons,
where spiders and justice spread their webs, and where John Howard, that ra=
y of
light, had not yet penetrated. Like the old Gehenna of Brussels, they might
well have been designated Treurenberg--the house of tears.
Men felt before s=
uch
buildings, at once so savage and inhospitable, the same distress that the
ancient navigators suffered before the hell of slaves mentioned by Plautus,
islands of creaking chains, ferricrepiditæ insulæ, when they pa=
ssed
near enough to hear the clank of the fetters.
Southwark Jail, an
old place of exorcisms and torture, was originally used solely for the
imprisonment of sorcerers, as was proved by two verses engraved on a defaced
stone at the foot of the wicket,--
Sunt arreptitii, vexati dæmo=
ne
multo Est energumenus, =
quem
dæmon possidet unus.
Lines which draw a
subtle delicate distinction between the demoniac and man possessed by a dev=
il.
At the bottom of =
this
inscription, nailed flat against the wall, was a stone ladder, which had be=
en
originally of wood, but which had been changed into stone by being buried in
earth of petrifying quality at a place called Apsley Gowis, near Woburn Abb=
ey.
The prison of
Southwark, now demolished, opened on two streets, between which, as a gate,=
it
formerly served as means of communication. It had two doors. In the large s=
treet
a door, apparently used by the authorities; and in the lane the door of
punishment, used by the rest of the living and by the dead also, because wh=
en a
prisoner in the jail died it was by that issue that his corpse was carried =
out.
A liberation not to be despised. Death is release into infinity.
It was by the gat=
e of
punishment that Gwynplaine had been taken into prison. The lane, as we have
said, was nothing but a little passage, paved with flints, confined between=
two
opposite walls. There is one of the same kind at Brussels called Rue d'une
Personne. The walls were unequal in height. The high one was the prison; the
low one, the cemetery--the enclosure for the mortuary remains of the jail--=
was
not higher than the ordinary stature of a man. In it was a gate almost oppo=
site
the prison wicket. The dead had only to cross the street; the cemetery was =
but
twenty paces from the jail. On the high wall was affixed a gallows; on the =
low
one was sculptured a Death's head. Neither of these walls made its opposite
neighbour more cheerful.
CHAPTER VI - THE KIND OF MAGISTRACY UNDER THE WIGS OF FOR=
MER
DAYS.
Any one observing at that moment the
other side of the prison--its façade--would have perceived the high
street of Southwark, and might have remarked, stationed before the monument=
al
and official entrance to the jail, a travelling carriage, recognized as suc=
h by
its imperial. A few idlers surrounded the carriage. On it was a coat of arm=
s,
and a personage had been seen to descend from it and enter the prison. &quo=
t;Probably
a magistrate," conjectured the crowd. Many of the English magistrates =
were
noble, and almost all had the right of bearing arms. In France blazon and r=
obe
were almost contradictory terms. The Duke Saint-Simon says, in speaking of
magistrates, "people of that class." In England a gentleman was n=
ot
despised for being a judge.
There are travell=
ing
magistrates in England; they are called judges of circuit, and nothing was
easier than to recognize the carriage as the vehicle of a judge on circuit.
That which was less comprehensible was, that the supposed magistrate got do=
wn,
not from the carriage itself, but from the box, a place which is not habitu=
ally
occupied by the owner. Another unusual thing. People travelled at that peri=
od
in England in two ways--by coach, at the rate of a shilling for five miles;=
and
by post, paying three half-pence per mile, and twopence to the postillion a=
fter
each stage. A private carriage, whose owner desired to travel by relays, pa=
id
as many shillings per horse per mile as the horseman paid pence. The carria=
ge
drawn up before the jail in Southwark had four horses and two postillions,
which displayed princely state. Finally, that which excited and disconcerted
conjectures to the utmost was the circumstance that the carriage was sedulo=
usly
shut up. The blinds of the windows were closed up. The glasses in front were
darkened by blinds; every opening by which the eye might have penetrated was
masked. From without, nothing within could be seen, and most likely from
within, nothing could be seen outside. However, it did not seem probable th=
at
there was any one in the carriage.
Southwark being in
Surrey, the prison was within the jurisdiction of the sheriff of the county=
.
Such distinct
jurisdictions were very frequent in England. Thus, for example, the Tower of
London was not supposed to be situated in any county; that is to say, that
legally it was considered to be in air. The Tower recognized no authority of
jurisdiction except in its own constable, who was qualified as custos turri=
s.
The Tower had its jurisdiction, its church, its court of justice, and its
government apart. The authority of its custos, or constable, extended, beyo=
nd London,
over twenty-one hamlets. As in Great Britain legal singularities engraft one
upon another the office of the master gunner of England was derived from the
Tower of London. Other legal customs seem still more whimsical. Thus, the
English Court of Admiralty consults and applies the laws of Rhodes and of
Oleron, a French island which was once English.
The sheriff of a
county was a person of high consideration. He was always an esquire, and
sometimes a knight. He was called spectabilis in the old deeds, "a man=
to
be looked at"--kind of intermediate title between illustris and
clarissimus; less than the first, more than the second. Long ago the sherif=
fs
of the counties were chosen by the people; but Edward II., and after him He=
nry
VI., having claimed their nomination for the crown, the office of sheriff
became a royal emanation.
They all received
their commissions from majesty, except the sheriff of Westmoreland, whose
office was hereditary, and the sheriffs of London and Middlesex, who were
elected by the livery in the common hall. Sheriffs of Wales and Chester
possessed certain fiscal prerogatives. These appointments are all still in
existence in England, but, subjected little by little to the friction of
manners and ideas, they have lost their old aspects. It was the duty of the
sheriff of the county to escort and protect the judges on circuit. As we ha=
ve
two arms, he had two officers; his right arm the under-sheriff, his left arm
the justice of the quorum. The justice of the quorum, assisted by the baili=
ff
of the hundred, termed the wapentake, apprehended, examined, and, under the=
responsibility
of the sheriff, imprisoned, for trial by the judges of circuit, thieves,
murderers, rebels, vagabonds, and all sorts of felons.
The shade of
difference between the under-sheriff and the justice of the quorum, in their
hierarchical service towards the sheriff, was that the under-sheriff
accompanied and the justice of the quorum assisted.
The sheriff held =
two
courts--one fixed and central, the county court; and a movable court, the
sheriff's turn. He thus represented both unity and ubiquity. He might as ju=
dge
be aided and informed on legal questions by the serjeant of the coif, called
sergens coifæ, who is a serjeant-at-law, and who wears under his black
skull-cap a fillet of white Cambray lawn.
The sheriff deliv=
ered
the jails. When he arrived at a town in his province, he had the right of
summary trial of the prisoners, of which he might cause either their releas=
e or
the execution. This was called a jail delivery. The sheriff presented bills=
of
indictment to the twenty-four members of the grand jury. If they approved, =
they
wrote above, billa vera; if the contrary, they wrote ignoramus. In the latt=
er
case the accusation was annulled, and the sheriff had the privilege of tear=
ing
up the bill. If during the deliberation a juror died, this legally acquitted
the prisoner and made him innocent, and the sheriff, who had the privilege =
of
arresting the accused, had also that of setting him at liberty.
That which made t=
he
sheriff singularly feared and respected was that he had the charge of execu=
ting
all the orders of her Majesty--a fearful latitude. An arbitrary power lodge=
s in
such commissions.
The officers term=
ed
vergers, the coroners making part of the sheriff's cortège, and the
clerks of the market as escort, with gentlemen on horseback and their serva=
nts
in livery, made a handsome suite. The sheriff, says Chamberlayne, is the
"life of justice, of law, and of the country."
In England an
insensible demolition constantly pulverizes and dissevers laws and customs.=
You
must understand in our day that neither the sheriff, the wapentake, nor the
justice of the quorum could exercise their functions as they did then. There
was in the England of the past a certain confusion of powers, whose ill-def=
ined
attributes resulted in their overstepping their real bounds at times--a thi=
ng which
would be impossible in the present day. The usurpation of power by police a=
nd justices
has ceased. We believe that even the word "wapentake" has changed=
its
meaning. It implied a magisterial function; now it signifies a territorial
division: it specified the centurion; it now specifies the hundred (centum)=
.
Moreover, in those
days the sheriff of the county combined with something more and something l=
ess,
and condensed in his own authority, which was at once royal and municipal, =
the
two magistrates formerly called in France the civil lieutenant of Paris and=
the
lieutenant of police. The civil lieutenant of Paris, Monsieur, is pretty we=
ll described
in an old police note: "The civil lieutenant has no dislike to domestic
quarrels, because he always has the pickings" (22nd July 1704). As to =
the
lieutenant of police, he was a redoubtable person, multiple and vague. The =
best
personification of him was René d'Argenson, who, as was said by
Saint-Simon, displayed in his face the three judges of hell united.
The three judges =
of
hell sat, as has already been seen, at Bishopsgate, London.
When Gwynplaine heard the wicket sh=
ut,
creaking in all its bolts, he trembled. It seemed to him that the door which
had just closed was the communication between light and darkness--opening on
one side on the living, human crowd, and on the other on a dead world; and =
now
that everything illumined by the sun was behind him, that he had stepped ov=
er the
boundary of life and was standing without it, his heart contracted. What we=
re
they going to do with him? What did it all mean? Where was he?
He saw nothing ar=
ound
him; he found himself in perfect darkness. The shutting of the door had
momentarily blinded him. The window in the door had been closed as well. No
loophole, no lamp. Such were the precautions of old times. It was forbidden=
to
light the entrance to the jails, so that the newcomers should take no
observations.
Gwynplaine extend=
ed
his arms, and touched the wall on the right side and on the left. He was in=
a
passage. Little by little a cavernous daylight exuding, no one knows whence,
and which floats about dark places, and to which the dilatation of the pupil
adjusts itself slowly, enabled him to distinguish a feature here and there,=
and
the corridor was vaguely sketched out before him.
Gwynplaine, who h=
ad
never had a glimpse of penal severities, save in the exaggerations of Ursus,
felt as though seized by a sort of vague gigantic hand. To be caught in the
mysterious toils of the law is frightful. He who is brave in all other dang=
ers
is disconcerted in the presence of justice. Why? Is it that the justice of =
man
works in twilight, and the judge gropes his way? Gwynplaine remembered what
Ursus had told him of the necessity for silence. He wished to see Dea again=
; he
felt some discretionary instinct, which urged him not to irritate. Sometime=
s to
wish to be enlightened is to make matters worse; on the other hand, however,
the weight of the adventure was so overwhelming that he gave way at length,=
and
could not restrain a question.
"Gentlemen,&=
quot;
said he, "whither are you taking me?"
They made no answ=
er.
It was the law of
silent capture, and the Norman text is formal: A silentiariis ostio,
præpositis introducti sunt.
This silence froze
Gwynplaine. Up to that moment he had believed himself to be firm: he was
self-sufficing. To be self-sufficing is to be powerful. He had lived isolat=
ed
from the world, and imagined that being alone he was unassailable; and now =
all
at once he felt himself under the pressure of a hideous collective force. H=
ow
was he to combat that horrible anonyma, the law? He felt faint under the
perplexity; a fear of an unknown character had found a fissure in his armou=
r;
besides, he had not slept, he had not eaten, he had scarcely moistened his =
lips
with a cup of tea. The whole night had been passed in a kind of delirium, a=
nd the
fever was still on him. He was thirsty; perhaps hungry. The craving of the
stomach disorders everything. Since the previous evening all kinds of incid=
ents
had assailed him. The emotions which had tormented had sustained him. Witho=
ut
the storm a sail would be a rag. But his was the excessive feebleness of the
rag, which the wind inflates till it tears it. He felt himself sinking. Was=
he
about to fall without consciousness on the pavement? To faint is the resour=
ce
of a woman, and the humiliation of a man. He hardened himself, but he tremb=
led.
He felt as one losing his footing.
They began to move forward.
They advanced thr=
ough
the passage.
There was no
preliminary registry, no place of record. The prisons in those times were n=
ot
overburdened with documents. They were content to close round you without
knowing why. To be a prison, and to hold prisoners, sufficed.
The procession was
obliged to lengthen itself out, taking the form of the corridor. They walked
almost in single file; first the wapentake, then Gwynplaine, then the justi=
ce
of the quorum, then the constables, advancing in a group, and blocking up t=
he
passage behind Gwynplaine as with a bung. The passage narrowed. Now Gwynpla=
ine
touched the walls with both his elbows. In the roof, which was made of flin=
ts,
dashed with cement, was a succession of granite arches jutting out, and sti=
ll
more contracting the passage. He had to stoop to pass under them. No speed =
was
possible in that corridor. Any one trying to escape through it would have b=
een
compelled to move slowly. The passage twisted. All entrails are tortuous; t=
hose
of a prison as well as those of a man. Here and there, sometimes to the rig=
ht
and sometimes to the left, spaces in the wall, square and closed by large i=
ron
gratings, gave glimpses of flights of stairs, some descending and some
ascending.
They reached a cl=
osed
door; it opened. They passed through, and it closed again. Then they came t=
o a
second door, which admitted them; then to a third, which also turned on its
hinges. These doors seemed to open and shut of themselves. No one was to be
seen. While the corridor contracted, the roof grew lower, until at length it
was impossible to stand upright. Moisture exuded from the wall. Drops of wa=
ter
fell from the vault. The slabs that paved the corridor were clammy as an in=
testine.
The diffused pallor that served as light became more and more a pall. Air w=
as
deficient, and, what was singularly ominous, the passage was a descent.
Close observation=
was
necessary to perceive that there was such a descent. In darkness a gentle
declivity is portentous. Nothing is more fearful than the vague evils to wh=
ich
we are led by imperceptible degrees.
It is awful to
descend into unknown depths.
How long had they
proceeded thus? Gwynplaine could not tell.
Moments passed un=
der
such crushing agony seem immeasurably prolonged.
Suddenly they hal=
ted.
The darkness was
intense.
The corridor wide=
ned
somewhat. Gwynplaine heard close to him a noise of which only a Chinese gong
could give an idea; something like a blow struck against the diaphragm of t=
he
abyss. It was the wapentake striking his wand against a sheet of iron.
That sheet of iron
was a door.
Not a door on hin=
ges,
but a door which was raised and let down.
Something like a
portcullis.
There was a sound=
of
creaking in a groove, and Gwynplaine was suddenly face to face with a bit of
square light. The sheet of metal had just been raised into a slit in the va=
ult,
like the door of a mouse-trap.
An opening had
appeared.
The light was not
daylight, but glimmer; but on the dilated eyeballs of Gwynplaine the pale a=
nd
sudden ray struck like a flash of lightning.
It was some time
before he could see anything. To see with dazzled eyes is as difficult as to
see in darkness.
At length, by
degrees, the pupil of his eye became proportioned to the light, just as it =
had
been proportioned to the darkness, and he was able to distinguish objects. =
The
light, which at first had seemed too bright, settled into its proper hue and
became livid. He cast a glance into the yawning space before him, and what =
he
saw was terrible.
At his feet were
about twenty steps, steep, narrow, worn, almost perpendicular, without balu=
strade
on either side, a sort of stone ridge cut out from the side of a wall into
stairs, entering and leading into a very deep cell. They reached to the bot=
tom.
The cell was roun=
d,
roofed by an ogee vault with a low arch, from the fault of level in the top
stone of the frieze, a displacement common to cells under heavy edifices.
The kind of hole
acting as a door, which the sheet of iron had just revealed, and on which t=
he
stairs abutted, was formed in the vault, so that the eye looked down from i=
t as
into a well.
The cell was larg=
e,
and if it was the bottom of a well, it must have been a cyclopean one. The =
idea
that the old word "cul-de-basse-fosse" awakens in the mind can on=
ly
be applied to it if it were a lair of wild beasts.
The cell was neit=
her
flagged nor paved. The bottom was of that cold, moist earth peculiar to deep
places.
In the midst of t=
he
cell, four low and disproportioned columns sustained a porch heavily ogival=
, of
which the four mouldings united in the interior of the porch, something like
the inside of a mitre. This porch, similar to the pinnacles under which
sarcophagi were formerly placed, rose nearly to the top of the vault, and m=
ade
a sort of central chamber in the cavern, if that could be called a chamber
which had only pillars in place of walls.
From the key of t=
he
arch hung a brass lamp, round and barred like the window of a prison. This =
lamp
threw around it--on the pillars, on the vault, on the circular wall which w=
as
seen dimly behind the pillars--a wan light, cut by bars of shadow.
This was the light
which had at first dazzled Gwynplaine; now it threw out only a confused
redness.
There was no other
light in the cell--neither window, nor door, nor loophole.
Between the four
pillars, exactly below the lamp, in the spot where there was most light, a =
pale
and terrible form lay on the ground.
It was lying on i=
ts
back; a head was visible, of which the eyes were shut; a body, of which the
chest was a shapeless mass; four limbs belonging to the body, in the positi=
on
of the cross of Saint Andrew, were drawn towards the four pillars by four
chains fastened to each foot and each hand.
These chains were
fastened to an iron ring at the base of each column. The form was held
immovable, in the horrible position of being quartered, and had the icy loo=
k of
a livid corpse.
It was naked. It =
was
a man.
Gwynplaine, as if
petrified, stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. Suddenly he heard a
rattle in the throat.
The corpse was al=
ive.
Close to the spec=
tre,
in one of the ogives of the door, on each side of a great seat, which stood=
on
a large flat stone, stood two men swathed in long black cloaks; and on the =
seat
an old man was sitting, dressed in a red robe--wan, motionless, and ominous,
holding a bunch of roses in his hand.
The bunch of roses
would have enlightened any one less ignorant that Gwynplaine. The right of
judging with a nosegay in his hand implied the holder to be a magistrate, at
once royal and municipal. The Lord Mayor of London still keeps up the custo=
m.
To assist the deliberations of the judges was the function of the earliest
roses of the season.
The old man seate=
d on
the bench was the sheriff of the county of Surrey.
His was the majes=
tic
rigidity of a Roman dignitary.
The bench was the
only seat in the cell.
By the side of it=
was
a table covered with papers and books, on which lay the long, white wand of=
the
sheriff. The men standing by the side of the sheriff were two doctors, one =
of
medicine, the other of law; the latter recognizable by the Serjeant's coif =
over
his wig. Both wore black robes--one of the shape worn by judges, the other =
by
doctors.
Men of these kinds
wear mourning for the deaths of which they are the cause.
Behind the sherif=
f,
at the edge of the flat stone under the seat, was crouched--with a writing-=
table
near to him, a bundle of papers on his knees, and a sheet of parchment on t=
he
bundle--a secretary, in a round wig, with a pen in his hand, in the attitud=
e of
a man ready to write.
This secretary wa=
s of
the class called keeper of the bag, as was shown by a bag at his feet.
These bags, in fo=
rmer
times employed in law processes, were termed bags of justice.
With folded arms,
leaning against a pillar, was a man entirely dressed in leather, the hangma=
n's
assistant.
These men seemed =
as
if they had been fixed by enchantment in their funereal postures round the
chained man. None of them spoke or moved.
There brooded over
all a fearful calm.
What Gwynplaine s=
aw
was a torture chamber. There were many such in England.
The crypt of
Beauchamp Tower long served this purpose, as did also the cell in the Lolla=
rds'
prison. A place of this nature is still to be seen in London, called "=
the
Vaults of Lady Place." In this last-mentioned chamber there is a grate=
for
the purpose of heating the irons.
All the prisons o=
f King
John's time (and Southwark Jail was one) had their chambers of torture.
The scene which is
about to follow was in those days a frequent one in England, and might even=
, by
criminal process, be carried out to-day, since the same laws are still unre=
pealed.
England offers the curious sight of a barbarous code living on the best ter=
ms
with liberty. We confess that they make an excellent family party.
Some distrust,
however, might not be undesirable. In the case of a crisis, a return to the
penal code would not be impossible. English legislation is a tamed tiger wi=
th a
velvet paw, but the claws are still there. Cut the claws of the law, and you
will do well. Law almost ignores right. On one side is penalty, on the other
humanity. Philosophers protest; but it will take some time yet before the
justice of man is assimilated to the justice of God.
Respect for the l=
aw:
that is the English phrase. In England they venerate so many laws, that they
never repeal any. They save themselves from the consequences of their
veneration by never putting them into execution. An old law falls into disu=
se
like an old woman, and they never think of killing either one or the other.
They cease to make use of them; that is all. Both are at liberty to consider
themselves still young and beautiful. They may fancy that they are as they
were. This politeness is called respect.
Norman custom is =
very
wrinkled. That does not prevent many an English judge casting sheep's eyes =
at
her. They stick amorously to an antiquated atrocity, so long as it is Norma=
n.
What can be more savage than the gibbet? In 1867 a man was sentenced to be =
cut
into four quarters and offered to a woman--the Queen.[18]
Still, torture was
never practised in England. History asserts this as a fact. The assurance of
history is wonderful.
Matthew of
Westminster mentions that the "Saxon law, very clement and kind,"=
did
not punish criminals by death; and adds that "it limited itself to cut=
ting
off the nose and scooping out the eyes." That was all!
Gwynplaine, scared
and haggard, stood at the top of the steps, trembling in every limb. He
shuddered from head to foot. He tried to remember what crime he had committ=
ed.
To the silence of the wapentake had succeeded the vision of torture to be
endured. It was a step, indeed, forward; but a tragic one. He saw the dark
enigma of the law under the power of which he felt himself increasing in
obscurity.
The human form ly=
ing
on the earth rattled in its throat again.
Gwynplaine felt s=
ome
one touching him gently on his shoulder.
It was the wapent=
ake.
Gwynplaine knew t=
hat
meant that he was to descend.
He obeyed.
He descended the
stairs step by step. They were very narrow, each eight or nine inches in
height. There was no hand-rail. The descent required caution. Two steps beh=
ind
Gwynplaine followed the wapentake, holding up his iron weapon; and at the s=
ame
interval behind the wapentake, the justice of the quorum.
As he descended t=
he
steps, Gwynplaine felt an indescribable extinction of hope. There was death=
in
each step. In each one that he descended there died a ray of the light with=
in
him. Growing paler and paler, he reached the bottom of the stairs.
The larva lying
chained to the four pillars still rattled in its throat.
A voice in the sh=
adow
said,--
"Approach!&q=
uot;
It was the sheriff
addressing Gwynplaine.
Gwynplaine took a
step forward.
"Closer,&quo=
t;
said the sheriff.
The justice of the
quorum murmured in the ear of Gwynplaine, so gravely that there was solemni=
ty
in the whisper, "You are before the sheriff of the county of Surrey.&q=
uot;
Gwynplaine advanc=
ed
towards the victim extended in the centre of the cell. The wapentake and the
justice of the quorum remained where they were, allowing Gwynplaine to adva=
nce
alone.
When Gwynplaine
reached the spot under the porch, close to that miserable thing which he had
hitherto perceived only from a distance, but which was a living man, his fe=
ar
rose to terror. The man who was chained there was quite naked, except for t=
hat
rag so hideously modest, which might be called the vineleaf of punishment, =
the succingulum
of the Romans, and the christipannus of the Goths, of which the old Gallic
jargon made cripagne. Christ wore but that shred on the cross.
The terror-strick=
en
sufferer whom Gwynplaine now saw seemed a man of about fifty or sixty years=
of
age. He was bald. Grizzly hairs of beard bristled on his chin. His eyes were
closed, his mouth open. Every tooth was to be seen. His thin and bony face =
was
like a death's-head. His arms and legs were fastened by chains to the four
stone pillars in the shape of the letter X. He had on his breast and belly a
plate of iron, and on this iron five or six large stones were laid. His rat=
tle
was at times a sigh, at times a roar.
The sheriff, still
holding his bunch of roses, took from the table with the hand which was free
his white wand, and standing up said, "Obedience to her Majesty."=
Then he replaced =
the
wand upon the table.
Then in words
long-drawn as a knell, without a gesture, and immovable as the sufferer, the
sheriff, raising his voice, said,--
"Man, who li=
est
here bound in chains, listen for the last time to the voice of justice; you
have been taken from your dungeon and brought to this jail. Legally summone=
d in
the usual forms, formaliis verbis pressus; not regarding to lectures and
communications which have been made, and which will now be repeated, to you;
inspired by a bad and perverse spirit of tenacity, you have preserved silen=
ce,
and refused to answer the judge. This is a detestable licence, which
constitutes, among deeds punishable by cashlit, the crime and misdemeanour =
of
overseness."
The serjeant of t=
he
coif on the right of the sheriff interrupted him, and said, with an
indifference indescribably lugubrious in its effect, "Overhernessa. La=
ws
of Alfred and of Godrun, chapter the sixth."
The sheriff resum=
ed.
"The law is
respected by all except by scoundrels who infest the woods where the hinds =
bear
young."
Like one clock
striking after another, the serjeant said,--
"Qui faciunt
vastum in foresta ubi damoe solent founinare."
"He who refu=
ses
to answer the magistrate," said the sheriff, "is suspected of eve=
ry
vice. He is reputed capable of every evil."
The serjeant
interposed.
"Prodigus,
devorator, profusus, salax, ruffianus, ebriosus, luxuriosus, simulator,
consumptor patrimonii, elluo, ambro, et gluto."
"Every
vice," said the sheriff, "means every crime. He who confesses not=
hing,
confesses everything. He who holds his peace before the questions of the ju=
dge
is in fact a liar and a parricide."
"Mendax et
parricida," said the serjeant.
The sheriff said,=
--
"Man, it is =
not
permitted to absent oneself by silence. To pretend contumaciousness is a wo=
und
given to the law. It is like Diomede wounding a goddess. Taciturnity before=
a
judge is a form of rebellion. Treason to justice is high treason. Nothing is
more hateful or rash. He who resists interrogation steals truth. The law has
provided for this. For such cases, the English have always enjoyed the righ=
t of
the foss, the fork, and chains."
"Anglica Cha=
rta,
year 1088," said the serjeant. Then with the same mechanical gravity he
added, "Ferrum, et fossam, et furcas cum aliis libertatibus."
The sheriff
continued,--
"Man! Forasm=
uch
as you have not chosen to break silence, though of sound mind and having fu=
ll
knowledge in respect of the subject concerning which justice demands an ans=
wer,
and forasmuch as you are diabolically refractory, you have necessarily been=
put
to torture, and you have been, by the terms of the criminal statutes, tried=
by
the 'Peine forte et dure.' This is what has been done to you, for the law
requires that I should fully inform you. You have been brought to this dung=
eon.
You have been stripped of your clothes. You have been laid on your back nak=
ed
on the ground, your limbs have been stretched and tied to the four pillars =
of
the law; a sheet of iron has been placed on your chest, and as many stones =
as
you can bear have been heaped on your belly, 'and more,' says the law."=
;
"Plusque,&qu=
ot;
affirmed the serjeant.
The sheriff
continued,--
"In this
situation, and before prolonging the torture, a second summons to answer an=
d to
speak has been made you by me, sheriff of the county of Surrey, and you have
satanically kept silent, though under torture, chains, shackles, fetters, a=
nd
irons."
"Attachiamen=
ta
legalia," said the serjeant.
"On your ref=
usal
and contumacy," said the sheriff, "it being right that the obstin=
acy
of the law should equal the obstinacy of the criminal, the proof has been
continued according to the edicts and texts. The first day you were given
nothing to eat or drink."
"Hoc est
superjejunare," said the serjeant.
There was silence,
the awful hiss of the man's breathing was heard from under the heap of ston=
es.
The serjeant-at-l=
aw
completed his quotation.
"Adde augmen=
tum
abstinentiæ ciborum diminutione. Consuetudo brittanica, art. 504.&quo=
t;
The two men, the
sheriff and the serjeant, alternated. Nothing could be more dreary than the=
ir
imperturbable monotony. The mournful voice responded to the ominous voice; =
it
might be said that the priest and the deacon of punishment were celebrating=
the
savage mass of the law.
The sheriff
resumed,--
"On the first
day you were given nothing to eat or drink. On the second day you were given
food, but nothing to drink. Between your teeth were thrust three mouthfuls =
of
barley bread. On the third day they gave you to drink, but nothing to eat. =
They
poured into your mouth at three different times, and in three different
glasses, a pint of water taken from the common sewer of the prison. The fou=
rth
day is come. It is to-day. Now, if you do not answer, you will be left here
till you die. Justice wills it."
The Serjeant, rea=
dy
with his reply, appeared.
"Mors rei
homagium est bonæ legi."
"And while y=
ou
feel yourself dying miserably," resumed the sheriff, "no one will
attend to you, even when the blood rushes from your throat, your chin, and =
your
armpits, and every pore, from the mouth to the loins."
"A
throtabolla," said the Serjeant, "et pabu et subhircis et a grugno
usque ad crupponum."
The sheriff
continued,--
"Man, attend=
to
me, because the consequences concern you. If you renounce your execrable
silence, and if you confess, you will only be hanged, and you will have a r=
ight
to the meldefeoh, which is a sum of money."
"Damnum
confitens," said the Serjeant, "habeat le meldefeoh. Leges In&ael=
ig;,
chapter the twentieth."
"Which
sum," insisted the sheriff, "shall be paid in doitkins, suskins, =
and
galihalpens, the only case in which this money is to pass, according to the
terms of the statute of abolition, in the third of Henry V., and you will h=
ave
the right and enjoyment of scortum ante mortem, and then be hanged on the
gibbet. Such are the advantages of confession. Does it please you to answer=
to
justice?"
The sheriff ceased
and waited.
The prisoner lay
motionless.
The sheriff
resumed,--
"Man, silenc= e is a refuge in which there is more risk than safety. The obstinate man is damn= able and vicious. He who is silent before justice is a felon to the crown. Do not persist in this unfilial disobedience. Think of her Majesty. Do not oppose = our gracious queen. When I speak to you, answer her; be a loyal subject."<= o:p>
The patient rattl=
ed
in the throat.
The sheriff
continued,--
"So, after t=
he
seventy-two hours of the proof, here we are at the fourth day. Man, this is=
the
decisive day. The fourth day has been fixed by the law for the
confrontation."
"Quarta die,
frontem ad frontem adduce," growled the Serjeant.
"The wisdom =
of
the law," continued the sheriff, "has chosen this last hour to ho=
ld
what our ancestors called 'judgment by mortal cold,' seeing that it is the
moment when men are believed on their yes or their no."
The serjeant on t=
he
right confirmed his words.
"Judicium pro
frodmortell, quod homines credendi sint per suum ya et per suum no. Charter=
of
King Adelstan, volume the first, page one hundred and sixty-three."
There was a momen=
t's
pause; then the sheriff bent his stern face towards the prisoner.
"Man, who art
lying there on the ground--"
He paused.
"Man," =
he
cried, "do you hear me?"
The man did not m=
ove.
"In the name=
of
the law," said the sheriff, "open your eyes."
The man's lids
remained closed.
The sheriff turne=
d to
the doctor, who was standing on his left.
"Doctor, give
your diagnostic."
"Probe, da
diagnosticum," said the serjeant.
The doctor came d=
own
with magisterial stiffness, approached the man, leant over him, put his ear
close to the mouth of the sufferer, felt the pulse at the wrist, the armpit,
and the thigh, then rose again.
"Well?"
said the sheriff.
"He can still
hear," said the doctor.
"Can he
see?" inquired the sheriff.
The doctor answer=
ed,
"He can see."
On a sign from the
sheriff, the justice of the quorum and the wapentake advanced. The wapentake
placed himself near the head of the patient. The justice of the quorum stood
behind Gwynplaine.
The doctor retire=
d a
step behind the pillars.
Then the sheriff,
raising the bunch of roses as a priest about to sprinkle holy water, called=
to
the prisoner in a loud voice, and became awful.
"O wretched =
man,
speak! The law supplicates before she exterminates you. You, who feign to be
mute, remember how mute is the tomb. You, who appear deaf, remember that
damnation is more deaf. Think of the death which is worse than your present
state. Repent! You are about to be left alone in this cell. Listen! you who=
are
my likeness; for I am a man! Listen, my brother, because I am a Christian!
Listen, my son, because I am an old man! Look at me; for I am the master of
your sufferings, and I am about to become terrible. The terrors of the law =
make
up the majesty of the judge. Believe that I myself tremble before myself. My
own power alarms me. Do not drive me to extremities. I am filled by the hol=
y malice
of chastisement. Feel, then, wretched man, the salutary and honest fear of
justice, and obey me. The hour of confrontation is come, and you must answe=
r.
Do not harden yourself in resistance. Do not that which will be irrevocable.
Think that your end belongs to me. Half man, half corpse, listen! At least,=
let
it not be your determination to expire here, exhausted for hours, days, and
weeks, by frightful agonies of hunger and foulness, under the weight of tho=
se
stones, alone in this cell, deserted, forgotten, annihilated, left as food =
for
the rats and the weasels, gnawed by creatures of darkness while the world c=
omes
and goes, buys and sells, whilst carriages roll in the streets above your h=
ead.
Unless you would continue to draw painful breath without remission in the
depths of this despair--grinding your teeth, weeping, blaspheming--without a
doctor to appease the anguish of your wounds, without a priest to offer a
divine draught of water to your soul. Oh! if only that you may not feel the
frightful froth of the sepulchre ooze slowly from your lips, I adjure and
conjure you to hear me. I call you to your own aid. Have pity on yourself. =
Do
what is asked of you. Give way to justice. Open your eyes, and see if you
recognize this man!"
The prisoner neit=
her
turned his head nor lifted his eyelids.
The sheriff cast a
glance first at the justice of the quorum and then at the wapentake.
The justice of the
quorum, taking Gwynplaine's hat and mantle, put his hands on his shoulders =
and
placed him in the light by the side of the chained man. The face of Gwynpla=
ine
stood out clearly from the surrounding shadow in its strange relief.
At the same time,=
the
wapentake bent down, took the man's temples between his hands, turned the i=
nert
head towards Gwynplaine, and with his thumbs and his first fingers lifted t=
he
closed eyelids.
The prisoner saw
Gwynplaine. Then, raising his head voluntarily, and opening his eyes wide, =
he
looked at him.
He quivered as mu=
ch
as a man can quiver with a mountain on his breast, and then cried out,--
"'Tis he! Ye=
s;
'tis he!"
And he burst into=
a
horrible laugh.
"'Tis he!&qu=
ot;
he repeated.
Then his head fell
back on the ground, and he closed his eyes again.
"Registrar, =
take
that down," said the justice.
Gwynplaine, though
terrified, had, up to that moment, preserved a calm exterior. The cry of the
prisoner, "'Tis he!" overwhelmed him completely. The words,
"Registrar, take that down!" froze him. It seemed to him that a
scoundrel had dragged him to his fate without his being able to guess why, =
and
that the man's unintelligible confession was closing round him like the cla=
sp
of an iron collar. He fancied himself side by side with him in the posts of=
the
same pillory. Gwynplaine lost his footing in his terror, and protested. He
began to stammer incoherent words in the deep distress of an innocent man, =
and
quivering, terrified, lost, uttered the first random outcries that rose to =
his
mind, and words of agony like aimless projectiles.
"It is not t=
rue.
It was not me. I do not know the man. He cannot know me, since I do not know
him. I have my part to play this evening. What do you want of me? I demand =
my
liberty. Nor is that all. Why have I been brought into this dungeon? Are th=
ere
laws no longer? You may as well say at once that there are no laws. My Lord
Judge, I repeat that it is not I. I am innocent of all that can be said. I =
know
I am. I wish to go away. This is not justice. There is nothing between this=
man
and me. You can find out. My life is not hidden up. They came and took me a=
way
like a thief. Why did they come like that? How could I know the man? I am a=
travelling
mountebank, who plays farces at fairs and markets. I am the Laughing Man. P=
lenty
of people have been to see me. We are staying in Tarrinzeau Field. I have b=
een
earning an honest livelihood these fifteen years. I am five-and-twenty. I l=
odge
at the Tadcaster Inn. I am called Gwynplaine. My lord, let me out. You shou=
ld
not take advantage of the low estate of the unfortunate. Have compassion on=
a
man who has done no harm, who is without protection and without defence. You
have before you a poor mountebank."
"I have befo=
re
me," said the sheriff, "Lord Fermain Clancharlie, Baron Clancharl=
ie
and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sicily, and a peer of England."=
;
Rising, and offer=
ing
his chair to Gwynplaine, the sheriff added,--
"My lord, wi=
ll
your lordship deign to seat yourself?"
BOOK THE FIFTH - THE SEA AND FATE ARE MOVED BY THE SAME
BREATH.
CHAPTER I - THE DURABILITY OF FRAGILE THINGS.
Destiny sometimes proffers us a gla=
ss of
madness to drink. A hand is thrust out of the mist, and suddenly hands us t=
he
mysterious cup in which is contained the latent intoxication.
Gwynplaine did not
understand.
He looked behind =
him
to see who it was who had been addressed.
A sound may be too
sharp to be perceptible to the ear; an emotion too acute conveys no meaning=
to
the mind. There is a limit to comprehension as well as to hearing.
The wapentake and=
the
justice of the quorum approached Gwynplaine and took him by the arms. He fe=
lt
himself placed in the chair which the sheriff had just vacated. He let it be
done, without seeking an explanation.
When Gwynplaine w=
as
seated, the justice of the quorum and the wapentake retired a few steps, and
stood upright and motionless, behind the seat.
Then the sheriff
placed his bunch of roses on the stone table, put on spectacles which the
secretary gave him, drew from the bundles of papers which covered the table=
a
sheet of parchment, yellow, green, torn, and jagged in places, which seemed=
to
have been folded in very small folds, and of which one side was covered with
writing; standing under the light of the lamp, he held the sheet close to h=
is
eyes, and in his most solemn tone read as follows:--
"In the name=
of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
"This present
day, the twenty-ninth of January, one thousand six hundred and ninetieth ye=
ar
of our Lord.
"Has been
wickedly deserted on the desert coast of Portland, with the intention of
allowing him to perish of hunger, of cold, and of solitude, a child ten yea=
rs
old.
"That child =
was
sold at the age of two years, by order of his most gracious Majesty, King J=
ames
the Second.
"That child =
is
Lord Fermain Clancharlie, the only legitimate son of Lord Linnæus
Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sici=
ly,
a peer of England, and of Ann Bradshaw, his wife, both deceased. That child=
is
the inheritor of the estates and titles of his father. For this reason he w=
as
sold, mutilated, disfigured, and put out of the way by desire of his most
gracious Majesty.
"That child =
was
brought up, and trained to be a mountebank at markets and fairs.
"He was sold=
at
the age of two, after the death of the peer, his father, and ten pounds
sterling were given to the king as his purchase-money, as well as for divers
concessions, tolerations, and immunities.
"Lord Fermain
Clancharlie, at the age of two years, was bought by me, the undersigned, who
write these lines, and mutilated and disfigured by a Fleming of Flanders,
called Hardquanonne, who alone is acquainted with the secrets and modes of
treatment of Doctor Conquest.
"The child w=
as
destined by us to be a laughing mask (masca ridens).
"With this i=
ntention
Hardquanonne performed on him the operation, Bucca fissa usque ad aures, wh=
ich
stamps an everlasting laugh upon the face.
"The child, =
by
means known only to Hardquanonne, was put to sleep and made insensible duri=
ng
its performance, knowing nothing of the operation which he underwent.
"He does not
know that he is Lord Clancharlie.
"He answers =
to
the name of Gwynplaine.
"This fact is
the result of his youth, and the slight powers of memory he could have had =
when
he was bought and sold, being then barely two years old.
"Hardquanonn=
e is
the only person who knows how to perform the operation Bucca fissa, and the
said child is the only living subject upon which it has been essayed.
"The operati=
on
is so unique and singular that though after long years this child should ha=
ve
come to be an old man instead of a child, and his black locks should have
turned white, he would be immediately recognized by Hardquanonne.
"At the time
that I am writing this, Hardquanonne, who has perfect knowledge of all the
facts, and participated as principal therein, is detained in the prisons of=
his
highness the Prince of Orange, commonly called King William III. Hardquanon=
ne
was apprehended and seized as being one of the band of Comprachicos or Chey=
las.
He is imprisoned in the dungeon of Chatham.
"It was in
Switzerland, near the Lake of Geneva, between Lausanne and Vevey, in the ve=
ry
house in which his father and mother died, that the child was, in obedience
with the orders of the king, sold and given up by the last servant of the
deceased Lord Linnæus, which servant died soon after his master, so t=
hat
this secret and delicate matter is now unknown to any one on earth, excepti=
ng
Hardquanonne, who is in the dungeon of Chatham, and ourselves, now about to
perish.
"We, the und=
ersigned,
brought up and kept, for eight years, for professional purposes, the little
lord bought by us of the king.
"To-day, fly=
ing
from England to avoid Hardquanonne's ill-fortune, our fear of the penal
indictments, prohibitions, and fulminations of Parliament has induced us to
desert, at night-fall, on the coast of Portland, the said child Gwynplaine,=
who
is Lord Fermain Clancharlie.
"Now, we have
sworn secrecy to the king, but not to God.
"To-night, at
sea, overtaken by a violent tempest by the will of Providence, full of desp=
air
and distress, kneeling before Him who could save our lives, and may, perhap=
s,
be willing to save our souls, having nothing more to hope from men, but
everything to fear from God, having for only anchor and resource repentance=
of our
bad actions, resigned to death, and content if Divine justice be satisfied,
humble, penitent, and beating our breasts, we make this declaration, and
confide and deliver it to the furious ocean to use as it best may according=
to
the will of God. And may the Holy Virgin aid us, Amen. And we attach our si=
gnatures."
The sheriff
interrupted, saying,--"Here are the signatures. All in different
handwritings."
And he resumed,--=
"Doctor
Gernardus Geestemunde.--Asuncion.--A cross, and at the side of it, Barbara
Fermoy, from Tyrryf Isle, in the Hebrides; Gaizdorra, Captain; Giangirate;
Jacques Quartourze, alias le Narbonnais; Luc-Pierre Capgaroupe, from the
galleys of Mahon."
The sheriff, afte=
r a
pause, resumed, a "note written in the same hand as the text and the f=
irst
signature," and he read,--
"Of the three
men comprising the crew, the skipper having been swept off by a wave, there
remain but two, and we have signed, Galdeazun; Ave Maria, Thief."
The sheriff,
interspersing his reading with his own observations, continued, "At the
bottom of the sheet is written,--
"'At sea, on
board of the Matutina, Biscay hooker, from the Gulf de Pasages.' This
sheet," added the sheriff, "is a legal document, bearing the mark=
of
King James the Second. On the margin of the declaration, and in the same
handwriting there is this note, 'The present declaration is written by us on
the back of the royal order, which was given us as our receipt when we boug=
ht
the child. Turn the leaf and the order will be seen.'"
The sheriff turned the parchment, and raised it in his right hand, to expose it to the light.<= o:p>
A blank page was
seen, if the word blank can be applied to a thing so mouldy, and in the mid=
dle
of the page three words were written, two Latin words, Jussu regis, and a
signature, Jeffreys.
"Jussu regis,
Jeffreys," said the sheriff, passing from a grave voice to a clear one=
.
Gwynplaine was as=
a
man on whose head a tile falls from the palace of dreams.
He began to speak,
like one who speaks unconsciously.
"Gernardus, =
yes,
the doctor. An old, sad-looking man. I was afraid of him. Gaizdorra, Captai=
n,
that means chief. There were women, Asuncion, and the other. And then the
Provençal. His name was Capgaroupe. He used to drink out of a flat
bottle on which there was a name written in red."
"Behold
it," said the sheriff.
He placed on the
table something which the secretary had just taken out of the bag. It was a
gourd, with handles like ears, covered with wicker. This bottle had evident=
ly
seen service, and had sojourned in the water. Shells and seaweed adhered to=
it.
It was encrusted and damascened over with the rust of ocean. There was a ri=
ng
of tar round its neck, showing that it had been hermetically sealed. Now it=
was
unsealed and open. They had, however, replaced in the flask a sort of bung =
made
of tarred oakum, which had been used to cork it.
"It was in t=
his
bottle," said the sheriff, "that the men about to perish placed t=
he
declaration which I have just read. This message addressed to justice has b=
een
faithfully delivered by the sea."
The sheriff incre=
ased
the majesty of his tones, and continued,--
"In the same=
way
that Harrow Hill produces excellent wheat, which is turned into fine flour =
for
the royal table, so the sea renders every service in its power to England, =
and
when a nobleman is lost finds and restores him."
Then he resumed,-=
-
"On this fla=
sk,
as you say, there is a name written in red."
He raised his voi=
ce,
turning to the motionless prisoner,--
"Your name,
malefactor, is here. Such are the hidden channels by which truth, swallowed=
up
in the gulf of human actions, floats to the surface."
The sheriff took =
the
gourd, and turned to the light one of its sides, which had, no doubt, been
cleaned for the ends of justice. Between the interstices of wicker was a na=
rrow
line of red reed, blackened here and there by the action of water and of ti=
me.
The reed,
notwithstanding some breakages, traced distinctly in the wicker-work these
twelve letters--Hardquanonne.
Then the sheriff,
resuming that monotonous tone of voice which resembles nothing else, and wh=
ich
may be termed a judicial accent, turned towards the sufferer.
"Hardquanonn=
e!
when by us, the sheriff, this bottle, on which is your name, was for the fi=
rst
time shown, exhibited, and presented to you, you at once, and willingly,
recognized it as having belonged to you. Then, the parchment being read to =
you
which was contained, folded and enclosed within it, you would say no more; =
and
in the hope, doubtless, that the lost child would never be recovered, and t=
hat
you would escape punishment, you refuse to answer. As the result of your
refusal, you have had applied to you the peine forte et dure; and the secon=
d reading
of the said parchment, on which is written the declaration and confession of
your accomplices, was made to you, but in vain.
"This is the
fourth day, and that which is legally set apart for the confrontation, and =
he
who was deserted on the twenty-ninth of January, one thousand six hundred a=
nd
ninety, having been brought into your presence, your devilish hope has
vanished, you have broken silence, and recognized your victim."
The prisoner open=
ed
his eyes, lifted his head, and, with a voice strangely resonant of agony, b=
ut
which had still an indescribable calm mingled with its hoarseness, pronounc=
ed
in excruciating accents, from under the mass of stones, words to pronounce =
each
of which he had to lift that which was like the slab of a tomb placed upon =
him.
He spoke,--
"I swore to =
keep
the secret. I have kept it as long as I could. Men of dark lives are faithf=
ul, and
hell has its honour. Now silence is useless. So be it! For this reason I sp=
eak.
Well--yes; 'tis he! We did it between us--the king and I: the king, by his
will; I, by my art!"
And looking at
Gwynplaine,--
"Now laugh f=
or
ever!"
And he himself be=
gan
to laugh.
This second laugh,
wilder yet than the first, might have been taken for a sob.
The laughed cease=
d,
and the man lay back. His eyelids closed.
The sheriff, who =
had
allowed the prisoner to speak, resumed,--
"All which is
placed on record."
He gave the secre=
tary
time to write, and then said,--
"Hardquanonn=
e,
by the terms of the law, after confrontation followed by identification, af=
ter
the third reading of the declarations of your accomplices, since confirmed =
by
your recognition and confession, and after your renewed avowal, you are abo=
ut
to be relieved from these irons, and placed at the good pleasure of her Maj=
esty
to be hung as plagiary."
"Plagiary,&q=
uot;
said the serjeant of the coif. "That is to say, a buyer and seller of
children. Law of the Visigoths, seventh book, third section, paragraph
Usurpaverit, and Salic law, section the forty-first, paragraph the second, =
and
law of the Frisons, section the twenty-first, Deplagio; and Alexander Nequam
says,--
"'Qui pueros
vendis, plagiarius est tibi nomen.'"
The sheriff placed
the parchment on the table, laid down his spectacles, took up the nosegay, =
and
said,--
"End of la p=
eine
forte et dure. Hardquanonne, thank her Majesty."
By a sign the jus=
tice
of the quorum set in motion the man dressed in leather.
This man, who was=
the
executioner's assistant, "groom of the gibbet," the old charters =
call
him, went to the prisoner, took off the stones, one by one, from his chest,=
and
lifted the plate of iron up, exposing the wretch's crushed sides. Then he f=
reed
his wrists and ankle-bones from the four chains that fastened him to the
pillars.
The prisoner,
released alike from stones and chains, lay flat on the ground, his eyes clo=
sed,
his arms and legs apart, like a crucified man taken down from a cross.
"Hardquanonn=
e,"
said the sheriff, "arise!"
The prisoner did =
not
move.
The groom of the
gibbet took up a hand and let it go; the hand fell back. The other hand, be=
ing
raised, fell back likewise.
The groom of the
gibbet seized one foot and then the other, and the heels fell back on the
ground.
The fingers remai=
ned
inert, and the toes motionless. The naked feet of an extended corpse seem, =
as
it were, to bristle.
The doctor
approached, and drawing from the pocket of his robe a little mirror of stee=
l,
put it to the open mouth of Hardquanonne. Then with his fingers he opened t=
he
eyelids. They did not close again; the glassy eyeballs remained fixed.
The doctor rose up
and said,--
"He is
dead."
And he added,--
"He laughed;
that killed him."
"'Tis of lit=
tle
consequence," said the sheriff. "After confession, life or death =
is a
mere formality."
Then pointing to
Hardquanonne by a gesture with the nosegay of roses, the sheriff gave the o=
rder
to the wapentake,--
"A corpse to=
be
carried away to-night."
The wapentake acq=
uiesced
by a nod.
And the sheriff
added,--
"The cemeter=
y of
the jail is opposite."
The wapentake nod=
ded
again.
The sheriff, hold=
ing
in his left hand the nosegay and in his right the white wand, placed himself
opposite Gwynplaine, who was still seated, and made him a low bow; then
assuming another solemn attitude, he turned his head over his shoulder, and
looking Gwynplaine in the face, said,--
"To you here
present, we Philip Denzill Parsons, knight, sheriff of the county of Surrey,
assisted by Aubrey Dominick, Esq., our clerk and registrar, and by our usual
officers, duly provided by the direct and special commands of her Majesty, =
in
virtue of our commission, and the rights and duties of our charge, and with
authority from the Lord Chancellor of England, the affidavits having been d=
rawn
up and recorded, regard being had to the documents communicated by the
Admiralty, after verification of attestations and signatures, after
declarations read and heard, after confrontation made, all the statements a=
nd
legal information having been completed, exhausted, and brought to a good a=
nd just
issue--we signify and declare to you, in order that right may be done, that=
you
are Fermain Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis de Corl=
eone
in Sicily, and a peer of England; and God keep your lordship!"
And he bowed to h=
im.
The serjeant on t=
he
right, the doctor, the justice of the quorum, the wapentake, the secretary,=
all
the attendants except the executioner, repeated his salutation still more
respectfully, and bowed to the ground before Gwynplaine.
"Ah," s=
aid
Gwynplaine, "awake me!"
And he stood up, =
pale
as death.
"I come to a=
wake
you indeed," said a voice which had not yet been heard.
A man came out fr=
om
behind the pillars. As no one had entered the cell since the sheet of iron =
had
given passage to the cortège of police, it was clear that this man h=
ad
been there in the shadow before Gwynplaine had entered, that he had a regul=
ar
right of attendance, and had been present by appointment and mission. The m=
an
was fat and pursy, and wore a court wig and a travelling cloak.
He was rather old
than young, and very precise.
He saluted Gwynpl=
aine
with ease and respect--with the ease of a gentleman-in-waiting, and without=
the
awkwardness of a judge.
"Yes," =
he said;
"I have come to awaken you. For twenty-five years you have slept. You =
have
been dreaming. It is time to awake. You believe yourself to be Gwynplaine; =
you
are Clancharlie. You believe yourself to be one of the people; you belong to
the peerage. You believe yourself to be of the lowest rank; you are of the
highest. You believe yourself a player; you are a senator. You believe your=
self
poor; you are wealthy. You believe yourself to be of no account; you are
important. Awake, my lord!"
Gwynplaine, in a =
low
voice, in which a tremor of fear was to be distinguished, murmured,--
"What does it
all mean?"
"It means, my
lord," said the fat man, "that I am called Barkilphedro; that I a=
m an
officer of the Admiralty; that this waif, the flask of Hardquanonne, was fo=
und
on the beach, and was brought to be unsealed by me, according to the duty a=
nd
prerogative of my office; that I opened it in the presence of two sworn jur=
ors
of the Jetsam Office, both members of Parliament, William Brathwait, for the
city of Bath, and Thomas Jervois, for Southampton; that the two jurors
deciphered and attested the contents of the flask, and signed the necessary
affidavit conjointly with me; that I made my report to her Majesty, and by
order of the queen all necessary and legal formalities were carried out with
the discretion necessary in a matter so delicate; that the last form, the c=
onfrontation,
has just been carried out; that you have £40,000 a year; that you are=
a
peer of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, a legislator and a judge, a
supreme judge, a sovereign legislator, dressed in purple and ermine, equal =
to
princes, like unto emperors; that you have on your brow the coronet of a pe=
er,
and that you are about to wed a duchess, the daughter of a king."
Under this
transfiguration, overwhelming him like a series of thunderbolts, Gwynplaine
fainted.
CHAPTER II - THE WAIF KNOWS ITS OWN COURSE.=
All this had occurred owing to the
circumstance of a soldier having found a bottle on the beach. We will relate
the facts. In all facts there are wheels within wheels.
One day one of the
four gunners composing the garrison of Castle Calshor picked up on the sand=
at
low water a flask covered with wicker, which had been cast up by the tide. =
This
flask, covered with mould, was corked by a tarred bung. The soldier carried=
the
waif to the colonel of the castle, and the colonel sent it to the High Admi=
ral
of England. The Admiral meant the Admiralty; with waifs, the Admiralty mean=
t Barkilphedro.
Barkilphedro, hav=
ing
uncorked and emptied the bottle, carried it to the queen. The queen immedia=
tely
took the matter into consideration.
Two weighty
counsellors were instructed and consulted--namely, the Lord Chancellor, who=
is
by law the guardian of the king's conscience; and the Lord Marshal, who is
referee in Heraldry and in the pedigrees of the nobility. Thomas Howard, Du=
ke
of Norfolk, a Catholic peer, who is hereditary Earl Marshal of England, had
sent word by his deputy Earl Marshal, Henry Howard, Earl Bindon, that he wo=
uld
agree with the Lord Chancellor. The Lord Chancellor was William Cowper. We =
must
not confound this chancellor with his namesake and contemporary William Cow=
per,
the anatomist and commentator on Bidloo, who published a treatise on muscle=
s,
in England, at the very time that Etienne Abeille published a history of bo=
nes,
in France. A surgeon is a very different thing from a lord. Lord William Co=
wper
is celebrated for having, with reference to the affair of Talbot Yelverton,
Viscount Longueville, propounded this opinion: That in the English constitu=
tion
the restoration of a peer is more important than the restoration of a king.=
The
flask found at Calshor had awakened his interest in the highest degree. The
author of a maxim delights in opportunities to which it may be applied. Here
was a case of the restoration of a peer. Search was made. Gwynplaine, by th=
e inscription
over his door, was soon found. Neither was Hardquanonne dead. A prison rots=
a
man, but preserves him--if to keep is to preserve. People placed in Bastiles
were rarely removed. There is little more change in the dungeon than in the
tomb. Hardquanonne was still in prison at Chatham. They had only to put the=
ir
hands on him. He was transferred from Chatham to London. In the meantime
information was sought in Switzerland. The facts were found to be correct. =
They
obtained from the local archives at Vevey, at Lausanne, the certificate of =
Lord
Linnæus's marriage in exile, the certificate of his child's birth, the
certificate of the decease of the father and mother; and they had duplicate=
s,
duly authenticated, made to answer all necessary requirements.
All this was done
with the most rigid secrecy, with what is called royal promptitude, and with
that mole-like silence recommended and practised by Bacon, and later on made
law by Blackstone, for affairs connected with the Chancellorship and the st=
ate,
and in matters termed parliamentary. The jussu regis and the signature Jeff=
reys
were authenticated. To those who have studied pathologically the cases of c=
aprice
called "our good will and pleasure," this jussu regis is very sim=
ple.
Why should James II., whose credit required the concealment of such acts, h=
ave
allowed that to be written which endangered their success? The answer is,
cynicism--haughty indifference. Oh! you believe that effrontery is confined=
to
abandoned women? The raison d'état is equally abandoned. Et se cupit
ante videri. To commit a crime and emblazon it, there is the sum total of
history. The king tattooes himself like the convict. Often when it would be=
to
a man's greatest advantage to escape from the hands of the police or the
records of history, he would seem to regret the escape so great is the love=
of notoriety.
Look at my arm! Observe the design! I am Lacenaire! See, a temple of love a=
nd a
burning heart pierced through with an arrow! Jussu regis. It is I, James the
Second. A man commits a bad action, and places his mark upon it. To fill up=
the
measure of crime by effrontery, to denounce himself, to cling to his misdee=
ds,
is the insolent bravado of the criminal. Christina seized Monaldeschi, had =
him
confessed and assassinated, and said,--
"I am the Qu=
een
of Sweden, in the palace of the King of France."
There is the tyra=
nt
who conceals himself, like Tiberius; and the tyrant who displays himself, l=
ike
Philip II. One has the attributes of the scorpion, the other those rather of
the leopard. James II. was of this latter variety. He had, we know, a gay a=
nd
open countenance, differing so far from Philip. Philip was sullen, James
jovial. Both were equally ferocious. James II. was an easy-minded tiger; li=
ke
Philip II., his crimes lay light upon his conscience. He was a monster by t=
he
grace of God. Therefore he had nothing to dissimulate nor to extenuate, and=
his
assassinations were by divine right. He, too, would not have minded leaving
behind him those archives of Simancas, with all his misdeeds dated, classif=
ied,
labelled, and put in order, each in its compartment, like poisons in the
cabinet of a chemist. To set the sign-manual to crimes is right royal.
Every deed done i=
s a
draft drawn on the great invisible paymaster. A bill had just come due with=
the
ominous endorsement, Jussu regis.
Queen Anne, in one
particular unfeminine, seeing that she could keep a secret, demanded a
confidential report of so grave a matter from the Lord Chancellor--one of t=
he
kind specified as "report to the royal ear." Reports of this kind
have been common in all monarchies. At Vienna there was "a counsellor =
of
the ear"--an aulic dignitary. It was an ancient Carlovingian office--t=
he
auricularius of the old palatine deeds. He who whispers to the emperor.
William, Baron
Cowper, Chancellor of England, whom the queen believed in because he was
short-sighted like herself, or even more so, had committed to writing a
memorandum commencing thus: "Two birds were subject to Solomon--a lapw=
ing,
the hudbud, who could speak all languages; and an eagle, the simourganka, w=
ho
covered with the shadow of his wings a caravan of twenty thousand men. Thus,
under another form, Providence," etc. The Lord Chancellor proved the f=
act
that the heir to a peerage had been carried off, mutilated, and then restor=
ed.
He did not blame James II., who was, after all, the queen's father. He even
went so far as to justify him. First, there are ancient monarchical maxims.=
E senioratu
eripimus. In roturagio cadat. Secondly, there is a royal right of mutilatio=
n.
Chamberlayne asserts the fact.[19] Corpora et bona nostrorum subjectorum no=
stra
sunt, said James I., of glorious and learned memory. The eyes of dukes of t=
he
blood royal have been plucked out for the good of the kingdom. Certain prin=
ces,
too near to the throne, have been conveniently stifled between mattresses, =
the
cause of death being given out as apoplexy. Now to stifle is worse than to =
mutilate.
The King of Tunis tore out the eyes of his father, Muley Assem, and his
ambassadors have not been the less favourably received by the emperor. Hence
the king may order the suppression of a limb like the suppression of a stat=
e,
etc. It is legal. But one law does not destroy another. "If a drowned =
man
is cast up by the water, and is not dead, it is an act of God readjusting o=
ne
of the king. If the heir be found, let the coronet be given back to him. Th=
us
was it done for Lord Alla, King of Northumberland, who was also a mounteban=
k.
Thus should be done to Gwynplaine, who is also a king, seeing that he is a
peer. The lowness of the occupation which he has been obliged to follow, un=
der
constraint of superior power, does not tarnish the blazon: as in the case o=
f Abdolmumen,
who was a king, although he had been a gardener; that of Joseph, who was a
saint, although he had been a carpenter; that of Apollo, who was a god,
although he had been a shepherd."
In short, the lea=
rned
chancellor concluded by advising the reinstatement, in all his estates and
dignities, of Lord Fermain Clancharlie, miscalled Gwynplaine, on the sole
condition that he should be confronted with the criminal Hardquanonne, and
identified by the same. And on this point the chancellor, as constitutional
keeper of the royal conscience, based the royal decision. The Lord Chancell=
or
added in a postscript that if Hardquanonne refused to answer he should be s=
ubjected
to the peine forte et dure, until the period called the frodmortell, accord=
ing
to the statute of King Athelstane, which orders the confrontation to take p=
lace
on the fourth day. In this there is a certain inconvenience, for if the
prisoner dies on the second or third day the confrontation becomes difficul=
t;
still the law must be obeyed. The inconvenience of the law makes part and
parcel of it. In the mind of the Lord Chancellor, however, the recognition =
of
Gwynplaine by Hardquanonne was indubitable.
Anne, having been
made aware of the deformity of Gwynplaine, and not wishing to wrong her sis=
ter,
on whom had been bestowed the estates of Clancharlie, graciously decided th=
at
the Duchess Josiana should be espoused by the new lord--that is to say, by
Gwynplaine.
The reinstatement=
of
Lord Fermain Clancharlie was, moreover, a very simple affair, the heir being
legitimate, and in the direct line.
In cases of doubt=
ful
descent, and of peerages in abeyance claimed by collaterals, the House of L=
ords
must be consulted. This (to go no further back) was done in 1782, in the ca=
se
of the barony of Sydney, claimed by Elizabeth Perry; in 1798, in that of the
barony of Beaumont, claimed by Thomas Stapleton; in 1803, in that of the ba=
rony
of Stapleton; in 1803, in that of the barony of Chandos, claimed by the Rev=
erend
Tymewell Brydges; in 1813, in that of the earldom of Banbury, claimed by
General Knollys, etc., etc. But the present was no similar case. Here there=
was
no pretence for litigation; the legitimacy was undoubted, the right clear a=
nd
certain. There was no point to submit to the House, and the Queen, assisted=
by
the Lord Chancellor, had power to recognize and admit the new peer.
Barkilphedro mana=
ged
everything.
The affair, thank=
s to
him, was kept so close, the secret was so hermetically sealed, that neither
Josiana nor Lord David caught sight of the fearful abyss which was being dug
under them. It was easy to deceive Josiana, entrenched as she was behind a
rampart of pride. She was self-isolated. As to Lord David, they sent him to
sea, off the coast of Flanders. He was going to lose his peerage, and had no
suspicion of it. One circumstance is noteworthy.
It happened that =
at
six leagues from the anchorage of the naval station commanded by Lord David=
, a
captain called Halyburton broke through the French fleet. The Earl of Pembr=
oke,
President of the Council, proposed that this Captain Halyburton should be m=
ade
vice-admiral. Anne struck out Halyburton's name, and put Lord David
Dirry-Moir's in its place, that he might, when no longer a peer, have the
satisfaction of being a vice-admiral.
Anne was well
pleased. A hideous husband for her sister, and a fine step for Lord David.
Mischief and kindness combined.
Her Majesty was g=
oing
to enjoy a comedy. Besides, she argued to herself that she was repairing an
abuse of power committed by her august father. She was reinstating a member=
of
the peerage. She was acting like a great queen; she was protecting innocence
according to the will of God that Providence in its holy and impenetrable w=
ays,
etc., etc. It is very sweet to do a just action which is disagreeable to th=
ose
whom we do not like.
To know that the
future husband of her sister was deformed, sufficed the queen. In what mann=
er
Gwynplaine was deformed, and by what kind of ugliness, Barkilphedro had not
communicated to the queen, and Anne had not deigned to inquire. She was pro=
udly
and royally disdainful. Besides, what could it matter? The House of Lords c=
ould
not but be grateful. The Lord Chancellor, its oracle, had approved. To rest=
ore
a peer is to restore the peerage. Royalty on this occasion had shown itself=
a
good and scrupulous guardian of the privileges of the peerage. Whatever mig=
ht be
the face of the new lord, a face cannot be urged in objection to a right. A=
nne
said all this to herself, or something like it, and went straight to her
object, an object at once grand, womanlike, and regal--namely, to give hers=
elf
a pleasure.
The queen was the=
n at
Windsor--a circumstance which placed a certain distance between the intrigu=
es
of the court and the public. Only such persons as were absolutely necessary=
to
the plan were in the secret of what was taking place. As to Barkilphedro, he
was joyful--a circumstance which gave a lugubrious expression to his face. =
If
there be one thing in the world which can be more hideous than another, 'tis
joy.
He had had the
delight of being the first to taste the contents of Hardquanonne's flask. He
seemed but little surprised, for astonishment is the attribute of a little
mind. Besides, was it not all due to him, who had waited so long on duty at=
the
gate of chance? Knowing how to wait, he had fairly won his reward.
This nil admirari=
was
an expression of face. At heart we may admit that he was very much astonish=
ed.
Any one who could have lifted the mask with which he covered his inmost hea=
rt
even before God would have discovered this: that at the very time Barkilphe=
dro
had begun to feel finally convinced that it would be impossible--even to hi=
m,
the intimate and most infinitesimal enemy of Josiana--to find a vulnerable
point in her lofty life. Hence an access of savage animosity lurked in his
mind. He had reached the paroxysm which is called discouragement. He was al=
l the
more furious, because despairing. To gnaw one's chain--how tragic and
appropriate the expression! A villain gnawing at his own powerlessness!
Barkilphedro was
perhaps just on the point of renouncing not his desire to do evil to Josian=
a,
but his hope of doing it; not the rage, but the effort. But how degrading t=
o be
thus baffled! To keep hate thenceforth in a case, like a dagger in a museum!
How bitter the humiliation!
All at once to a
certain goal--Chance, immense and universal, loves to bring such coincidenc=
es
about--the flask of Hardquanonne came, driven from wave to wave, into
Barkilphedro's hands. There is in the unknown an indescribable fealty which
seems to be at the beck and call of evil. Barkilphedro, assisted by two cha=
nce
witnesses, disinterested jurors of the Admiralty, uncorked the flask, found=
the
parchment, unfolded, read it. What words could express his devilish delight=
!
It is strange to
think that the sea, the wind, space, the ebb and flow of the tide, storms,
calms, breezes, should have given themselves so much trouble to bestow
happiness on a scoundrel. That co-operation had continued for fifteen years.
Mysterious efforts! During fifteen years the ocean had never for an instant
ceased from its labours. The waves transmitted from one to another the floa=
ting
bottle. The shelving rocks had shunned the brittle glass; no crack had yawn=
ed
in the flask; no friction had displaced the cork; the sea-weeds had not rot=
ted
the osier; the shells had not eaten out the word "Hardquanonne;" =
the
water had not penetrated into the waif; the mould had not rotted the parchm=
ent;
the wet had hot effaced the writing. What trouble the abyss must have taken=
! Thus
that which Gernardus had flung into darkness, darkness had handed back to
Barkilphedro. The message sent to God had reached the devil. Space had
committed an abuse of confidence, and a lurking sarcasm which mingles with
events had so arranged that it had complicated the loyal triumph of the lost
child's becoming Lord Clancharlie with a venomous victory: in doing a good
action, it had mischievously placed justice at the service of iniquity. To =
save
the victim of James II. was to give a prey to Barkilphedro. To reinstate
Gwynplaine was to crush Josiana. Barkilphedro had succeeded, and it was for
this that for so many years the waves, the surge, the squalls had buffeted,
shaken, thrown, pushed, tormented, and respected this bubble of glass, which
bore within it so many commingled fates. It was for this that there had bee=
n a
cordial co-operation between the winds, the tides, and the tempests--a vast=
agitation
of all prodigies for the pleasure of a scoundrel; the infinite co-operating
with an earthworm! Destiny is subject to such grim caprices.
Barkilphedro was
struck by a flash of Titanic pride. He said to himself that it had all been
done to fulfil his intentions. He felt that he was the object and the
instrument.
But he was wrong.=
Let
us clear the character of chance.
Such was not the =
real
meaning of the remarkable circumstance of which the hatred of Barkilphedro =
was
to profit. Ocean had made itself father and mother to an orphan, had sent t=
he
hurricane against his executioners, had wrecked the vessel which had repuls=
ed
the child, had swallowed up the clasped hands of the storm-beaten sailors,
refusing their supplications and accepting only their repentance; the tempe=
st received
a deposit from the hands of death. The strong vessel containing the crime w=
as
replaced by the fragile phial containing the reparation. The sea changed its
character, and, like a panther turning nurse, began to rock the cradle, not=
of
the child, but of his destiny, whilst he grew up ignorant of all that the
depths of ocean were doing for him.
The waves to which
this flask had been flung watching over that past which contained a future;=
the
whirlwind breathing kindly on it; the currents directing the frail waif acr=
oss
the fathomless wastes of water; the caution exercised by seaweed, the swell=
s,
the rocks; the vast froth of the abyss, taking under its protection an inno=
cent
child; the wave imperturbable as a conscience; chaos re-establishing order;=
the
worldwide shadows ending in radiance; darkness employed to bring to light t=
he
star of truth; the exile consoled in his tomb; the heir given back to his i=
nheritance;
the crime of the king repaired; divine premeditation obeyed; the little, the
weak, the deserted child with infinity for a guardian--all this Barkilphedro
might have seen in the event on which he triumphed. This is what he did not
see. He did not believe that it had all been done for Gwynplaine. He fancied
that it had been effected for Barkilphedro, and that he was well worth the
trouble. Thus it is ever with Satan.
Moreover, ere we =
feel
astonished that a waif so fragile should have floated for fifteen years
undamaged, we should seek to understand the tender care of the ocean. Fifte=
en
years is nothing. On the 4th of October 1867, on the coast of Morbihan, bet=
ween
the Isle de Croix, the extremity of the peninsula de Gavres, and the Rocher=
des
Errants, the fishermen of Port Louis found a Roman amphora of the fourth
century, covered with arabesques by the incrustations of the sea. That amph=
ora had
been floating fifteen hundred years.
Whatever appearan=
ce
of indifference Barkilphedro tried to exhibit, his wonder had equalled his =
joy.
Everything he could desire was there to his hand. All seemed ready made. The
fragments of the event which was to satisfy his hate were spread out within=
his
reach. He had nothing to do but to pick them up and fit them together--a re=
pair
which it was an amusement to execute. He was the artificer.
Gwynplaine! He kn=
ew
the name. Masca ridens. Like every one else, he had been to see the Laughing
Man. He had read the sign nailed up against the Tadcaster Inn as one reads a
play-bill that attracts a crowd. He had noted it. He remembered it directly=
in
its most minute details; and, in any case, it was easy to compare them with=
the
original. That notice, in the electrical summons which arose in his memory,
appeared in the depths of his mind, and placed itself by the side of the
parchment signed by the shipwrecked crew, like an answer following a questi=
on,
like the solution following an enigma; and the lines--"Here is to be s=
een Gwynplaine,
deserted at the age of ten, on the 29th of January, 1690, on the coast at
Portland"--suddenly appeared to his eyes in the splendour of an
apocalypse. His vision was the light of Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, outside a bo=
oth.
Here was the destruction of the edifice which made the existence of Josiana=
. A
sudden earthquake. The lost child was found. There was a Lord Clancharlie;
David Dirry-Moir was nobody. Peerage, riches, power, rank--all these things
left Lord David and entered Gwynplaine. All the castles, parks, forests, to=
wn
houses, palaces, domains, Josiana included, belonged to Gwynplaine. And wha=
t a
climax for Josiana! What had she now before her? Illustrious and haughty, a
player; beautiful, a monster. Who could have hoped for this? The truth was =
that
the joy of Barkilphedro had become enthusiastic. The most hateful combinati=
ons
are surpassed by the infernal munificence of the unforeseen. When reality
likes, it works masterpieces. Barkilphedro found that all his dreams had be=
en
nonsense; reality were better.
The change he was
about to work would not have seemed less desirable had it been detrimental =
to
him. Insects exist which are so savagely disinterested that they sting, kno=
wing
that to sting is to die. Barkilphedro was like such vermin.
But this time he =
had
not the merit of being disinterested. Lord David Dirry-Moir owed him nothin=
g,
and Lord Fermain Clancharlie was about to owe him everything. From being a
protégé Barkilphedro was about to become a protector. Protect=
or
of whom? Of a peer of England. He was going to have a lord of his own, and a
lord who would be his creature. Barkilphedro counted on giving him his first
impressions. His peer would be the morganatic brother-in-law of the queen. =
His
ugliness would please the queen in the same proportion as it displeased
Josiana. Advancing by such favour, and assuming grave and modest airs,
Barkilphedro might become a somebody. He had always been destined for the
church. He had a vague longing to be a bishop.
Meanwhile he was
happy.
Oh, what a great
success! and what a deal of useful work had chance accomplished for him! His
vengeance--for he called it his vengeance--had been softly brought to him by
the waves. He had not lain in ambush in vain.
He was the rock,
Josiana was the waif. Josiana was about to be dashed against Barkilphedro, =
to
his intense villainous ecstasy.
He was clever in =
the
art of suggestion, which consists in making in the minds of others a little
incision into which you put an idea of your own. Holding himself aloof, and
without appearing to mix himself up in the matter, it was he who arranged t=
hat
Josiana should go to the Green Box and see Gwynplaine. It could do no harm.=
The
appearance of the mountebank, in his low estate, would be a good ingredient=
in
the combination; later on it would season it.
He had quietly
prepared everything beforehand. What he most desired was something unspeaka=
bly
abrupt. The work on which he was engaged could only be expressed in these
strange words--the construction of a thunderbolt.
All preliminaries
being complete, he had watched till all the necessary legal formalities had
been accomplished. The secret had not oozed out, silence being an element of
law.
The confrontation=
of
Hardquanonne with Gwynplaine had taken place. Barkilphedro had been present=
. We
have seen the result.
The same day a
post-chaise belonging to the royal household was suddenly sent by her Majes=
ty
to fetch Lady Josiana from London to Windsor, where the queen was at the ti=
me
residing.
Josiana, for reas=
ons
of her own, would have been very glad to disobey, or at least to delay
obedience, and put off her departure till next day; but court life does not
permit of these objections. She was obliged to set out at once, and to leave
her residence in London, Hunkerville House, for her residence at Windsor,
Corleone Lodge.
The Duchess Josia=
na
left London at the very moment that the wapentake appeared at the Tadcaster=
Inn
to arrest Gwynplaine and take him to the torture cell of Southwark.
When she arrived =
at
Windsor, the Usher of the Black Rod, who guards the door of the presence
chamber, informed her that her Majesty was in audience with the Lord
Chancellor, and could not receive her until the next day; that, consequentl=
y,
she was to remain at Corleone Lodge, at the orders of her Majesty; and that=
she
should receive the queen's commands direct, when her Majesty awoke the next
morning. Josiana entered her house feeling very spiteful, supped in a bad
humour, had the spleen, dismissed every one except her page, then dismissed
him, and went to bed while it was yet daylight.
When she arrived =
she
had learned that Lord David Dirry-Moir was expected at Windsor the next day,
owing to his having, whilst at sea, received orders to return immediately a=
nd
receive her Majesty's commands.
"No man cou=
ld
pass suddenly from Siberia into Senegal without losing
consciousness."--HUMBOLDT.
The swoon of a ma=
n,
even of one the most firm and energetic, under the sudden shock of an
unexpected stroke of good fortune, is nothing wonderful. A man is knocked d=
own
by the unforeseen blow, like an ox by the poleaxe. Francis d'Albescola, he =
who
tore from the Turkish ports their iron chains, remained a whole day without
consciousness when they made him pope. Now the stride from a cardinal to a =
pope
is less than that from a mountebank to a peer of England.
No shock is so
violent as a loss of equilibrium.
When Gwynplaine c=
ame
to himself and opened his eyes it was night. He was in an armchair, in the
midst of a large chamber lined throughout with purple velvet, over walls,
ceiling, and floor. The carpet was velvet. Standing near him, with uncovered
head, was the fat man in the travelling cloak, who had emerged from behind =
the
pillar in the cell at Southwark. Gwynplaine was alone in the chamber with h=
im.
From the chair, by extending his arms, he could reach two tables, each bear=
ing
a branch of six lighted wax candles. On one of these tables there were pape=
rs
and a casket, on the other refreshments; a cold fowl, wine, and brandy, ser=
ved
on a silver-gilt salver.
Through the panes=
of
a high window, reaching from the ceiling to the floor, a semicircle of pill=
ars
was to be seen, in the clear April night, encircling a courtyard with three
gates, one very wide, and the other two low. The carriage gate, of great si=
ze,
was in the middle; on the right, that for equestrians, smaller; on the left,
that for foot passengers, still less. These gates were formed of iron raili=
ngs,
with glittering points. A tall piece of sculpture surmounted the central on=
e. The
columns were probably in white marble, as well as the pavement of the court,
thus producing an effect like snow; and framed in its sheet of flat flags w=
as a
mosaic, the pattern of which was vaguely marked in the shadow. This mosaic,
when seen by daylight, would no doubt have disclosed to the sight, with much
emblazonry and many colours, a gigantic coat-of-arms, in the Florentine
fashion. Zigzags of balustrades rose and fell, indicating stairs of terrace=
s.
Over the court frowned an immense pile of architecture, now shadowy and vag=
ue
in the starlight. Intervals of sky, full of stars, marked out clearly the
outline of the palace. An enormous roof could be seen, with the gable ends
vaulted; garret windows, roofed over like visors; chimneys like towers; and=
entablatures
covered with motionless gods and goddesses.
Beyond the colonn=
ade
there played in the shadow one of those fairy fountains in which, as the wa=
ter
falls from basin to basin, it combines the beauty of rain with that of the
cascade, and as if scattering the contents of a jewel box, flings to the wi=
nd
its diamonds and its pearls as though to divert the statues around. Long ro=
ws
of windows ranged away, separated by panoplies, in relievo, and by busts on
small pedestals. On the pinnacles, trophies and morions with plumes cut in =
stone
alternated with statues of heathen deities.
In the chamber wh=
ere
Gwynplaine was, on the side opposite the window, was a fireplace as high as=
the
ceiling, and on another, under a dais, one of those old spacious feudal beds
which were reached by a ladder, and where you might sleep lying across; the
joint-stool of the bed was at its side; a row of armchairs by the walls, an=
d a
row of ordinary chairs, in front of them, completed the furniture. The ceil=
ing
was domed. A great wood fire in the French fashion blazed in the fireplace;=
by the
richness of the flames, variegated of rose colour and green, a judge of such
things would have seen that the wood was ash--a great luxury. The room was =
so
large that the branches of candles failed to light it up. Here and there
curtains over doors, falling and swaying, indicated communications with oth=
er
rooms. The style of the room was altogether that of the reign of James I.--a
style square and massive, antiquated and magnificent. Like the carpet and t=
he
lining of the chamber, the dais, the baldaquin, the bed, the stool, the
curtains, the mantelpiece, the coverings of the table, the sofas, the chair=
s,
were all of purple velvet.
There was no gild=
ing,
except on the ceiling. Laid on it, at equal distance from the four angles, =
was
a huge round shield of embossed metal, on which sparkled, in dazzling relie=
f,
various coats of arms. Amongst the devices, on two blazons, side by side, w=
ere
to be distinguished the cap of a baron and the coronet of a marquis. Were t=
hey of
brass or of silver-gilt? You could not tell. They seemed to be of gold. And=
in
the centre of this lordly ceiling, like a gloomy and magnificent sky, the
gleaming escutcheon was as the dark splendour of a sun shining in the night=
.
The savage, in wh=
om
is embodied the free man, is nearly as restless in a palace as in a prison.
This magnificent chamber was depressing. So much splendour produces fear. W=
ho
could be the inhabitant of this stately palace? To what colossus did all th=
is
grandeur appertain? Of what lion is this the lair? Gwynplaine, as yet but h=
alf
awake, was heavy at heart.
"Where am
I?" he said.
The man who was
standing before him answered,--"You are in your own house, my lord.&qu=
ot;
It takes time to rise to the surfac=
e. And
Gwynplaine had been thrown into an abyss of stupefaction.
We do not gain our
footing at once in unknown depths.
There are routs of
ideas, as there are routs of armies. The rally is not immediate.
We feel as it were
scattered--as though some strange evaporation of self were taking place.
God is the arm, chance is the sling, man is the pebble. How are you to resist, once flung?<= o:p>
Gwynplaine, if we=
may
coin the expression, ricocheted from one surprise to another. After the love
letter of the duchess came the revelation in the Southwark dungeon.
In destiny, when
wonders begin, prepare yourself for blow upon blow. The gloomy portals once
open, prodigies pour in. A breach once made in the wall, and events rush up=
on
us pell-mell. The marvellous never comes singly.
The marvellous is=
an
obscurity. The shadow of this obscurity was over Gwynplaine. What was happe=
ning
to him seemed unintelligible. He saw everything through the mist which a de=
ep
commotion leaves in the mind, like the dust caused by a falling ruin. The s=
hock
had been from top to bottom. Nothing was clear to him. However, light always
returns by degrees. The dust settles. Moment by moment the density of
astonishment decreases. Gwynplaine was like a man with his eyes open and fi=
xed
in a dream, as if trying to see what may be within it. He dispersed the mis=
t. Then
he reshaped it. He had intermittances of wandering. He underwent that
oscillation of the mind in the unforeseen which alternately pushes us in the
direction in which we understand, and then throws us back in that which is
incomprehensible. Who has not at some time felt this pendulum in his brain?=
By degrees his
thoughts dilated in the darkness of the event, as the pupil of his eye had =
done
in the underground shadows at Southwark. The difficulty was to succeed in
putting a certain space between accumulated sensations. Before that combust=
ion
of hazy ideas called comprehension can take place, air must be admitted bet=
ween
the emotions. There air was wanting. The event, so to speak, could not be
breathed.
In entering that
terrible cell at Southwark, Gwynplaine had expected the iron collar of a fe=
lon;
they had placed on his head the coronet of a peer. How could this be? There=
had
not been space of time enough between what Gwynplaine had feared and what h=
ad
really occurred; it had succeeded too quickly--his terror changing into oth=
er
feelings too abruptly for comprehension. The contrasts were too tightly pac=
ked
one against the other. Gwynplaine made an effort to withdraw his mind from =
the
vice.
He was silent. Th=
is
is the instinct of great stupefaction, which is more on the defensive than =
it
is thought to be. Who says nothing is prepared for everything. A word of yo=
urs
allowed to drop may be seized in some unknown system of wheels, and your ut=
ter
destruction be compassed in its complex machinery.
The poor and weak
live in terror of being crushed. The crowd ever expect to be trodden down.
Gwynplaine had long been one of the crowd.
A singular state =
of
human uneasiness can be expressed by the words: Let us see what will happen.
Gwynplaine was in this state. You feel that you have not gained your
equilibrium when an unexpected situation surges up under your feet. You wat=
ch
for something which must produce a result. You are vaguely attentive. We wi=
ll
see what happens. What? You do not know. Whom? You watch.
The man with the
paunch repeated, "You are in your own house, my lord."
Gwynplaine felt
himself. In surprises, we first look to make sure that things exist; then we
feel ourselves, to make sure that we exist ourselves. It was certainly to h=
im that
the words were spoken; but he himself was somebody else. He no longer had h=
is
jacket on, or his esclavine of leather. He had a waistcoat of cloth of silv=
er;
and a satin coat, which he touched and found to be embroidered. He felt a h=
eavy
purse in his waistcoat pocket. A pair of velvet trunk hose covered his clow=
n's
tights. He wore shoes with high red heels. As they had brought him to this
palace, so had they changed his dress.
The man resumed,-=
-
"Will your
lordship deign to remember this: I am called Barkilphedro; I am clerk to the
Admiralty. It was I who opened Hardquanonne's flask and drew your destiny o=
ut
of it. Thus, in the 'Arabian Nights' a fisherman releases a giant from a
bottle."
Gwynplaine fixed =
his
eyes on the smiling face of the speaker.
Barkilphedro
continued:--
"Besides this
palace, my lord, Hunkerville House, which is larger, is yours. You own
Clancharlie Castle, from which you take your title, and which was a fortres=
s in
the time of Edward the Elder. You have nineteen bailiwicks belonging to you,
with their villages and their inhabitants. This puts under your banner, as a
landlord and a nobleman, about eighty thousand vassals and tenants. At
Clancharlie you are a judge--judge of all, both of goods and of persons--and
you hold your baron's court. The king has no right which you have not, exce=
pt
the privilege of coining money. The king, designated by the Norman law as c=
hief
signor, has justice, court, and coin. Coin is money. So that you, excepting=
in
this last, are as much a king in your lordship as he is in his kingdom. You=
have
the right, as a baron, to a gibbet with four pillars in England; and, as a
marquis, to a scaffold with seven posts in Sicily: that of the mere lord ha=
ving
two pillars; that of a lord of the manor, three; and that of a duke, eight.=
You
are styled prince in the ancient charters of Northumberland. You are relate=
d to
the Viscounts Valentia in Ireland, whose name is Power; and to the Earls of
Umfraville in Scotland, whose name is Angus. You are chief of a clan, like =
Campbell,
Ardmannach, and Macallummore. You have eight barons' courts--Reculver, Bast=
on, Hell-Kerters,
Homble, Moricambe, Grundraith, Trenwardraith, and others. You have a right =
over
the turf-cutting of Pillinmore, and over the alabaster quarries near Trent.=
Moreover,
you own all the country of Penneth Chase; and you have a mountain with an
ancient town on it. The town is called Vinecaunton; the mountain is called
Moilenlli. All which gives you an income of forty thousand pounds a year. T=
hat
is to say, forty times the five-and-twenty thousand francs with which a
Frenchman is satisfied."
Whilst Barkilphed=
ro
spoke, Gwynplaine, in a crescendo of stupor, remembered the past. Memory is=
a
gulf that a word can move to its lowest depths. Gwynplaine knew all the wor=
ds pronounced
by Barkilphedro. They were written in the last lines of the two scrolls whi=
ch
lined the van in which his childhood had been passed, and, from so often
letting his eyes wander over them mechanically, he knew them by heart. On
reaching, a forsaken orphan, the travelling caravan at Weymouth, he had fou=
nd
the inventory of the inheritance which awaited him; and in the morning, whe=
n the
poor little boy awoke, the first thing spelt by his careless and unconscious
eyes was his own title and its possessions. It was a strange detail added to
all his other surprises, that, during fifteen years, rolling from highway to
highway, the clown of a travelling theatre, earning his bread day by day,
picking up farthings, and living on crumbs, he should have travelled with t=
he
inventory of his fortune placarded over his misery.
Barkilphedro touc=
hed
the casket on the table with his forefinger.
"My lord, th=
is
casket contains two thousand guineas which her gracious Majesty the Queen h=
as
sent you for your present wants."
Gwynplaine made a
movement.
"That shall =
be
for my Father Ursus," he said.
"So be it, my
lord," said Barkilphedro. "Ursus, at the Tadcaster Inn. The Serje=
ant
of the Coif, who accompanied us hither, and is about to return immediately,
will carry them to him. Perhaps I may go to London myself. In that case I w=
ill
take charge of it."
"I shall take
them to him myself," said Gwynplaine.
Barkilphedro's sm=
ile
disappeared, and he said,--"Impossible!"
There is an
impressive inflection of voice which, as it were, underlines the words.
Barkilphedro's tone was thus emphasized; he paused, so as to put a full stop
after the word he had just uttered. Then he continued, with the peculiar and
respectful tone of a servant who feels that he is master,--
"My lord, yo=
u are
twenty-three miles from London, at Corleone Lodge, your court residence,
contiguous to the Royal Castle of Windsor. You are here unknown to any one.=
You
were brought here in a close carriage, which was awaiting you at the gate of
the jail at Southwark. The servants who introduced you into this palace are
ignorant who you are; but they know me, and that is sufficient. You may
possibly have been brought to these apartments by means of a private key wh=
ich
is in my possession. There are people in the house asleep, and it is not an
hour to awaken them. Hence we have time for an explanation, which, neverthe=
less,
will be short. I have been commissioned by her Majesty--"
As he spoke,
Barkilphedro began to turn over the leaves of some bundles of papers which =
were
lying near the casket.
"My lord, he=
re
is your patent of peerage. Here is that of your Sicilian marquisate. These =
are
the parchments and title-deeds of your eight baronies, with the seals of el=
even
kings, from Baldret, King of Kent, to James the Sixth of Scotland, and firs=
t of
England and Scotland united. Here are your letters of precedence. Here are =
your
rent-rolls, and titles and descriptions of your fiefs, freeholds, dependenc=
ies,
lands, and domains. That which you see above your head in the emblazonment =
on the
ceiling are your two coronets: the circlet with pearls for the baron, and t=
he
circlet with strawberry leaves for the marquis.
"Here, in the
wardrobe, is your peer's robe of red velvet, bordered with ermine. To-day, =
only
a few hours since, the Lord Chancellor and the Deputy Earl Marshal of Engla=
nd,
informed of the result of your confrontation with the Comprachico Hardquano=
nne,
have taken her Majesty's commands. Her Majesty has signed them, according to
her royal will, which is the same as the law. All formalities have been
complied with. To-morrow, and no later than to-morrow, you will take your s=
eat
in the House of Lords, where they have for some days been deliberating on a=
bill,
presented by the crown, having for its object the augmentation, by a hundred
thousand pounds sterling yearly, of the annual allowance to the Duke of
Cumberland, husband of the queen. You will be able to take part in the
debate."
Barkilphedro paus=
ed,
breathed slowly, and resumed.
"However,
nothing is yet settled. A man cannot be made a peer of England without his =
own
consent. All can be annulled and disappear, unless you acquiesce. An event
nipped in the bud ere it ripens often occurs in state policy. My lord, up to
this time silence has been preserved on what has occurred. The House of Lor=
ds
will not be informed of the facts until to-morrow. Secrecy has been kept ab=
out
the whole matter for reasons of state, which are of such importance that th=
e influential
persons who alone are at this moment cognizant of your existence, and of yo=
ur
rights, will forget them immediately should reasons of state command their
being forgotten. That which is in darkness may remain in darkness. It is ea=
sy
to wipe you out; the more so as you have a brother, the natural son of your
father and of a woman who afterwards, during the exile of your father, beca=
me
mistress to King Charles II., which accounts for your brother's high positi=
on
at court; for it is to this brother, bastard though he be, that your peerage
would revert. Do you wish this? I cannot think so. Well, all depends on you=
. The
queen must be obeyed. You will not quit the house till to-morrow in a royal
carriage, and to go to the House of Lords. My lord, will you be a peer of
England; yes or no? The queen has designs for you. She destines you for an
alliance almost royal. Lord Fermain Clancharlie, this is the decisive momen=
t.
Destiny never opens one door without shutting another. After a certain step=
in
advance, to step back is impossible. Whoso enters into transfiguration, lea=
ves
behind him evanescence. My lord, Gwynplaine is dead. Do you understand?&quo=
t;
Gwynplaine trembl=
ed
from head to foot.
Then he recovered
himself.
"Yes," =
he
said.
Barkilphedro,
smiling, bowed, placed the casket under his cloak, and left the room.
CHAPTER V - WE THINK WE REMEMBER; WE FORGET.
Whence arise those strange, visible
changes which occur in the soul of man?
Gwynplaine had be=
en
at the same moment raised to a summit and cast into an abyss.
His head swam with
double giddiness--the giddiness of ascent and descent. A fatal combination.=
He felt himself
ascend, and felt not his fall.
It is appalling to
see a new horizon.
A perspective aff=
ords
suggestions,--not always good ones.
He had before him=
the
fairy glade, a snare perhaps, seen through opening clouds, and showing the =
blue
depths of sky; so deep, that they are obscure.
He was on the
mountain, whence he could see all the kingdoms of the earth. A mountain all=
the
more terrible that it is a visionary one. Those who are on its apex are in a
dream.
Palaces, castles,
power, opulence, all human happiness extending as far as eye could reach; a=
map
of enjoyments spread out to the horizon; a sort of radiant geography of whi=
ch
he was the centre. A perilous mirage!
Imagine what must
have been the haze of such a vision, not led up to, not attained to as by t=
he
gradual steps of a ladder, but reached without transition and without previ=
ous
warning.
A man going to sl=
eep
in a mole's burrow, and awaking on the top of the Strasbourg steeple; such =
was
the state of Gwynplaine.
Giddiness is a
dangerous kind of glare, particularly that which bears you at once towards =
the
day and towards the night, forming two whirlwinds, one opposed to the other=
.
He saw too much, =
and
not enough.
He saw all, and
nothing.
His state was what
the author of this book has somewhere expressed as the blind man dazzled.
Gwynplaine, left =
by
himself, began to walk with long strides. A bubbling precedes an explosion.=
Notwithstanding h=
is
agitation, in this impossibility of keeping still, he meditated. His mind
liquefied as it boiled. He began to recall things to his memory. It is
surprising how we find that we have heard so clearly that to which we scarc=
ely
listened. The declaration of the shipwrecked men, read by the sheriff in the
Southwark cell, came back to him clearly and intelligibly. He recalled every
word, he saw under it his whole infancy.
Suddenly he stopp=
ed,
his hands clasped behind his back, looking up to the ceilings--the sky--no
matter what--whatever was above him.
"Quits!"=
; he
cried.
He felt like one
whose head rises out of the water. It seemed to him that he saw everything-=
-the
past, the future, the present--in the accession of a sudden flash of light.=
"Oh!" he
cried, for there are cries in the depths of thought. "Oh! it was so, w=
as
it! I was a lord. All is discovered. They stole, betrayed, destroyed,
abandoned, disinherited, murdered me! The corpse of my destiny floated fift=
een
years on the sea; all at once it touched the earth, and it started up, erect
and living. I am reborn. I am born. I felt under my rags that the breast th=
ere
palpitating was not that of a wretch; and when I looked on crowds of men, I
felt that they were the flocks, and that I was not the dog, but the shepher=
d!
Shepherds of the people, leaders of men, guides and masters, such were my
fathers; and what they were I am! I am a gentleman, and I have a sword; I a=
m a
baron, and I have a casque; I am a marquis, and I have a plume; I am a peer=
, and
I have a coronet. Lo! they deprived me of all this. I dwelt in light, they
flung me into darkness. Those who proscribed the father, sold the son. When=
my
father was dead, they took from beneath his head the stone of exile which he
had placed for his pillow, and, tying it to my neck, they flung me into a
sewer. Oh! those scoundrels who tortured my infancy! Yes, they rise and mov=
e in
the depths of my memory. Yes; I see them again. I was that morsel of flesh
pecked to pieces on a tomb by a flight of crows. I bled and cried under all
those horrible shadows. Lo! it was there that they precipitated me, under t=
he
crush of those who come and go, under the trampling feet of men, under the
undermost of the human race, lower than the serf, baser than the serving ma=
n,
lower than the felon, lower than the slave, at the spot where Chaos becomes=
a sewer,
in which I was engulfed. It is from thence that I come; it is from this tha=
t I
rise; it is from this that I am risen. And here I am now. Quits!"
He sat down, he r=
ose,
clasped his head with his hands, began to pace the room again, and his
tempestuous monologue continued within him.
"Where am I?=
--on
the summit? Where is it that I have just alighted?--on the highest peak? Th=
is
pinnacle, this grandeur, this dome of the world, this great power, is my ho=
me.
This temple is in air. I am one of the gods. I live in inaccessible heights.
This supremacy, which I looked up to from below, and from whence emanated s=
uch
rays of glory that I shut my eyes; this ineffaceable peerage; this impregna=
ble
fortress of the fortunate, I enter. I am in it. I am of it. Ah, what a deci=
sive
turn of the wheel! I was below, I am on high--on high for ever! Behold me a=
lord!
I shall have a scarlet robe. I shall have an earl's coronet on my head. I s=
hall
assist at the coronation of kings. They will take the oath from my hands. I
shall judge princes and ministers. I shall exist. From the depths into whic=
h I
was thrown, I have rebounded to the zenith. I have palaces in town and coun=
try:
houses, gardens, chases, forests, carriages, millions. I will give fê=
tes.
I will make laws. I shall have the choice of joys and pleasures. And the
vagabond Gwynplaine, who had not the right to gather a flower in the grass,=
may
pluck the stars from heaven!"
Melancholy
overshadowing of a soul's brightness! Thus it was that in Gwynplaine, who h=
ad
been a hero, and perhaps had not ceased to be one, moral greatness gave way=
to
material splendour. A lamentable transition! Virtue broken down by a troop =
of
passing demons. A surprise made on the weak side of man's fortress. All the
inferior circumstances called by men superior, ambition, the purblind desir=
es
of instinct, passions, covetousness, driven far from Gwynplaine by the
wholesome restraints of misfortune, took tumultuous possession of his gener=
ous
heart. And from what had this arisen? From the discovery of a parchment in a
waif drifted by the sea. Conscience may be violated by a chance attack.
Gwynplaine drank =
in
great draughts of pride, and it dulled his soul. Such is the poison of that
fatal wine.
Giddiness invaded
him. He more than consented to its approach. He welcomed it. This was the
effect of previous and long-continued thirst. Are we an accomplice of the c=
up
which deprives us of reason? He had always vaguely desired this. His eyes h=
ad
always turned towards the great. To watch is to wish. The eaglet is not bor=
n in
the eyrie for nothing.
Now, however, at
moments, it seemed to him the simplest thing in the world that he should be=
a
lord. A few hours only had passed, and yet the past of yesterday seemed so =
far
off! Gwynplaine had fallen into the ambuscade of Better, who is the enemy of
Good.
Unhappy is he of =
whom
we say, how lucky he is! Adversity is more easily resisted than prosperity.=
We
rise more perfect from ill fortune than from good. There is a Charybdis in
poverty, and a Scylla in riches. Those who remain erect under the thunderbo=
lt
are prostrated by the flash. Thou who standest without shrinking on the ver=
ge
of a precipice, fear lest thou be carried up on the innumerable wings of mi=
sts
and dreams. The ascent which elevates will dwarf thee. An apotheosis has a =
sinister
power of degradation.
It is not easy to
understand what is good luck. Chance is nothing but a disguise. Nothing
deceives so much as the face of fortune. Is she Providence? Is she Fatality=
?
A brightness may =
not
be a brightness, because light is truth, and a gleam may be a deceit. You
believe that it lights you; but no, it sets you on fire.
At night, a candle
made of mean tallow becomes a star if placed in an opening in the darkness.=
The
moth flies to it.
In what measure is
the moth responsible?
The sight of the
candle fascinates the moth as the eye of the serpent fascinates the bird.
Is it possible th=
at
the bird and the moth should resist the attraction? Is it possible that the
leaf should resist the wind? Is it possible that the stone should refuse
obedience to the laws of gravitation?
These are material
questions, which are moral questions as well.
After he had rece=
ived
the letter of the duchess, Gwynplaine had recovered himself. The deep love =
in
his nature had resisted it. But the storm having wearied itself on one side=
of
the horizon, burst out on the other; for in destiny, as in nature, there are
successive convulsions. The first shock loosens, the second uproots.
Alas! how do the =
oaks
fall?
Thus he who, when=
a
child of ten, stood alone on the shore of Portland, ready to give battle, w=
ho
had looked steadfastly at all the combatants whom he had to encounter, the
blast which bore away the vessel in which he had expected to embark, the gu=
lf
which had swallowed up the plank, the yawning abyss, of which the menace was
its retrocession, the earth which refused him a shelter, the sky which refu=
sed
him a star, solitude without pity, obscurity without notice, ocean, sky, all
the violence of one infinite space, and all the mysterious enigmas of anoth=
er;
he who had neither trembled nor fainted before the mighty hostility of the =
unknown;
he who, still so young, had held his own with night, as Hercules of old had
held his own with death; he who in the unequal struggle had thrown down this
defiance, that he, a child, adopted a child, that he encumbered himself wit=
h a
load, when tired and exhausted, thus rendering himself an easier prey to the
attacks on his weakness, and, as it were, himself unmuzzling the shadowy
monsters in ambush around him; he who, a precocious warrior, had immediatel=
y,
and from his first steps out of the cradle, struggled breast to breast with
destiny; he, whose disproportion with strife had not discouraged from striv=
ing;
he who, perceiving in everything around him a frightful occultation of the
human race, had accepted that eclipse, and proudly continued his journey; he
who had known how to endure cold, thirst, hunger, valiantly; he who, a pigm=
y in
stature, had been a colossus in soul: this Gwynplaine, who had conquered th=
e great
terror of the abyss under its double form, Tempest and Misery, staggered un=
der
a breath--Vanity.
Thus, when she has
exhausted distress, nakedness, storms, catastrophes, agonies on an unflinch=
ing
man, Fatality begins to smile, and her victim, suddenly intoxicated, stagge=
rs.
The smile of
Fatality! Can anything more terrible be imagined? It is the last resource of
the pitiless trier of souls in his proof of man. The tiger, lurking in dest=
iny,
caresses man with a velvet paw. Sinister preparation, hideous gentleness in=
the
monster!
Every self-observ=
er
has detected within himself mental weakness coincident with aggrandisement.=
A
sudden growth disturbs the system, and produces fever.
In Gwynplaine's b=
rain
was the giddy whirlwind of a crowd of new circumstances; all the light and
shade of a metamorphosis; inexpressibly strange confrontations; the shock of
the past against the future. Two Gwynplaines, himself doubled; behind, an
infant in rags crawling through night--wandering, shivering, hungry, provok=
ing
laughter; in front, a brilliant nobleman--luxurious, proud, dazzling all
London. He was casting off one form, and amalgamating himself with the othe=
r.
He was casting the mountebank, and becoming the peer. Change of skin is som=
etimes
change of soul. Now and then the past seemed like a dream. It was complex; =
bad
and good. He thought of his father. It was a poignant anguish never to have
known his father. He tried to picture him to himself. He thought of his
brother, of whom he had just heard. Then he had a family! He, Gwynplaine! He
lost himself in fantastic dreams. He saw visions of magnificence; unknown f=
orms
of solemn grandeur moved in mist before him. He heard flourishes of trumpet=
s.
"And then,&q=
uot;
he said, "I shall be eloquent."
He pictured to
himself a splendid entrance into the House of Lords. He should arrive full =
to
the brim with new facts and ideas. What could he not tell them? What subjec=
ts
he had accumulated! What an advantage to be in the midst of them, a man who=
had
seen, touched, undergone, and suffered; who could cry aloud to them, "I
have been near to everything, from which you are so far removed." He w=
ould
hurl reality in the face of those patricians, crammed with illusions. They
should tremble, for it would be the truth. They would applaud, for it would=
be
grand. He would arise amongst those powerful men, more powerful than they.
"I shall appear as a torch-bearer, to show them truth; and as a
sword-bearer, to show them justice!" What a triumph!
And, building up
these fantasies in his mind, clear and confused at the same time, he had
attacks of delirium,--sinking on the first seat he came to; sometimes drows=
y,
sometimes starting up. He came and went, looked at the ceiling, examined the
coronets, studied vaguely the hieroglyphics of the emblazonment, felt the
velvet of the walls, moved the chairs, turned over the parchments, read the
names, spelt out the titles, Buxton, Homble, Grundraith, Hunkerville,
Clancharlie; compared the wax, the impression, felt the twist of silk appen=
ded
to the royal privy seal, approached the window, listened to the splash of t=
he fountain,
contemplated the statues, counted, with the patience of a somnambulist, the
columns of marble, and said,--
"It is
real."
Then he touched h=
is
satin clothes, and asked himself,--
"Is it I?
Yes."
He was torn by an
inward tempest.
In this whirlwind,
did he feel faintness and fatigue? Did he drink, eat, sleep? If he did so, =
he
was unconscious of the fact. In certain violent situations instinct satisfi=
es
itself, according to its requirements, unconsciously. Besides, his thoughts
were less thoughts than mists. At the moment that the black flame of an
irruption disgorges itself from depths full of boiling lava, has the crater=
any
consciousness of the flocks which crop the grass at the foot of the mountai=
n?
The hours passed.=
The dawn appeared=
and
brought the day. A bright ray penetrated the chamber, and at the same insta=
nt
broke on the soul of Gwynplaine.
And Dea! said the
light.
BOOK THE SIXTH - URSUS UNDER DIFFERENT ASPECTS.
CHAPTER I - WHAT THE MISANTHROPE SAID.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
After Ursus had seen Gwynplaine thr=
ust
within the gates of Southwark Jail, he remained, haggard, in the corner from
which he was watching. For a long time his ears were haunted by the grindin=
g of
the bolts and bars, which was like a howl of joy that one wretch more shoul=
d be
enclosed within them.
He waited. What f=
or?
He watched. What for? Such inexorable doors, once shut, do not re-open so s=
oon.
They are tongue-tied by their stagnation in darkness, and move with difficu=
lty,
especially when they have to give up a prisoner. Entrance is permitted. Exi=
t is
quite a different matter. Ursus knew this. But waiting is a thing which we =
have
not the power to give up at our own will. We wait in our own despite. What =
we
do disengages an acquired force, which maintains its action when its object=
has
ceased, which keeps possession of us and holds us, and obliges us for some =
time
longer to continue that which has already lost its motive. Hence the useless
watch, the inert position that we have all held at times, the loss of time
which every thoughtful man gives mechanically to that which has disappeared.
None escapes this law. We become stubborn in a sort of vague fury. We know =
not
why we are in the place, but we remain there. That which we have begun acti=
vely
we continue passively, with an exhausting tenacity from which we emerge
overwhelmed. Ursus, though differing from other men, was, as any other might
have been, nailed to his post by that species of conscious reverie into whi=
ch
we are plunged by events all important to us, and in which we are impotent.=
He scrutinized
by turns those two black walls, now the high one, then the low; sometimes t=
he
door near which the ladder to the gibbet stood, then that surmounted by a
death's head. It was as if he were caught in a vice, composed of a prison a=
nd a
cemetery. This shunned and unpopular street was so deserted that he was
unobserved.
At length he left=
the
arch under which he had taken shelter, a kind of chance sentry-box, in whic=
h he
had acted the watchman, and departed with slow steps. The day was declining,
for his guard had been long. From time to time he turned his head and looke=
d at
the fearful wicket through which Gwynplaine had disappeared. His eyes were
glassy and dull. He reached the end of the alley, entered another, then
another, retracing almost unconsciously the road which he had taken some ho=
urs
before. At intervals he turned, as if he could still see the door of the
prison, though he was no longer in the street in which the jail was situate=
d. Step
by step he was approaching Tarrinzeau Field. The lanes in the neighbourhood=
of
the fair-ground were deserted pathways between enclosed gardens. He walked
along, his head bent down, by the hedges and ditches. All at once he halted,
and drawing himself up, exclaimed, "So much the better!"
At the same time =
he
struck his fist twice on his head and twice on his thigh, thus proving hims=
elf
to be a sensible fellow, who saw things in their right light; and then he b=
egan
to growl inwardly, yet now and then raising his voice.
"It is all
right! Oh, the scoundrel! the thief! the vagabond! the worthless fellow! the
seditious scamp! It is his speeches about the government that have sent him
there. He is a rebel. I was harbouring a rebel. I am free of him, and lucky=
for
me; he was compromising us. Thrust into prison! Oh, so much the better! What
excellent laws! Ungrateful boy! I who brought him up! To give oneself so mu=
ch
trouble for this! Why should he want to speak and to reason? He mixed himse=
lf
up in politics. The ass! As he handled pennies he babbled about the taxes, =
about
the poor, about the people, about what was no business of his. He permitted
himself to make reflections on pennies. He commented wickedly and malicious=
ly
on the copper money of the kingdom. He insulted the farthings of her Majest=
y. A
farthing! Why, 'tis the same as the queen. A sacred effigy! Devil take it! a
sacred effigy! Have we a queen--yes or no? Then respect her verdigris!
Everything depends on the government; one ought to know that. I have
experience, I have. I know something. They may say to me, 'But you give up
politics, then?' Politics, my friends! I care as much for them as for the r=
ough
hide of an ass. I received, one day, a blow from a baronet's cane. I said to
myself, That is enough: I understand politics. The people have but a farthi=
ng,
they give it; the queen takes it, the people thank her. Nothing can be more=
natural.
It is for the peers to arrange the rest; their lordships, the lords spiritu=
al
and temporal. Oh! so Gwynplaine is locked up! So he is in prison. That is j=
ust
as it should be. It is equitable, excellent, well-merited, and legitimate. =
It
is his own fault. To criticize is forbidden. Are you a lord, you idiot? The
constable has seized him, the justice of the quorum has carried him off, the
sheriff has him in custody. At this moment he is probably being examined by=
a
serjeant of the coif. They pluck out your crimes, those clever fellows!
Imprisoned, my wag! So much the worse for him, so much the better for me!
Faith, I am satisfied. I own frankly that fortune favours me. Of what folly=
was
I guilty when I picked up that little boy and girl! We were so quiet before,
Homo and I! What had they to do in my caravan, the little blackguards? Didn=
't I
brood over them when they were young! Didn't I draw them along with my harn=
ess!
Pretty foundlings, indeed; he as ugly as sin, and she blind of both eyes! W=
here
was the use of depriving myself of everything for their sakes? The beggars =
grow
up, forsooth, and make love to each other. The flirtations of the deformed!=
It
was to that we had come. The toad and the mole; quite an idyl! That was what
went on in my household. All which was sure to end by going before the just=
ice.
The toad talked politics! But now I am free of him. When the wapentake came=
I
was at first a fool; one always doubts one's own good luck. I believed that=
I
did not see what I did see; that it was impossible, that it was a nightmare,
that a day-dream was playing me a trick. But no! Nothing could be truer. It=
is
all clear. Gwynplaine is really in prison. It is a stroke of Providence. Pr=
aise
be to it! He was the monster who, with the row he made, drew attention to my
establishment and denounced my poor wolf. Be off, Gwynplaine; and, see, I am
rid of both! Two birds killed with one stone. Because Dea will die, now tha=
t she
can no longer see Gwynplaine. For she sees him, the idiot! She will have no
object in life. She will say, 'What am I to do in the world?' Good-bye! To =
the
devil with both of them. I always hated the creatures! Die, Dea! Oh, I am q=
uite
comfortable!"
He returned to the Tadcaster Inn,
It struck half-pa=
st
six. It was a little before twilight.
Master Nicless st=
ood
on his doorstep.
He had not succee=
ded,
since the morning, in extinguishing the terror which still showed on his sc=
ared
face.
He perceived Ursus
from afar.
"Well!"=
he
cried.
"Well!
what?"
"Is Gwynplai=
ne
coming back? It is full time. The public will soon be coming. Shall we have=
the
performance of 'The Laughing Man' this evening?"
"I am the
laughing man," said Ursus.
And he looked at =
the
tavern-keeper with a loud chuckle.
Then he went up to
the first floor, opened the window next to the sign of the inn, leant over
towards the placard about Gwynplaine, the laughing man, and the bill of
"Chaos Vanquished;" unnailed the one, tore down the other, put bo=
th
under his arm, and descended.
Master Nicless
followed him with his eyes.
"Why do you
unhook that?"
Ursus burst into a
second fit of laughter.
"Why do you
laugh?" said the tavern-keeper.
"I am
re-entering private life."
Master Nicless
understood, and gave an order to his lieutenant, the boy Govicum, to announ=
ce
to every one who should come that there would be no performance that evenin=
g.
He took from the door the box made out of a cask, where they received the
entrance money, and rolled it into a corner of the lower sitting-room.
A moment after, U=
rsus
entered the Green Box.
He put the two si=
gns
away in a corner, and entered what he called the woman's wing.
Dea was asleep.
She was on her be=
d,
dressed as usual, excepting that the body of her gown was loosened, as when=
she
was taking her siesta.
Near her Vinos and
Fibi were sitting--one on a stool, the other on the ground--musing.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, they had not dressed themselves in
their goddesses' gauze, which was a sign of deep discouragement. They had
remained in their drugget petticoats and their dress of coarse cloth.
Ursus looked at D=
ea.
"She is
rehearsing for a longer sleep," murmured he.
Then, addressing =
Fibi
and Vinos,--
"You both kn=
ow
all. The music is over. You may put your trumpets into the drawer. You did =
well
not to equip yourselves as deities. You look ugly enough as you are, but you
were quite right. Keep on your petticoats. No performance to-night, nor
to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. No Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine is clean
gone."
Then he looked at=
Dea
again.
"What a blow=
to
her this will be! It will be like blowing out a candle."
He inflated his
cheeks.
"Puff! nothi=
ng
more."
Then, with a litt=
le
dry laugh,--
"Losing
Gwynplaine, she loses all. It would be just as if I were to lose Homo. It w=
ill
be worse. She will feel more lonely than any one else could. The blind wade
through more sorrow than we do."
He looked out of =
the
window at the end of the room.
"How the days
lengthen! It is not dark at seven o'clock. Nevertheless we will light up.&q=
uot;
He struck the ste=
el
and lighted the lamp which hung from the ceiling of the Green Box.
Then he leaned ov=
er
Dea.
"She will ca=
tch
cold; you have unlaced her bodice too low. There is a proverb,--
"'Though April skies be brigh=
t, Keep all your wrappers
tight.'"
Seeing a pin shin=
ing
on the floor, he picked it up and pinned up her sleeve. Then he paced the G=
reen
Box, gesticulating.
"I am in full
possession of my faculties. I am lucid, quite lucid. I consider this occurr=
ence
quite proper, and I approve of what has happened. When she awakes I will
explain everything to her clearly. The catastrophe will not be long in comi=
ng.
No more Gwynplaine. Good-night, Dea. How well all has been arranged! Gwynpl=
aine
in prison, Dea in the cemetery, they will be vis-à-vis! A dance of
death! Two destinies going off the stage at once. Pack up the dresses. Fast=
en
the valise. For valise, read coffin. It was just what was best for them bot=
h.
Dea without eyes, Gwynplaine without a face. On high the Almighty will rest=
ore
sight to Dea and beauty to Gwynplaine. Death puts things to rights. All wil=
l be
well. Fibi, Vinos, hang up your tambourines on the nail. Your talents for n=
oise
will go to rust, my beauties; no more playing, no more trumpeting 'Chaos
Vanquished' is vanquished. 'The Laughing Man' is done for. 'Taratantara' is
dead. Dea sleeps on. She does well. If I were she I would never awake. Oh! =
she
will soon fall asleep again. A skylark like her takes very little killing. =
This
comes of meddling with politics. What a lesson! Governments are right. Gwyn=
plaine
to the sheriff. Dea to the grave-digger. Parallel cases! Instructive symmet=
ry!
I hope the tavern-keeper has barred the door. We are going to die to-night
quietly at home, between ourselves--not I, nor Homo, but Dea. As for me, I
shall continue to roll on in the caravan. I belong to the meanderings of
vagabond life. I shall dismiss these two women. I shall not keep even one of
them. I have a tendency to become an old scoundrel. A maidservant in the ho=
use
of a libertine is like a loaf of bread on the shelf. I decline the temptati=
on.
It is not becoming at my age. Turpe senilis amor. I will follow my way alone
with Homo. How astonished Homo will be! Where is Gwynplaine? Where is Dea? =
Old
comrade, here we are once more alone together. Plague take it! I'm delighte=
d. Their
bucolics were an encumbrance. Oh! that scamp Gwynplaine, who is never coming
back. He has left us stuck here. I say 'All right.' And now 'tis Dea's turn.
That won't be long. I like things to be done with. I would not snap my fing=
ers
to stop her dying--her dying, I tell you! See, she awakes!"
Dea opened her
eyelids; many blind persons shut them when they sleep. Her sweet unwitting =
face
wore all its usual radiance.
"She
smiles," whispered Ursus, "and I laugh. That is as it should
be."
Dea called,--
"Fibi! Vinos=
! It
must be the time for the performance. I think I have been asleep a long tim=
e.
Come and dress me."
Neither Fibi nor
Vinos moved.
Meanwhile the
ineffable blind look of Dea's eyes met those of Ursus. He started.
"Well!"=
he
cried; "what are you about? Vinos! Fibi! Do you not hear your mistress?
Are you deaf? Quick! the play is going to begin."
The two women loo=
ked
at Ursus in stupefaction.
Ursus shouted,--<= o:p>
"Do you not =
hear
the audience coming in?--Fibi, dress Dea.--Vinos, take your tambourine.&quo=
t;
Fibi was obedient;
Vinos, passive. Together, they personified submission. Their master, Ursus,=
had
always been to them an enigma. Never to be understood is a reason for being
always obeyed. They simply thought he had gone mad, and did as they were to=
ld.
Fibi took down the costume, and Vinos the tambourine.
Fibi began to dre=
ss
Dea. Ursus let down the door-curtain of the women's room, and from behind t=
he
curtain continued,--
"Look there,
Gwynplaine! the court is already more than half full of people. They are in
heaps in the passages. What a crowd! And you say that Fibi and Vinos look a=
s if
they did not see them. How stupid the gipsies are! What fools they are in
Egypt! Don't lift the curtain from the door. Be decent. Dea is dressing.&qu=
ot;
He paused, and
suddenly they heard an exclamation,--
"How beautif=
ul
Dea is!"
It was the voice =
of
Gwynplaine.
Fibi and Vinos
started, and turned round. It was the voice of Gwynplaine, but in the mouth=
of
Ursus.
Ursus, by a sign
which he made through the door ajar, forbade the expression of any
astonishment.
Then, again taking
the voice of Gwynplaine,--
"Angel!"=
;
Then he replied in
his own voice,--
"Dea an ange=
l!
You are a fool, Gwynplaine. No mammifer can fly except the bats."
And he added,--
"Look here,
Gwynplaine! Let Homo loose; that will be more to the purpose."
And he descended =
the
ladder of the Green Box very quickly, with the agile spring of Gwynplaine,
imitating his step so that Dea could hear it.
In the court he
addressed the boy, whom the occurrences of the day had made idle and
inquisitive.
"Spread out =
both
your hands," said he, in a loud voice.
And he poured a
handful of pence into them.
Govicum was grate=
ful
for his munificence.
Ursus whispered in
his ear,--
"Boy, go into
the yard; jump, dance, knock, bawl, whistle, coo, neigh, applaud, stamp your
feet, burst out laughing, break something."
Master Nicless,
saddened and humiliated at seeing the folks who had come to see "The
Laughing Man" turned back and crowding towards other caravans, had shut
the door of the inn. He had even given up the idea of selling any beer or
spirits that evening, that he might have to answer no awkward questions; an=
d,
quite overcome by the sudden close of the performance, was looking, with his
candle in his hand, into the court from the balcony above.
Ursus, taking the
precaution of putting his voice between parentheses fashioned by adjusting =
the
palms of his hands to his mouth, cried out to him,--
"Sir! do as =
your
boy is doing--yelp, bark, howl."
He re-ascended the
steps of the Green Box, and said to the wolf,--
"Talk as muc=
h as
you can."
Then, raising his
voice,--
"What a crowd
there is! We shall have a crammed performance."
In the meantime V=
inos
played the tambourine. Ursus went on,--
"Dea is dres=
sed.
Now we can begin. I am sorry they have admitted so many spectators. How thi=
ckly
packed they are!--Look, Gwynplaine, what a mad mob it is! I will bet that
to-day we shall take more money than we have ever done yet.--Come, gipsies,
play up, both of you. Come here.--Fibi, take your clarion. Good.--Vinos, dr=
um
on your tambourine. Fling it up and catch it again.--Fibi, put yourself into
the attitude of Fame.--Young ladies, you have too much on. Take off those
jackets. Replace stuff by gauze. The public like to see the female form
exposed. Let the moralists thunder. A little indecency. Devil take it! what=
of that?
Look voluptuous, and rush into wild melodies. Snort, blow, whistle, flouris=
h,
play the tambourine.--What a number of people, my poor Gwynplaine!"
He interrupted
himself.
"Gwynplaine,
help me. Let down the platform." He spread out his pocket-handkerchief.
"But first let me roar in my rag," and he blew his nose violently=
as
a ventriloquist ought. Having returned his handkerchief to his pocket, he d=
rew
the pegs out of the pulleys, which creaked as usual as the platform was let
down.
"Gwynplaine,=
do
not draw the curtain until the performance begins. We are not alone.--You t=
wo
come on in front. Music, ladies! turn, turn, turn.--A pretty audience we ha=
ve!
the dregs of the people. Good heavens!"
The two gipsies,
stupidly obedient, placed themselves in their usual corners of the platform.
Then Ursus became wonderful. It was no longer a man, but a crowd. Obliged to
make abundance out of emptiness, he called to aid his prodigious powers of
ventriloquism. The whole orchestra of human and animal voices which was wit=
hin him
he called into tumult at once.
He was legion. Any
one with his eyes closed would have imagined that he was in a public place =
on
some day of rejoicing, or in some sudden popular riot. A whirlwind of clamo=
ur
proceeded from Ursus: he sang, he shouted, he talked, he coughed, he spat, =
he
sneezed, took snuff, talked and responded, put questions and gave answers, =
all
at once. The half-uttered syllables ran one into another. In the court,
untenanted by a single spectator, were heard men, women, and children. It w=
as a
clear confusion of tumult. Strange laughter wound, vapour-like, through the=
noise,
the chirping of birds, the swearing of cats, the wailings of children at the
breast. The indistinct tones of drunken men were to be heard, and the growl=
s of
dogs under the feet of people who stamped on them. The cries came from far =
and
near, from top to bottom, from the upper boxes to the pit. The whole was an
uproar, the detail was a cry. Ursus clapped his hands, stamped his feet, th=
rew
his voice to the end of the court, and then made it come from underground. =
It
was both stormy and familiar. It passed from a murmur to a noise, from a no=
ise
to a tumult, from a tumult to a tempest. He was himself, any, every one els=
e. Alone,
and polyglot. As there are optical illusions, there are also auricular
illusions. That which Proteus did to sight Ursus did to hearing. Nothing co=
uld
be more marvellous than his facsimile of multitude. From time to time he op=
ened
the door of the women's apartment and looked at Dea. Dea was listening. On =
his
part the boy exerted himself to the utmost. Vinos and Fibi trumpeted
conscientiously, and took turns with the tambourine. Master Nicless, the on=
ly
spectator, quietly made himself the same explanation as they did--that Ursus
was gone mad; which was, for that matter, but another sad item added to his=
misery.
The good tavern-keeper growled out, "What insanity!" And he was s=
erious
as a man might well be who has the fear of the law before him.
Govicum, delighte=
d at
being able to help in making a noise, exerted himself almost as much as Urs=
us.
It amused him, and, moreover, it earned him pence.
Homo was pensive.=
In the midst of t=
he
tumult Ursus now and then uttered such words as these:--"Just as usual,
Gwynplaine. There is a cabal against us. Our rivals are undermining our
success. Tumult is the seasoning of triumph. Besides, there are too many
people. They are uncomfortable. The angles of their neighbours' elbows do n=
ot
dispose them to good-nature. I hope the benches will not give way. We shall=
be
the victims of an incensed population. Oh, if our friend Tom-Jim-Jack were =
only
here! but he never comes now. Look at those heads rising one above the othe=
r.
Those who are forced to stand don't look very well pleased, though the great
Galen pronounced it to be strengthening. We will shorten the entertainment;=
as only
'Chaos Vanquished' was announced in the playbill, we will not play 'Ursus
Rursus.' There will be something gained in that. What an uproar! O blind
turbulence of the masses. They will do us some damage. However, they can't =
go
on like this. We should not be able to play. No one can catch a word of the
piece. I am going to address them. Gwynplaine, draw the curtain a little
aside.--Gentlemen." Here Ursus addressed himself with a shrill and fee=
ble
voice,--
"Down with t=
hat
old fool!"
Then he answered =
in
his own voice,--
"It seems th=
at
the mob insult me. Cicero is right: plebs fex urbis. Never mind; we will
admonish the mob, though I shall have a great deal of trouble to make myself
heard. I will speak, notwithstanding. Man, do your duty. Gwynplaine, look at
that scold grinding her teeth down there."
Ursus made a paus=
e,
in which he placed a gnashing of his teeth. Homo, provoked, added a second,=
and
Govicum a third.
Ursus went on,--<= o:p>
"The women a=
re
worse than the men. The moment is unpropitious, but it doesn't matter! Let =
us
try the power of a speech; an eloquent speech is never out of place. Listen,
Gwynplaine, to my attractive exordium. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a bear. I
take off my head to address you. I humbly appeal to you for silence."
Ursus, lending a cry to the crowd, said, "Grumphll!"
Then he continued=
,--
"I respect my
audience. Grumphll is an epiphonema as good as any other welcome. You growl=
ers.
That you are all of the dregs of the people, I do not doubt. That in no way
diminishes my esteem for you. A well-considered esteem. I have a profound
respect for the bullies who honour me with their custom. There are deformed
folks amongst you. They give me no offence. The lame and the humpbacked are=
works
of nature. The camel is gibbous. The bison's back is humped. The badger's l=
eft
legs are shorter than the right, That fact is decided by Aristotle, in his =
treatise
on the walking of animals. There are those amongst you who have but two
shirts--one on his back, and the other at the pawnbroker's. I know that to =
be
true. Albuquerque pawned his moustache, and St. Denis his glory. The Jews
advanced money on the glory. Great examples. To have debts is to have
something. I revere your beggardom."
Ursus cut short h=
is
speech, interrupting it in a deep bass voice by the shout,--
"Triple
ass!"
And he answered in
his politest accent,--
"I admit it.=
I
am a learned man. I do my best to apologize for it. I scientifically despise
science. Ignorance is a reality on which we feed; science is a reality on w=
hich
we starve. In general one is obliged to choose between two things--to be
learned and grow thin, or to browse and be an ass. O gentlemen, browse! Sci=
ence
is not worth a mouthful of anything nice. I had rather eat a sirloin of beef
than know what they call the psoas muscle. I have but one merit--a dry eye.
Such as you see me, I have never wept. It must be owned that I have never b=
een satisfied--never
satisfied--not even with myself. I despise myself; but I submit this to the
members of the opposition here present--if Ursus is only a learned man,
Gwynplaine is an artist."
He groaned again,=
--
"Grumphll!&q=
uot;
And resumed,--
"Grumphll ag=
ain!
it is an objection. All the same, I pass it over. Near Gwynplaine, gentleme=
n and
ladies, is another artist, a valued and distinguished personage who accompa=
nies
us--his lordship Homo, formerly a wild dog, now a civilized wolf, and a
faithful subject of her Majesty's. Homo is a mine of deep and superior tale=
nt.
Be attentive and watch. You are going to set Homo play as well as Gwynplain=
e,
and you must do honour to art. That is an attribute of great nations. Are y=
ou men
of the woods? I admit the fact. In that case, sylvæ sunt consule dign=
a.
Two artists are well worth one consul. All right! Some one has flung a cabb=
age
stalk at me, but did not hit me. That will not stop my speaking; on the
contrary, a danger evaded makes folks garrulous. Garrula pericula, says
Juvenal. My hearers! there are amongst you drunken men and drunken women. V=
ery
well. The men are unwholesome. The women are hideous. You have all sorts of
excellent reasons for stowing yourselves away here on the benches of the
pothouse--want of work, idleness, the spare time between two robberies, por=
ter,
ale, stout, malt, brandy, gin, and the attraction of one sex for the other.
What could be better? A wit prone to irony would find this a fair field. Bu=
t I
abstain. 'Tis luxury; so be it, but even an orgy should be kept within boun=
ds.
You are gay, but noisy. You imitate successfully the cries of beasts; but w=
hat
would you say if, when you were making love to a lady, I passed my time in
barking at you? It would disturb you, and so it disturbs us. I order you to
hold your tongues. Art is as respectable as debauch. I speak to you civilly=
."
He apostrophized
himself,--
"May the fev=
er
strangle you, with your eyebrows like the beard of rye."
And he replied,--=
"Honourable
gentlemen, let the rye alone. It is impious to insult the vegetables, by
likening them either to human creatures or animals. Besides, the fever does=
not
strangle. 'Tis a false metaphor. For pity's sake, keep silence. Allow me to
tell you that you are slightly wanting in the repose which characterizes the
true English gentleman. I see that some amongst you, who have shoes out of
which their toes are peeping, take advantage of the circumstance to rest th=
eir
feet on the shoulders of those who are in front of them, causing the ladies=
to
remark that the soles of shoes divide always at the part at which is the he=
ad
of the metatarsal bones. Show more of your hands and less of your feet. I p=
erceive
scamps who plunge their ingenious fists into the pockets of their foolish
neighbours. Dear pickpockets, have a little modesty. Fight those next to yo=
u if
you like; do not plunder them. You will vex them less by blackening an eye,
than by lightening their purses of a penny. Break their noses if you like. =
The
shopkeeper thinks more of his money than of his beauty. Barring this, accep=
t my
sympathies, for I am not pedantic enough to blame thieves. Evil exists. Eve=
ry
one endures it, every one inflicts it. No one is exempt from the vermin of =
his
sins. That's what I keep saying. Have we not all our itch? I myself have ma=
de mistakes.
Plaudite, cives."
Ursus uttered a l=
ong
groan, which he overpowered by these concluding words,--
"My lords and
gentlemen, I see that my address has unluckily displeased you. I take leave=
of
your hisses for a moment. I shall put on my head, and the performance is go=
ing
to begin."
He dropt his
oratorical tone, and resumed his usual voice.
"Close the
curtains. Let me breathe. I have spoken like honey. I have spoken well. My
words were like velvet; but they were useless. I called them my lords and
gentlemen. What do you think of all this scum, Gwynplaine? How well may we =
estimate
the ills which England has suffered for the last forty years through the
ill-temper of these irritable and malicious spirits! The ancient Britons we=
re
warlike; these are melancholy and learned. They glory in despising the laws=
and
contemning royal authority. I have done all that human eloquence can do. I =
have
been prodigal of metonymics, as gracious as the blooming cheek of youth. We=
re
they softened by them? I doubt it. What can affect a people who eat so
extraordinarily, who stupefy themselves by tobacco so completely that their
literary men often write their works with a pipe in their mouths? Never min=
d.
Let us begin the play."
The rings of the
curtain were heard being drawn over the rod. The tambourines of the gipsies
were still. Ursus took down his instrument, executed his prelude, and said =
in a
low tone: "Alas, Gwynplaine, how mysterious it is!" then he flung
himself down with the wolf.
When he had taken
down his instrument, he had also taken from the nail a rough wig which he h=
ad,
and which he had thrown on the stage in a corner within his reach. The
performance of "Chaos Vanquished" took place as usual, minus only=
the
effect of the blue light and the brilliancy of the fairies. The wolf played=
his
best. At the proper moment Dea made her appearance, and, in her voice so
tremulous and heavenly, invoked Gwynplaine. She extended her arms, feeling =
for
that head.
Ursus rushed at t=
he
wig, ruffled it, put it on, advanced softly, and holding his breath, his he=
ad
bristled thus under the hand of Dea.
Then calling all =
his
art to his aid, and copying Gwynplaine's voice, he sang with ineffable love=
the
response of the monster to the call of the spirit. The imitation was so per=
fect
that again the gipsies looked for Gwynplaine, frightened at hearing without=
seeing
him.
Govicum, filled w=
ith
astonishment, stamped, applauded, clapped his hands, producing an Olympian
tumult, and himself laughed as if he had been a chorus of gods. This boy, it
must be confessed, developed a rare talent for acting an audience.
Fibi and Vinos, b=
eing
automatons of which Ursus pulled the strings, rattled their instruments,
composed of copper and ass's skin--the usual sign of the performance being =
over
and of the departure of the people.
Ursus arose, cove=
red
with perspiration. He said, in a low voice, to Homo, "You see it was
necessary to gain time. I think we have succeeded. I have not acquitted mys=
elf
badly--I, who have as much reason as any one to go distracted. Gwynplaine m=
ay
perhaps return to-morrow. It is useless to kill Dea directly. I can explain
matters to you."
He took off his w=
ig
and wiped his forehead.
"I am a
ventriloquist of genius," murmured he. "What talent I displayed! I
have equalled Brabant, the engastrimist of Francis I. of France. Dea is
convinced that Gwynplaine is here."
"Ursus,"
said Dea, "where is Gwynplaine?"
Ursus started and
turned round. Dea was still standing at the back of the stage, alone under =
the
lamp which hung from the ceiling. She was pale, with the pallor of a ghost.=
She added, with an
ineffable expression of despair,--
"I know. He =
has
left us. He is gone. I always knew that he had wings."
And raising her
sightless eyes on high, she added,--
"When shall I
follow?"
Ursus was stunned.
He had not sustai=
ned
the illusion.
Was it the fault =
of
ventriloquism? Certainly not. He had succeeded in deceiving Fibi and Vinos,=
who
had eyes, although he had not deceived Dea, who was blind. It was because F=
ibi
and Vinos saw with their eyes, while Dea saw with her heart. He could not u=
tter
a word. He thought to himself, Bos in lingûa. The troubled man has an=
ox
on his tongue.
In his complex
emotions, humiliation was the first which dawned on him. Ursus, driven out =
of
his last resource, pondered.
"I lavish my
onomatopies in vain." Then, like every dreamer, he reviled himself.
"What a frightful failure! I wore myself out in a pure loss of imitati=
ve
harmony. But what is to be done next?"
He looked at Dea.=
She
was silent, and grew paler every moment, as she stood perfectly motionless.=
Her
sightless eyes remained fixed in depths of thought.
Fortunately,
something happened. Ursus saw Master Nicless in the yard, with a candle in =
his
hand, beckoning to him.
Master Nicless had
not assisted at the end of the phantom comedy played by Ursus. Some one had
happened to knock at the door of the inn. Master Nicless had gone to open i=
t.
There had been two knocks, and twice Master Nicless had disappeared. Ursus,
absorbed by his hundred-voiced monologue, had not observed his absence.
On the mute call =
of
Master Nicless, Ursus descended.
He approached the
tavern-keeper. Ursus put his finger on his lips. Master Nicless put his fin=
ger
on his lips.
The two looked at
each other thus.
Each seemed to sa=
y to
the other, "We will talk, but we will hold our tongues."
The tavern-keeper
silently opened the door of the lower room of the tavern. Master Nicless
entered. Ursus entered. There was no one there except these two. On the side
looking on the street both doors and window-shutters were closed.
The tavern-keeper
pushed the door behind him, and shut it in the face of the inquisitive Govi=
cum.
Master Nicless pl=
aced
the candle on the table.
A low whispering
dialogue began.
"Master
Ursus?"
"Master
Nicless?"
"I understan=
d at
last."
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
"You wished =
the
poor blind girl to think that all going on as usual."
"There is no=
law
against my being a ventriloquist."
"You are a
clever fellow."
"No."
"It is wonde=
rful
how you manage all that you wish to do."
"I tell you =
it
is not."
"Now, I have
something to tell you."
"Is it about
politics?"
"I don't
know."
"Because in =
that
case I could not listen to you."
"Look here:
whilst you were playing actors and audience by yourself, some one knocked at
the door of the tavern."
"Some one
knocked at the door?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"I don't like
that."
"Nor I,
either."
"And then?&q=
uot;
"And then I
opened it."
"Who was it =
that
knocked?"
"Some one who
spoke to me."
"What did he
say?"
"I listened =
to
him."
"What did you
answer?"
"Nothing. I =
came
back to see you play."
"And--?"=
;
"Some one
knocked a second time."
"Who? the sa=
me
person?"
"No,
another."
"Some one el=
se
to speak to you?"
"Some one who
said nothing."
"I like that
better."
"I do not.&q=
uot;
"Explain
yourself, Master Nicless."
"Guess who
called the first time."
"I have no
leisure to be an Oedipus."
"It was the
proprietor of the circus."
"Over the
way?"
"Over the
way."
"Whence comes
all that fearful noise. Well?"
"Well, Master
Ursus, he makes you a proposal."
"A
proposal?"
"A
proposal."
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Because--&q=
uot;
"You have an
advantage over me, Master Nicless. Just now you solved my enigma, and now I
cannot understand yours."
"The proprie=
tor
of the circus commissioned me to tell you that he had seen the cortè=
ge
of police pass this morning, and that he, the proprietor of the circus, wis=
hing
to prove that he is your friend, offers to buy of you, for fifty pounds, re=
ady
money, your caravan, the Green Box, your two horses, your trumpets, with the
women that blow them, your play, with the blind girl who sings in it, your
wolf, and yourself."
Ursus smiled a
haughty smile.
"Innkeeper, =
tell
the proprietor of the circus that Gwynplaine is coming back."
The innkeeper took
something from a chair in the darkness, and turning towards Ursus with both
arms raised, dangled from one hand a cloak, and from the other a leather
esclavine, a felt hat, and a jacket.
And Master Nicless said, "The man who knocked the second time was connected with the poli= ce; he came in and left without saying a word, and brought these things."<= o:p>
Ursus recognized =
the
esclavine, the jacket, the hat, and the cloak of Gwynplaine.
CHAPTER IV - MOENIBUS SURDIS CAMPANA MUTA.<=
/a>
Ursus smoothed the felt of the hat,
touched the cloth of the cloak, the serge of the coat, the leather of the
esclavine, and no longer able to doubt whose garments they were, with a ges=
ture
at once brief and imperative, and without saying a word, pointed to the doo=
r of
the inn.
Master Nicless op=
ened
it.
Ursus rushed out =
of
the tavern.
Master Nicless lo=
oked
after him, and saw Ursus run, as fast as his old legs would allow, in the
direction taken that morning by the wapentake who carried off Gwynplaine.
A quarter of an h=
our
afterwards, Ursus, out of breath, reached the little street in which stood =
the
back wicket of the Southwark jail, which he had already watched so many hou=
rs.
This alley was lonely enough at all hours; but if dreary during the day, it=
was
portentous in the night. No one ventured through it after a certain hour. It
seemed as though people feared that the walls should close in, and that if =
the prison
or the cemetery took a fancy to embrace, they should be crushed in their cl=
asp.
Such are the effects of darkness. The pollard willows of the Ruelle Vauvert=
in
Paris were thus ill-famed. It was said that during the night the stumps of
those trees changed into great hands, and caught hold of the passers-by.
By instinct the
Southwark folks shunned, as we have already mentioned, this alley between a
prison and a churchyard. Formerly it had been barricaded during the night b=
y an
iron chain. Very uselessly; because the strongest chain which guarded the
street was the terror it inspired.
Ursus entered it
resolutely.
What intention
possessed him? None.
He came into the
alley to seek intelligence.
Was he going to k=
nock
at the gate of the jail? Certainly not. Such an expedient, at once fearful =
and
vain, had no place in his brain. To attempt to introduce himself to demand =
an
explanation. What folly! Prisons do not open to those who wish to enter, any
more than to those who desire to get out. Their hinges never turn except by
law. Ursus knew this. Why, then, had he come there? To see. To see what?
Nothing. Who can tell? Even to be opposite the gate through which Gwynplaine
had disappeared was something.
Sometimes the
blackest and most rugged of walls whispers, and some light escapes through a
cranny. A vague glimmering is now and then to be perceived through solid and
sombre piles of building. Even to examine the envelope of a fact may be to =
some
purpose. The instinct of us all is to leave between the fact which interest=
s us
and ourselves but the thinnest possible cover. Therefore it was that Ursus
returned to the alley in which the lower entrance to the prison was situate=
d.
Just as he entere=
d it
he heard one stroke of the clock, then a second.
"Hold,"
thought he; "can it be midnight already?"
Mechanically he s=
et
himself to count.
"Three, four,
five."
He mused.
"At what long
intervals this clock strikes! how slowly! Six; seven!"
Then he remarked,=
--
"What a
melancholy sound! Eight, nine! Ah! nothing can be more natural; it's dull w=
ork
for a clock to live in a prison. Ten! Besides, there is the cemetery. This
clock sounds the hour to the living, and eternity to the dead. Eleven! Alas=
! to
strike the hour to him who is not free is also to chronicle an eternity.
Twelve!"
He paused.
"Yes, it is
midnight."
The clock struck a
thirteenth stroke.
Ursus shuddered.<= o:p>
"Thirteen!&q=
uot;
Then followed a
fourteenth; then a fifteenth.
"What can th=
is
mean?"
The strokes conti=
nued
at long intervals. Ursus listened.
"It is not t=
he
striking of a clock; it is the bell Muta. No wonder I said, 'How long it ta=
kes
to strike midnight!' This clock does not strike; it tolls. What fearful thi=
ng
is about to take place?"
Formerly all pris=
ons
and all monasteries had a bell called Muta, reserved for melancholy occasio=
ns.
La Muta (the mute) was a bell which struck very low, as if doing its best n=
ot
to be heard.
Ursus had reached=
the
corner which he had found so convenient for his watch, and whence he had be=
en
able, during a great part of the day, to keep his eye on the prison.
The strokes follo=
wed
each other at lugubrious intervals.
A knell makes an =
ugly
punctuation in space. It breaks the preoccupation of the mind into funereal
paragraphs. A knell, like a man's death-rattle, notifies an agony. If in the
houses about the neighbourhood where a knell is tolled there are reveries
straying in doubt, its sound cuts them into rigid fragments. A vague reveri=
e is
a sort of refuge. Some indefinable diffuseness in anguish allows now and th=
en a
ray of hope to pierce through it. A knell is precise and desolating. It
concentrates this diffusion of thought, and precipitates the vapours in whi=
ch
anxiety seeks to remain in suspense. A knell speaks to each one in the sens=
e of
his own grief or of his own fear. Tragic bell! it concerns you. It is a war=
ning
to you.
There is nothing =
so
dreary as a monologue on which its cadence falls. The even returns of sound
seem to show a purpose.
What is it that t=
his
hammer, the bell, forges on the anvil of thought?
Ursus counted,
vaguely and without motive, the tolling of the knell. Feeling that his thou=
ghts
were sliding from him, he made an effort not to let them slip into conjectu=
re.
Conjecture is an inclined plane, on which we slip too far to be to our own
advantage. Still, what was the meaning of the bell?
He looked through=
the
darkness in the direction in which he knew the gate of the prison to be.
Suddenly, in that
very spot which looked like a dark hole, a redness showed. The redness grew=
larger,
and became a light.
There was no
uncertainty about it. It soon took a form and angles. The gate of the jail =
had
just turned on its hinges. The glow painted the arch and the jambs of the d=
oor.
It was a yawning rather than an opening. A prison does not open; it
yawns--perhaps from ennui. Through the gate passed a man with a torch in his
hand.
The bell rang on.
Ursus felt his attention fascinated by two objects. He watched--his ear the
knell, his eye the torch. Behind the first man the gate, which had been aja=
r,
enlarged the opening suddenly, and allowed egress to two other men; then to=
a
fourth. This fourth was the wapentake, clearly visible in the light of the
torch. In his grasp was his iron staff.
Following the
wapentake, there filed and opened out below the gateway in order, two by tw=
o,
with the rigidity of a series of walking posts, ranks of silent men.
This nocturnal
procession stepped through the wicket in file, like a procession of peniten=
ts,
without any solution of continuity, with a funereal care to make no
noise--gravely, almost gently. A serpent issues from its hole with similar
precautions.
The torch threw o=
ut
their profiles and attitudes into relief. Fierce looks, sullen attitudes.
Ursus recognized =
the
faces of the police who had that morning carried off Gwynplaine.
There was no doubt
about it. They were the same. They were reappearing.
Of course, Gwynpl=
aine
would also reappear. They had led him to that place; they would bring him b=
ack.
It was all quite
clear.
Ursus strained his
eyes to the utmost. Would they set Gwynplaine at liberty?
The files of poli=
ce
flowed from the low arch very slowly, and, as it were, drop by drop. The to=
ll
of the bell was uninterrupted, and seemed to mark their steps. On leaving t=
he
prison, the procession turned their backs on Ursus, went to the right, into=
the
bend of the street opposite to that in which he was posted.
A second torch sh=
one
under the gateway, announcing the end of the procession.
Ursus was now abo=
ut
to see what they were bringing with them. The prisoner--the man.
Ursus was soon, he
thought, to see Gwynplaine.
That which they
carried appeared.
It was a bier.
Four men carried a
bier, covered with black cloth.
Behind them came a
man, with a shovel on his shoulder.
A third lighted
torch, held by a man reading a book, probably the chaplain, closed the
procession.
The bier followed=
the
ranks of the police, who had turned to the right.
Just at that mome=
nt
the head of the procession stopped.
Ursus heard the
grating of a key.
Opposite the pris=
on,
in the low wall which ran along the other side of the street, another openi=
ng
was illuminated by a torch passing beneath it.
This gate, over w=
hich
a death's-head was placed, was that of the cemetery.
The wapentake pas=
sed
through it, then the men, then the second torch. The procession decreased
therein, like a reptile entering his retreat.
The files of poli=
ce
penetrated into that other darkness which was beyond the gate; then the bie=
r;
then the man with the spade; then the chaplain with his torch and his book,=
and
the gate closed.
There was nothing
left but a haze of light above the wall.
A muttering was
heard; then some dull sounds. Doubtless the chaplain and the gravedigger--t=
he
one throwing on the coffin some verses of Scripture, the other some clods of
earth.
The muttering cea=
sed;
the heavy sounds ceased. A movement was made. The torches shone. The wapent=
ake
reappeared, holding high his weapon, under the reopened gate of the cemeter=
y;
then the chaplain with his book, and the gravedigger with his spade. The
cortège reappeared without the coffin.
The files of men
crossed over in the same order, with the same taciturnity, and in the oppos=
ite
direction. The gate of the cemetery closed. That of the prison opened. Its
sepulchral architecture stood out against the light. The obscurity of the
passage became vaguely visible. The solid and deep night of the jail was
revealed to sight; then the whole vision disappeared in the depths of shado=
w.
The knell ceased.=
All
was locked in silence. A sinister incarceration of shadows.
A vanished vision;
nothing more.
A passage of
spectres, which had disappeared.
The logical
arrangement of surmises builds up something which at least resembles eviden=
ce.
To the arrest of Gwynplaine, to the secret mode of his capture, to the retu=
rn
of his garments by the police officer, to the death bell of the prison to w=
hich
he had been conducted, was now added, or rather adjusted--portentous
circumstance--a coffin carried to the grave.
"He is
dead!" cried Ursus.
He sank down upon=
a
stone.
"Dead! They =
have
killed him! Gwynplaine! My child! My son!"
And he burst into
passionate sobs.
CHAPTER V - STATE POLICY DEALS WITH LITTLE MATTERS AS WEL=
L AS
WITH GREAT.
Ursus, alas! had boasted that he had
never wept. His reservoir of tears was full. Such plentitude as is accumula=
ted
drop on drop, sorrow on sorrow, through a long existence, is not to be pour=
ed
out in a moment. Ursus wept alone.
The first tear is=
a
letting out of waters. He wept for Gwynplaine, for Dea, for himself, Ursus,=
for
Homo. He wept like a child. He wept like an old man. He wept for everything=
at
which he had ever laughed. He paid off arrears. Man is never nonsuited when=
he
pleads his right to tears.
The corpse they h=
ad
just buried was Hardquanonne's; but Ursus could not know that.
The hours crept o=
n.
Day began to brea=
k.
The pale clothing of the morning was spread out, dimly creased with shadow,
over the bowling-green. The dawn lighted up the front of the Tadcaster Inn.
Master Nicless had not gone to bed, because sometimes the same occurrence
produces sleeplessness in many.
Troubles radiate =
in
every direction. Throw a stone in the water, and count the splashes.
Master Nicless fe=
lt
himself impeached. It is very disagreeable that such things should happen in
one's house. Master Nicless, uneasy, and foreseeing misfortunes, meditated.=
He
regretted having received such people into his house. Had he but known that
they would end by getting him into mischief! But the question was how to get
rid of them? He had given Ursus a lease. What a blessing if he could free
himself from it! How should he set to work to drive them out?
Suddenly the door=
of
the inn resounded with one of those tumultuous knocks which in England
announces "Somebody." The gamut of knocking corresponds with the
ladder of hierarchy.
It was not quite =
the
knock of a lord; but it was the knock of a justice.
The trembling
innkeeper half opened his window. There was, indeed, the magistrate. Master
Nicless perceived at the door a body of police, from the head of which two =
men
detached themselves, one of whom was the justice of the quorum.
Master Nicless had
seen the justice of the quorum that morning, and recognized him.
He did not know t=
he
other, who was a fat gentleman, with a waxen-coloured face, a fashionable w=
ig,
and a travelling cloak. Nicless was much afraid of the first of these perso=
ns,
the justice of the quorum. Had he been of the court, he would have feared t=
he
other most, because it was Barkilphedro.
One of the
subordinates knocked at the door again violently.
The innkeeper, wi=
th
great drops of perspiration on his brow, from anxiety, opened it.
The justice of the
quorum, in the tone of a man who is employed in matters of police, and who =
is
well acquainted with various shades of vagrancy, raised his voice, and aske=
d,
severely, for
"Master
Ursus!"
The host, cap in
hand, replied,--
"Your honour=
; he
lives here."
"I know
it," said the justice.
"No doubt, y=
our
honour."
"Tell him to
come down."
"Your honour=
, he
is not here."
"Where is
he?"
"I do not
know."
"How is
that?"
"He has not =
come
in."
"Then he must
have gone out very early?"
"No; but he =
went
out very late."
"What
vagabonds!" replied the justice.
"Your
honour," said Master Nicless, softly, "here he comes."
Ursus, indeed, had
just come in sight, round a turn of the wall. He was returning to the inn. =
He
had passed nearly the whole night between the jail, where at midday he had =
seen
Gwynplaine, and the cemetery, where at midnight he had heard the grave fill=
ed
up. He was pallid with two pallors--that of sorrow and of twilight.
Dawn, which is li=
ght
in a chrysalis state, leaves even those forms which are in movement in the
uncertainty of night. Ursus, wan and indistinct, walked slowly, like a man =
in a
dream. In the wild distraction produced by agony of mind, he had left the i=
nn
with his head bare. He had not even found out that he had no hat on. His sp=
are,
gray locks fluttered in the wind. His open eyes appeared sightless. Often w=
hen
awake we are asleep, and as often when asleep we are awake.
Ursus looked like=
a
lunatic.
"Master
Ursus," cried the innkeeper, "come; their honours desire to speak=
to
you."
Master Nicless, in
his endeavour to soften matters down, let slip, although he would gladly ha=
ve
omitted, this plural, "their honours"--respectful to the group, b=
ut
mortifying, perhaps, to the chief, confounded therein, to some degree, with=
his
subordinates.
Ursus started lik=
e a
man falling off a bed, on which he was sound asleep.
"What is the
matter?" said he.
He saw the police,
and at the head of the police the justice. A fresh and rude shock.
But a short time =
ago,
the wapentake, now the justice of the quorum. He seemed to have been cast f=
rom
one to the other, as ships by some reefs of which we have read in old stori=
es.
The justice of the
quorum made him a sign to enter the tavern. Ursus obeyed.
Govicum, who had =
just
got up, and who was sweeping the room, stopped his work, got into a corner
behind the tables, put down his broom, and held his breath. He plunged his
fingers into his hair, and scratched his head, a symptom which indicated
attention to what was about to occur.
The justice of the
quorum sat down on a form, before a table. Barkilphedro took a chair. Ursus=
and
Master Nicless remained standing. The police officers, left outside, grouped
themselves in front of the closed door.
The justice of the
quorum fixed his eye, full of the law, upon Ursus. He said,--
"You have a
wolf."
Ursus answered,--=
"Not
exactly."
"You have a
wolf," continued the justice, emphasizing "wolf" with a deci=
ded
accent.
Ursus answered,--=
"You see--&q=
uot;
And he was silent=
.
"A
misdemeanour!" replied the justice.
Ursus hazarded an
excuse,--
"He is my
servant."
The justice placed
his hand flat on the table, with his fingers spread out, which is a very fi=
ne
gesture of authority.
"Merry-andre=
w!
to-morrow, by this hour, you and your wolf must have left England. If not, =
the
wolf will be seized, carried to the register office, and killed."
Ursus thought,
"More murder!" but he breathed not a syllable, and was satisfied =
with
trembling in every limb.
"You hear?&q=
uot;
said the justice.
Ursus nodded.
The justice
persisted,--
"Killed.&quo=
t;
There was silence=
.
"Strangled, =
or
drowned."
The justice of the
quorum watched Ursus.
"And yoursel=
f in
prison."
Ursus murmured,--=
"Your
worship!"
"Be off befo=
re
to-morrow morning; if not, such is the order."
"Your
worship!"
"What?"=
"Must we lea=
ve
England, he and I?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"To-day?&quo=
t;
"To-day.&quo=
t;
"What is to =
be
done?"
Master Nicless was
happy. The magistrate, whom he had feared, had come to his aid. The police =
had
acted as auxiliary to him, Nicless. They had delivered him from "such
people." The means he had sought were brought to him. Ursus, whom he
wanted to get rid of, was being driven away by the police, a superior
authority. Nothing to object to. He was delighted. He interrupted,--
"Your honour,
that man--"
He pointed to Urs=
us
with his finger.
"That man wa=
nts
to know how he is to leave England to-day. Nothing can be easier. There are
night and day at anchor on the Thames, both on this and on the other side of
London Bridge, vessels that sail to the Continent. They go from England to
Denmark, to Holland, to Spain; not to France, on account of the war, but
everywhere else. To-night several ships will sail, about one o'clock in the
morning, which is the hour of high tide, and, amongst others, the Vograat of
Rotterdam."
The justice of the
quorum made a movement of his shoulder towards Ursus.
"Be it so. L=
eave
by the first ship--by the Vograat."
"Your
worship," said Ursus.
"Well?"=
"Your worshi=
p,
if I had, as formerly, only my little box on wheels, it might be done. A bo=
at
would contain that; but--"
"But what?&q=
uot;
"But now I h=
ave
got the Green Box, which is a great caravan drawn by two horses, and however
wide the ship might be, we could not get it into her."
"What is tha=
t to
me?" said the justice. "The wolf will be killed."
Ursus shuddered, =
as
if he were grasped by a hand of ice.
"Monsters!&q= uot; he thought. "Murdering people is their way of settling matters."<= o:p>
The innkeeper smi=
led,
and addressed Ursus.
"Master Ursu=
s,
you can sell the Green Box."
Ursus looked at
Nicless.
"Master Ursu=
s,
you have the offer."
"From
whom?"
"An offer for
the caravan, an offer for the two horses, an offer for the two gipsy women,=
an
offer--"
"From whom?&=
quot;
repeated Ursus.
"From the
proprietor of the neighbouring circus."
Ursus remembered =
it.
"It is
true."
Master Nicless tu=
rned
to the justice of the quorum.
"Your honour,
the bargain can be completed to-day. The proprietor of the circus close by =
wishes
to buy the caravan and the horses."
"The proprie=
tor
of the circus is right," said the justice, "because he will soon
require them. A caravan and horses will be useful to him. He, too, will dep=
art
to-day. The reverend gentlemen of the parish of Southwark have complained of
the indecent riot in Tarrinzeau field. The sheriff has taken his measures.
To-night there will not be a single juggler's booth in the place. There mus=
t be
an end of all these scandals. The honourable gentleman who deigns to be here
present--"
The justice of the
quorum interrupted his speech to salute Barkilphedro, who returned the bow.=
"The honoura=
ble
gentleman who deigns to be present has just arrived from Windsor. He brings
orders. Her Majesty has said, 'It must be swept away.'"
Ursus, during his
long meditation all night, had not failed to put himself some questions. Af=
ter
all, he had only seen a bier. Could he be sure that it contained Gwynplaine?
Other people might have died besides Gwynplaine. A coffin does not announce=
the
name of the corpse, as it passes by. A funeral had followed the arrest of
Gwynplaine. That proved nothing. Post hoc, non propter hoc, etc. Ursus had
begun to doubt.
Hope burns and
glimmers over misery like naphtha over water. Its hovering flame ever float=
s over
human sorrow. Ursus had come to this conclusion, "It is probable that =
it
was Gwynplaine whom they buried, but it is not certain. Who knows? Perhaps
Gwynplaine is still alive."
Ursus bowed to the
justice.
"Honourable
judge, I will go away, we will go away, all will go away, by the Vograat of
Rotterdam, to-day. I will sell the Green Box, the horses, the trumpets, the
gipsies. But I have a comrade, whom I cannot leave behind--Gwynplaine."=
;
"Gwynplaine =
is
dead," said a voice.
Ursus felt a cold
sensation, such as is produced by a reptile crawling over the skin. It was
Barkilphedro who had just spoken.
The last gleam was
extinguished. No more doubt now. Gwynplaine was dead. A person in authority
must know. This one looked ill-favoured enough to do so.
Ursus bowed to hi=
m.
Master Nicless wa=
s a
good-hearted man enough, but a dreadful coward. Once terrified, he became a
brute. The greatest cruelty is that inspired by fear.
He growled out,--=
"This simpli=
fies
matters."
And he indulged,
standing behind Ursus, in rubbing his hands, a peculiarity of the selfish,
signifying, "I am well out of it," and suggestive of Pontius Pila=
te
washing his hands.
Ursus, overwhelme=
d,
bent down his head.
The sentence on
Gwynplaine had been executed--death. His sentence was pronounced--exile.
Nothing remained but to obey. He felt as in a dream.
Some one touched =
his
arm. It was the other person, who was with the justice of the quorum. Ursus
shuddered.
The voice which h=
ad
said, "Gwynplaine is dead," whispered in his ear,--
"Here are ten
guineas, sent you by one who wishes you well."
And Barkilphedro
placed a little purse on a table before Ursus. We must not forget the casket
that Barkilphedro had taken with him.
Ten guineas out of
two thousand! It was all that Barkilphedro could make up his mind to part w=
ith.
In all conscience it was enough. If he had given more, he would have lost. =
He
had taken the trouble of finding out a lord; and having sunk the shaft, it =
was
but fair that the first proceeds of the mine should belong to him. Those who
see meanness in the act are right, but they would be wrong to feel astonish=
ed.
Barkilphedro loved money, especially money which was stolen. An envious man=
is
an avaricious one. Barkilphedro was not without his faults. The commission =
of
crimes does not preclude the possession of vices. Tigers have their lice.
Besides, he belon=
ged
to the school of Bacon.
Barkilphedro turn=
ed
towards the justice of the quorum, and said to him,--
"Sir, be so =
good
as to conclude this matter. I am in haste. A carriage and horses belonging =
to
her Majesty await me. I must go full gallop to Windsor, for I must be there
within two hours' time. I have intelligence to give, and orders to take.&qu=
ot;
The justice of the
quorum arose.
He went to the do=
or,
which was only latched, opened it, and, looking silently towards the police,
beckoned to them authoritatively. They entered with that silence which hera=
lds
severity of action.
Master Nicless,
satisfied with the rapid dénouement which cut short his difficulties,
charmed to be out of the entangled skein, was afraid, when he saw the muste=
r of
officers, that they were going to apprehend Ursus in his house. Two arrests,
one after the other, made in his house--first that of Gwynplaine, then that=
of
Ursus--might be injurious to the inn. Customers dislike police raids.
Here then was a t=
ime
for a respectful appeal, suppliant and generous. Master Nicless turned towa=
rd
the justice of the quorum a smiling face, in which confidence was tempered =
by
respect.
"Your honour=
, I
venture to observe to your honour that these honourable gentlemen, the poli=
ce
officers, might be dispensed with, now that the wolf is about to be carried
away from England, and that this man, Ursus, makes no resistance; and since
your honour's orders are being punctually carried out, your honour will
consider that the respectable business of the police, so necessary to the g=
ood
of the kingdom, does great harm to an establishment, and that my house is
innocent. The merry-andrews of the Green Box having been swept away, as her=
Majesty
says, there is no longer any criminal here, as I do not suppose that the bl=
ind
girl and the two women are criminals; therefore, I implore your honour to d=
eign
to shorten your august visit, and to dismiss these worthy gentlemen who have
just entered, because there is nothing for them to do in my house; and, if =
your
honour will permit me to prove the justice of my speech under the form of a
humble question, I will prove the inutility of these revered gentlemen's
presence by asking your honour, if the man, Ursus, obeys orders and departs,
who there can be to arrest here?"
"Yourself,&q=
uot;
said the justice.
A man does not ar=
gue
with a sword which runs him through and through. Master Nicless subsided--he
cared not on what, on a table, on a form, on anything that happened to be
there--prostrate.
The justice raised
his voice, so that if there were people outside, they might hear.
"Master Nicl=
ess
Plumptree, keeper of this tavern, this is the last point to be settled. This
mountebank and the wolf are vagabonds. They are driven away. But the person
most in fault is yourself. It is in your house, and with your consent, that=
the
law has been violated; and you, a man licensed, invested with a public
responsibility, have established the scandal here. Master Nicless, your lic=
ence
is taken away; you must pay the penalty, and go to prison."
The policemen
surrounded the innkeeper.
The justice
continued, pointing out Govicum,--
"Arrest that=
boy
as an accomplice." The hand of an officer fell upon the collar of Govi=
cum,
who looked at him inquisitively. The boy was not much alarmed, scarcely
understanding the occurrence; having already observed many things out of the
way, he wondered if this were the end of the comedy.
The justice of the
quorum forced his hat down on his head, crossed his hands on his stomach, w=
hich
is the height of majesty, and added,--
"It is decid=
ed,
Master Nicless; you are to be taken to prison, and put into jail, you and t=
he
boy; and this house, the Tadcaster Inn, is to remain shut up, condemned and=
closed.
For the sake of example. Upon which, you will follow us."
BOOK THE SEVENTH - THE TITANESS.
And Dea!
It seemed to
Gwynplaine, as he watched the break of day at Corleone Lodge, while the thi=
ngs
we have related were occurring at the Tadcaster Inn, that the call came from
without; but it came from within.
Who has not heard=
the
deep clamours of the soul?
Moreover, the mor=
ning
was dawning.
Aurora is a voice=
.
Of what use is the
sun if not to reawaken that dark sleeper--the conscience?
Light and virtue =
are
akin.
Whether the god be
called Christ or Love, there is at times an hour when he is forgotten, even=
by
the best. All of us, even the saints, require a voice to remind us; and the
dawn speaks to us, like a sublime monitor. Conscience calls out before duty=
, as
the cock crows before the dawn of day.
That chaos, the h=
uman
heart, hears the fiat lux!
Gwynplaine--we wi=
ll
continue thus to call him (Clancharlie is a lord, Gwynplaine is a
man)--Gwynplaine felt as if brought back to life. It was time that the arte=
ry
was bound up.
For a while his
virtue had spread its wings and flown away.
"And Dea!&qu=
ot;
he said.
Then he felt thro=
ugh
his veins a generous transfusion. Something healthy and tumultuous rushed u=
pon
him. The violent irruption of good thoughts is like the return home of a man
who has not his key, and who forces his own look honestly. It is an escalad=
e,
but an escalade of good. It is a burglary, but a burglary of evil.
"Dea! Dea!
Dea!" repeated he.
He strove to assu=
re
himself of his heart's strength. And he put the question with a loud
voice--"Where are you?"
He almost wondered
that no one answered him.
Then again, gazin=
g on
the walls and the ceiling, with wandering thoughts, through which reason
returned.
"Where are y=
ou?
Where am I?"
And in the chamber
which was his cage he began to walk again, to and fro, like a wild beast in
captivity.
"Where am I?=
At
Windsor. And you? In Southwark. Alas! this is the first time that there has
been distance between us. Who has dug this gulf? I here, thou there. Oh, it
cannot be; it shall not be! What is this that they have done to me?"
He stopped.
"Who talked =
to
me of the queen? What do I know of such things? I changed! Why? Because I a=
m a
lord. Do you know what has happened, Dea? You are a lady. What has come to =
pass
is astounding. My business now is to get back into my right road. Who is it=
who
led me astray? There is a man who spoke to me mysteriously. I remember the
words which he addressed to me. 'My lord, when one door opens another is sh=
ut.
That which you have left behind is no longer yours.' In other words, you ar=
e a
coward. That man, the miserable wretch! said that to me before I was well
awake. He took advantage of my first moment of astonishment. I was as it we=
re a
prey to him. Where is he, that I may insult him? He spoke to me with the ev=
il
smile of a demon. But see--I am myself again. That is well. They deceive
themselves if they think that they can do what they like with Lord Clanchar=
lie,
a peer of England. Yes, with a peeress, who is Dea! Conditions! Shall I acc=
ept
them? The queen! What is the queen to me? I never saw her. I am not a lord =
to
be made a slave. I enter my position unfettered. Did they think they had
unchained me for nothing? They have unmuzzled me. That is all. Dea! Ursus! =
we
are together. That which you were, I was; that which I am, you are. Come. N=
o. I
will go to you directly--directly. I have already waited too long. What can
they think, not seeing me return! That money. When I think I sent them that
money! It was myself that they wanted. I remember the man said that I could=
not
leave this place. We shall see that. Come! a carriage, a carriage! put to t=
he
horses. I am going to look for them. Where are the servants? I ought to have
servants here, since I am a lord. I am master here. This is my house. I will
twist off the bolts, I will break the locks, I will kick down the doors, I =
will
run my sword through the body of any one who bars my passage. I should like=
to
see who shall stop me. I have a wife, and she is Dea. I have a father, who =
is
Ursus. My house is a palace, and I give it to Ursus. My name is a diadem, a=
nd I
give it to Dea. Quick, directly, Dea, I am coming; yes, you may be sure tha=
t I
shall soon stride across the intervening space!"
And raising the f=
irst
piece of tapestry he came to, he rushed from the chamber impetuously.
He found himself =
in a
corridor.
He went straight
forward.
A second corridor
opened out before him.
All the doors were
open.
He walked on at random, from chamber to chamber, from passage to passage, seeking an exit.<= o:p>
CHAPTER II - THE RESEMBLANCE OF A PALACE TO A WOOD.
In palaces after the Italian fashio=
n, and
Corleone Lodge was one, there were very few doors, but abundance of tapestry
screens and curtained doorways. In every palace of that date there was a
wonderful labyrinth of chambers and corridors, where luxury ran riot; gildi=
ng,
marble, carved wainscoting, Eastern silks; nooks and corners, some secret a=
nd dark
as night, others light and pleasant as the day. There were attics, richly a=
nd
brightly furnished; burnished recesses shining with Dutch tiles and Portugu=
ese
azulejos. The tops of the high windows were converted into small rooms and
glass attics, forming pretty habitable lanterns. The thickness of the walls=
was
such that there were rooms within them. Here and there were closets, nomina=
lly
wardrobes. They were called "The Little Rooms." It was within them
that evil deeds were hatched.
When a Duke of Gu=
ise
had to be killed, the pretty Présidente of Sylvecane abducted, or the
cries of little girls brought thither by Lebel smothered, such places were
convenient for the purpose. They were labyrinthine chambers, impracticable =
to a
stranger; scenes of abductions; unknown depths, receptacles of mysterious
disappearances. In those elegant caverns princes and lords stored their
plunder. In such a place the Count de Charolais hid Madame Courchamp, the w=
ife
of the Clerk of the Privy Council; Monsieur de Monthulé, the daughte=
r of
Haudry, the farmer of La Croix Saint Lenfroy; the Prince de Conti, the two
beautiful baker women of L'Ile Adam; the Duke of Buckingham, poor Pennywell,
etc. The deeds done there were such as were designated by the Roman law as =
committed
vi, clam, et precario--by force, in secret, and for a short time. Once in, =
an
occupant remained there till the master of the house decreed his or her
release. They were gilded oubliettes, savouring both of the cloister and the
harem. Their staircases twisted, turned, ascended, and descended. A zigzag =
of
rooms, one running into another, led back to the starting-point. A gallery
terminated in an oratory. A confessional was grafted on to an alcove. Perha=
ps
the architects of "the little rooms," building for royalty and
aristocracy, took as models the ramifications of coral beds, and the openin=
gs
in a sponge. The branches became a labyrinth. Pictures turning on false pan=
els
were exits and entrances. They were full of stage contrivances, and no wond=
er--considering
the dramas that were played there! The floors of these hives reached from t=
he
cellars to the attics. Quaint madrepore inlaying every palace, from Versail=
les
downwards, like cells of pygmies in dwelling-places of Titans. Passages,
niches, alcoves, and secret recesses. All sorts of holes and corners, in wh=
ich
was stored away the meanness of the great.
These winding and
narrow passages recalled games, blindfolded eyes, hands feeling in the dark,
suppressed laughter, blind man's buff, hide and seek, while, at the same ti=
me,
they suggested memories of the Atrides, of the Plantagenets, of the
Médicis, the brutal knights of Eltz, of Rizzio, of Monaldeschi; of n=
aked
swords, pursuing the fugitive flying from room to room.
The ancients, too,
had mysterious retreats of the same kind, in which luxury was adapted to
enormities. The pattern has been preserved underground in some sepulchres in
Egypt, notably in the tomb of King Psammetichus, discovered by Passalacqua.=
The
ancient poets have recorded the horrors of these suspicious buildings. Error
circumflexus, locus implicitus gyris.
Gwynplaine was in=
the
"little rooms" of Corleone Lodge. He was burning to be off, to get
outside, to see Dea again. The maze of passages and alcoves, with secret and
bewildering doors, checked and retarded his progress. He strove to run; he =
was
obliged to wander. He thought that he had but one door to thrust open, whil=
e he
had a skein of doors to unravel. To one room succeeded another. Then a
crossway, with rooms on every side.
Not a living crea=
ture
was to be seen. He listened. Not a sound.
At times he thoug=
ht
that he must be returning towards his starting-point; then, that he saw some
one approaching. It was no one. It was only the reflection of himself in a
mirror, dressed as a nobleman. That he? Impossible! Then he recognized hims=
elf,
but not at once.
He explored every
passage that he came to.
He examined the
quaint arrangements of the rambling building, and their yet quainter fittin=
gs.
Here, a cabinet, painted and carved in a sentimental but vicious style; the=
re,
an equivocal-looking chapel, studded with enamels and mother-of-pearl, with
miniatures on ivory wrought out in relief, like those on old-fashioned
snuff-boxes; there, one of those pretty Florentine retreats, adapted to the
hypochondriasis of women, and even then called boudoirs. Everywhere--on the
ceilings, on the walls, and on the very floors--were representations, in ve=
lvet
or in metal, of birds, of trees; of luxuriant vegetation, picked out in rel=
iefs
of lacework; tables covered with jet carvings, representing warriors, queen=
s,
and tritons armed with the scaly terminations of a hydra. Cut crystals
combining prismatic effects with those of reflection. Mirrors repeated the
light of precious stones, and sparkles glittered in the darkest corners. It=
was
impossible to guess whether those many-sided, shining surfaces, where emera=
ld
green mingled with the golden hues of the rising sun where floated a glimme=
r of
ever-varying colours, like those on a pigeon's neck, were miniature mirrors=
or
enormous beryls. Everywhere was magnificence, at once refined and stupendou=
s;
if it was not the most diminutive of palaces, it was the most gigantic of
jewel-cases. A house for Mab or a jewel for Geo.
Gwynplaine sought=
an
exit. He could not find one. Impossible to make out his way. There is nothi=
ng
so confusing as wealth seen for the first time. Moreover, this was a labyri=
nth.
At each step he was stopped by some magnificent object which appeared to re=
tard
his exit, and to be unwilling to let him pass. He was encompassed by a net =
of
wonders. He felt himself bound and held back.
What a horrible
palace! he thought. Restless, he wandered through the maze, asking himself =
what
it all meant--whether he was in prison; chafing, thirsting for the fresh ai=
r.
He repeated Dea! Dea! as if that word was the thread of the labyrinth, and =
must
be held unbroken, to guide him out of it. Now and then he shouted, "Ho!
Any one there?" No one answered. The rooms never came to an end. All w=
as
deserted, silent, splendid, sinister. It realized the fables of enchanted
castles. Hidden pipes of hot air maintained a summer temperature in the
building. It was as if some magician had caught up the month of June and
imprisoned it in a labyrinth. There were pleasant odours now and then, and =
he
crossed currents of perfume, as though passing by invisible flowers. It was=
warm.
Carpets everywhere. One might have walked about there, unclothed.
Gwynplaine looked=
out
of the windows. The view from each one was different. From one he beheld
gardens, sparkling with the freshness of a spring morning; from another a p=
lot
decked with statues; from a third, a patio in the Spanish style, a little
square, flagged, mouldy, and cold. At times he saw a river--it was the Tham=
es;
sometimes a great tower--it was Windsor.
It was still so e=
arly
that there were no signs of life without.
He stood still and
listened.
"Oh! I will =
get
out of this place," said he. "I will return to Dea! They shall not
keep me here by force. Woe to him who bars my exit! What is that great tower
yonder? If there was a giant, a hell-hound, a minotaur, to keep the gate of
this enchanted palace, I would annihilate him. If an army, I would extermin=
ate
it. Dea! Dea!"
Suddenly he heard=
a
gentle noise, very faint. It was like dropping water. He was in a dark narr=
ow
passage, closed, some few paces further on, by a curtain. He advanced to the
curtain, pushed it aside, entered. He leaped before he looked.
An octagon room, with a vaulted cei=
ling,
without windows but lighted by a skylight; walls, ceiling, and floors faced
with peach-coloured marble; a black marble canopy, like a pall, with twisted
columns in the solid but pleasing Elizabethan style, overshadowing a vase-l=
ike
bath of the same black marble--this was what he saw before him. In the cent=
re
of the bath arose a slender jet of tepid and perfumed water, which, softly =
and slowly,
was filling the tank. The bath was black to augment fairness into brillianc=
y.
It was the water
which he had heard. A waste-pipe, placed at a certain height in the bath,
prevented it from overflowing. Vapour was rising from the water, but not
sufficient to cause it to hang in drops on the marble. The slender jet of w=
ater
was like a supple wand of steel, bending at the slightest current of air. T=
here
was no furniture, except a chair-bed with pillows, long enough for a woman =
to
lie on at full length, and yet have room for a dog at her feet. The French,
indeed, borrow their word canapé from can-al-pié. This sofa w=
as
of Spanish manufacture. In it silver took the place of woodwork. The cushio=
ns
and coverings were of rich white silk.
On the other side=
of
the bath, by the wall, was a lofty dressing-table of solid silver, furnished
with every requisite for the table, having in its centre, and in imitation =
of a
window, eight small Venetian mirrors, set in a silver frame. In a panel on =
the
wall was a square opening, like a little window, which was closed by a door=
of
solid silver. This door was fitted with hinges, like a shutter. On the shut=
ter
there glistened a chased and gilt royal crown. Over it, and affixed to the
wall, was a bell, silver gilt, if not of pure gold.
Opposite the entr=
ance
of the chamber, in which Gwynplaine stood as if transfixed, there was an
opening in the marble wall, extending to the ceiling, and closed by a high =
and
broad curtain of silver tissue. This curtain, of fairy-like tenuity, was
transparent, and did not interrupt the view. Through the centre of this web,
where one might expect a spider, Gwynplaine saw a more formidable object--a
woman. Her dress was a long chemise--so long that it floated over her feet,
like the dresses of angels in holy pictures; but so fine that it seemed liq=
uid.
The silver tissue,
transparent as glass and fastened only at the ceiling, could be lifted asid=
e.
It separated the marble chamber, which was a bathroom, from the adjoining
apartment, which was a bedchamber. This tiny dormitory was as a grotto of
mirrors. Venetian glasses, close together, mounted with gold mouldings,
reflected on every side the bed in the centre of the room. On the bed, whic=
h,
like the toilet-table, was of silver, lay the woman; she was asleep.
The crumpled clot=
hes
bore evidence of troubled sleep. The beauty of the folds was proof of the
quality of the material.
It was a period w=
hen
a queen, thinking that she should be damned, pictured hell to herself as a =
bed
with coarse sheets.[20]
A dressing-gown, =
of
curious silk, was thrown over the foot of the couch. It was apparently Chin=
ese;
for a great golden lizard was partly visible in between the folds.
Beyond the couch,=
and
probably masking a door, was a large mirror, on which were painted peacocks=
and
swans.
Shadow seemed to =
lose
its nature in this apartment, and glistened. The spaces between the mirrors=
and
the gold work were lined with that sparkling material called at Venice thre=
ad
of glass--that is, spun glass.
At the head of the
couch stood a reading desk, on a movable pivot, with candles, and a book ly=
ing
open, bearing this title, in large red letters, "Alcoranus
Mahumedis."
Gwynplaine saw no=
ne
of these details. He had eyes only for the woman. He was at once stupefied =
and
filled with tumultuous emotions, states apparently incompatible, yet someti=
mes
co-existent. He recognized her. Her eyes were closed, but her face was turn=
ed
towards him. It was the duchess--she, the mysterious being in whom all the
splendours of the unknown were united; she who had occasioned him so many
unavowable dreams; she who had written him so strange a letter! The only wo=
man
in the world of whom he could say, "She has seen me, and she desires
me!"
He had dismissed =
the
dreams from his mind; he had burnt the letter. He had, as far as lay in his
power, banished the remembrance of her from his thoughts and dreams. He no
longer thought of her. He had forgotten her....
Again he saw her,=
and
saw her terrible in power. His breath came in short catches. He felt as if =
he
were in a storm-driven cloud. He looked. This woman before him! Was it
possible? At the theatre a duchess; here a nereid, a nymph, a fairy. Always=
an
apparition. He tried to fly, but felt the futility of the attempt. His eyes
were riveted on the vision, as though he were bound. Was she a woman? Was s=
he a
maiden? Both. Messalina was perhaps present, though invisible, and smiled,
while Diana kept watch.
Over all her beau=
ty
was the radiance of inaccessibility. No purity could compare with her chaste
and haughty form. Certain snows, which have never been touched, give an ide=
a of
it--such as the sacred whiteness of the Jungfrau. Immodesty was merged in
splendour. She felt the security of an Olympian, who knew that she was daug=
hter
of the depths, and might say to the ocean, "Father!" And she expo=
sed
herself, unattainable and proud, to everything that should pass--to looks, =
to
desires, to ravings, to dreams; as proud in her languor, on her boudoir cou=
ch,
as Venus in the immensity of the sea-foam.
She had slept all
night, and was prolonging her sleep into the daylight; her boldness, begun =
in
shadow, continued in light.
Gwynplaine shudde=
red.
He admired her with an unhealthy and absorbing admiration, which ended in f=
ear.
Misfortunes never come singly. Gwynplaine thought he had drained to the dre=
gs
the cup of his ill-luck. Now it was refilled. Who was it who was hurling all
those unremitting thunderbolts on his devoted head, and who had now thrown
against him, as he stood trembling there, a sleeping goddess? What! was the
dangerous and desirable object of his dream lurking all the while behind th=
ese successive
glimpses of heaven? Did these favours of the mysterious tempter tend to ins=
pire
him with vague aspirations and confused ideas, and overwhelm him with an
intoxicating series of realities proceeding from apparent impossibilities?
Wherefore did all the shadows conspire against him, a wretched man; and what
would become of him, with all those evil smiles of fortune beaming on him? =
Was
his temptation prearranged? This woman, how and why was she there? No
explanation! Why him? Why her? Was he made a peer of England expressly for =
this
duchess? Who had brought them together? Who was the dupe? Who the victim? W=
hose
simplicity was being abused? Was it God who was being deceived? All these
undefined thoughts passed confusedly, like a flight of dark shadows, through
his brain. That magical and malevolent abode, that strange and prison-like
palace, was it also in the plot? Gwynplaine suffered a partial unconsciousn=
ess.
Suppressed emotions threatened to strangle him. He was weighed down by an
overwhelming force. His will became powerless. How could he resist? He was
incoherent and entranced. This time he felt he was becoming irremediably in=
sane.
His dark, headlong fall over the precipice of stupefaction continued.
But the woman sle=
pt
on.
What aggravated t=
he
storm within him was, that he saw not the princess, not the duchess, not the
lady, but the woman.
Gwynplaine, losing
all self-command, trembled. What could he do against such a temptation? Here
were no skilful effects of dress, no silken folds, no complex and coquettish
adornments, no affected exaggeration of concealment or of exhibition, no cl=
oud.
It was fearful simplicity--a sort of mysterious summons--the shameless auda=
city
of Eden. The whole of the dark side of human nature was there. Eve worse th=
an
Satan; the human and the superhuman commingled. A perplexing ecstasy, windi=
ng
up in a brutal triumph of instinct over duty. The sovereign contour of beau=
ty
is imperious. When it leaves the ideal and condescends to be real, its prox=
imity
is fatal to man.
Now and then the
duchess moved softly on the bed, with the vague movement of a cloud in the
heavens, changing as a vapour changes its form. Absurd as it may appear, th=
ough
he saw her present in the flesh before him, yet she seemed a chimera; and,
palpable as she was, she seemed to him afar off. Scared and livid, he gazed=
on.
He listened for her breathing, and fancied he heard only a phantom's respir=
ation.
He was attracted, though against his will. How arm himself against her--or =
against
himself? He had been prepared for everything except this danger. A savage
doorkeeper, a raging monster of a jailer--such were his expected antagonist=
s.
He looked for Cerberus; he saw Hebe. A sleeping woman! What an opponent! He
closed his eyes. Too bright a dawn blinds the eyes. But through his closed
eyelids there penetrated at once the woman's form--not so distinct, but
beautiful as ever.
Fly! Easier said =
than
done. He had already tried and failed. He was rooted to the ground, as if i=
n a
dream. When we try to draw back, temptation clogs our feet and glues them to
the earth. We can still advance, but to retire is impossible. The invisible
arms of sin rise from below and drag us down.
There is a
commonplace idea, accepted by every one, that feelings become blunted by
experience. Nothing can be more untrue. You might as well say that by dropp=
ing
nitric acid slowly on a sore it would heal and become sound, and that tortu=
re
dulled the sufferings of Damiens. The truth is, that each fresh application
intensifies the pain.
From one surprise
after another, Gwynplaine had become desperate. That cup, his reason, under
this new stupor, was overflowing. He felt within him a terrible awakening.
Compass he no longer possessed. One idea only was before him--the woman. An
indescribable happiness appeared, which threatened to overwhelm him. He cou=
ld
no longer decide for himself. There was an irresistible current and a reef.=
The
reef was not a rock, but a siren--a magnet at the bottom of the abyss. He
wished to tear himself away from this magnet; but how was he to carry out h=
is
wish? He had ceased to feel any basis of support. Who can foresee the fluct=
uations
of the human mind! A man may be wrecked, as is a ship. Conscience is an anc=
hor.
It is a terrible thing, but, like the anchor, conscience may be carried awa=
y.
He had not even t=
he
chance of being repulsed on account of his terrible disfigurement. The woman
had written to say that she loved him.
In every crisis t=
here
is a moment when the scale hesitates before kicking the beam. When we lean =
to
the worst side of our nature, instead of strengthening our better qualities,
the moral force which has been preserving the balance gives way, and down we
go. Had this critical moment in Gwynplaine's life arrived?
How could he esca=
pe?
So it is she--the
duchess, the woman! There she was in that lonely room--asleep, far from
succour, helpless, alone, at his mercy; yet he was in her power! The duches=
s!
We have, perchance, observed a star in the distant firmament. We have admir=
ed
it. It is so far off. What can there be to make us shudder in a fixed star?
Well, one day--one night, rather--it moves. We perceive a trembling gleam
around it. The star which we imagined to be immovable is in motion. It is no
longer a star, but a comet--the incendiary giant of the skies. The luminary
moves on, grows bigger, shakes off a shower of sparks and fire, and becomes=
enormous.
It advances towards us. Oh, horror, it is coming our way! The comet recogni=
zes
us, marks us for its own, and will not be turned aside. Irresistible attack=
of
the heavens! What is it which is bearing down on us? An excess of light, wh=
ich
blinds us; an excess of life, which kills us. That proposal which the heave=
ns
make we refuse; that unfathomable love we reject. We close our eyes; we hid=
e;
we tear ourselves away; we imagine the danger is past. We open our eyes: the
formidable star is still before us; but, no longer a star, it has become a =
world--a
world unknown, a world of lava and ashes; the devastating prodigy of space.=
It fills
the sky, allowing no compeers. The carbuncle of the firmament's depths, a
diamond in the distance, when drawn close to us becomes a furnace. You are
caught in its flames. And the first sensation of burning is that of a heave=
nly
warmth.
Suddenly the sleeper awoke. She sat=
up
with a sudden and gracious dignity of movement, her fair silken tresses fal=
ling
in soft disorder. Then stretching herself, she yawned like a tigress in the
rising sun.
Perhaps Gwynplaine
breathed heavily, as we do when we endeavour to restrain our respiration.
"Is any one
there?" said she.
She yawned as she
spoke, and her very yawn was graceful. Gwynplaine listened to the unfamiliar
voice--the voice of a charmer, its accents exquisitely haughty, its caressi=
ng
intonation softening its native arrogance. Then rising on her knees--there =
is
an antique statue kneeling thus in the midst of a thousand transparent
folds--she drew the dressing-gown towards her, and springing from the couch
stood upright. In the twinkling of an eye the silken robe was around her. T=
he
trailing sleeve concealed her hands; only the tips of her toes, with little
pink nails like those of an infant, were left visible. Having drawn from un=
derneath
the dressing-gown a mass of hair which had been imprisoned by it, she cross=
ed
behind the couch to the end of the room, and placed her ear to the painted
mirror, which was, apparently, a door. Tapping the glass with her finger, s=
he
called, "Is any one there? Lord David? Are you come already? What time=
is
it then? Is that you, Barkilphedro?" She turned from the glass. "=
No!
it was not there. Is there any one in the bathroom? Will you answer? Of cou=
rse
not. No one could come that way."
Going to the silv=
er
lace curtain, she raised it with her foot, thrust it aside with her shoulde=
r,
and entered the marble room. An agonized numbness fell upon Gwynplaine. No
possibility of concealment. It was too late to fly. Moreover, he was no lon=
ger
equal to the exertion. He wished that the earth might open and swallow him =
up.
Anything to hide him.
She saw him. She
stared, immensely astonished, but without the slightest nervousness. Then, =
in a
tone of mingled pleasure and contempt, she said, "Why, it is
Gwynplaine!" Suddenly with a rapid spring, for this cat was a panther,=
she
flung herself on his neck.
Suddenly, pushing=
him
back, and holding him by both shoulders with her small claw-like hands, she
stood up face to face with him, and began to gaze at him with a strange
expression.
It was a fatal gl=
ance
she gave him with her Aldebaran-like eyes--a glance at once equivocal and
starlike. Gwynplaine watched the blue eye and the black eye, distracted by =
the
double ray of heaven and of hell that shone in the orbs thus fixed on him. =
The
man and the woman threw a malign dazzling reflection one on the other. Both
were fascinated--he by her beauty, she by his deformity. Both were in a mea=
sure
awe-stricken. Pressed down, as by an overwhelming weight, he was speechless=
.
"Oh!" s=
he
cried. "How clever you are! You are come. You found out that I was obl=
iged
to leave London. You followed me. That was right. Your being here proves yo=
u to
be a wonder."
The simultaneous
return of self-possession acts like a flash of lightning. Gwynplaine,
indistinctly warned by a vague, rude, but honest misgiving, drew back, but =
the
pink nails clung to his shoulders and restrained him. Some inexorable power
proclaimed its sway over him. He himself, a wild beast, was caged in a wild
beast's den. She continued, "Anne, the fool--you know whom I mean--the
queen--ordered me to Windsor without giving any reason. When I arrived she =
was
closeted with her idiot of a Chancellor. But how did you contrive to obtain
access to me? That's what I call being a man. Obstacles, indeed! there are =
no
such things. You come at a call. You found things out. My name, the Duchess=
Josiana,
you knew, I fancy. Who was it brought you in? No doubt it was the page. Oh,=
he
is clever! I will give him a hundred guineas. Which way did you get in? Tell
me! No, don't tell me; I don't want to know. Explanations diminish interest=
. I
prefer the marvellous, and you are hideous enough to be wonderful. You have
fallen from the highest heavens, or you have risen from the depths of hell
through the devil's trap-door. Nothing can be more natural. The ceiling ope=
ned
or the floor yawned. A descent in a cloud, or an ascent in a mass of fire a=
nd brimstone,
that is how you have travelled. You have a right to enter like the gods.
Agreed; you are my lover."
Gwynplaine was
scared, and listened, his mind growing more irresolute every moment. Now all
was certain. Impossible to have any further doubt. That letter! the woman
confirmed its meaning. Gwynplaine the lover and the beloved of a duchess!
Mighty pride, with its thousand baleful heads, stirred his wretched heart.
Vanity, that powerful agent within us, works us measureless evil.
The duchess went =
on,
"Since you are here, it is so decreed. I ask nothing more. There is so=
me
one on high, or in hell, who brings us together. The betrothal of Styx and
Aurora! Unbridled ceremonies beyond all laws! The very day I first saw you I
said, 'It is he!' I recognize him. He is the monster of my dreams. He shall=
be
mine. We should give destiny a helping hand. Therefore I wrote to you. One
question, Gwynplaine: do you believe in predestination? For my part, I have=
believed
in it since I read, in Cicero, Scipio's dream. Ah! I did not observe it.
Dressed like a gentleman! You in fine clothes! Why not? You are a mounteban=
k.
All the more reason. A juggler is as good as a lord. Moreover, what are lor=
ds?
Clowns. You have a noble figure; you are magnificently made. It is wonderful
that you should be here. When did you arrive? How long have you been here? =
Did
you see me naked? I am beautiful, am I not? I was going to take my bath. Oh,
how I love you! You read my letter! Did you read it yourself? Did any one r=
ead
it to you? Can you read? Probably you are ignorant. I ask questions, but do=
n't answer
them. I don't like the sound of your voice. It is soft. An extraordinary th=
ing
like you should snarl, and not speak. You sing harmoniously. I hate it. It =
is
the only thing about you that I do not like. All the rest is terrible--is
grand. In India you would be a god. Were you born with that frightful laugh=
on
your face? No! No doubt it is a penal brand. I do hope you have committed s=
ome
crime. Come to my arms."
She sank on the
couch, and made him sit beside her. They found themselves close together
unconsciously. What she said passed over Gwynplaine like a mighty storm. He
hardly understood the meaning of her whirlwind of words. Her eyes were full=
of
admiration. She spoke tumultuously, frantically, with a voice broken and
tender. Her words were music, but their music was to Gwynplaine as a hurric=
ane.
Again she fixed her gaze upon him and continued,--
"I feel degr=
aded
in your presence, and oh, what happiness that is! How insipid it is to be a
grandee! I am noble; what can be more tiresome? Disgrace is a comfort. I am=
so satiated
with respect that I long for contempt. We are all a little erratic, from Ve=
nus,
Cleopatra, Mesdames de Chevreuse and de Longueville, down to myself. I will
make a display of you, I declare. Here's a love affair which will be a blow=
to
my family, the Stuarts. Ah! I breathe again. I have discovered a secret. I =
am
clear of royalty. To be free from its trammels is indeed deliverance. To br=
eak
down, defy, make and destroy at will, that is true enjoyment. Listen, I love
you."
She paused; then =
with
a frightful smile went on, "I love you, not only because you are defor=
med,
but because you are low. I love monsters, and I love mountebanks. A lover
despised, mocked, grotesque, hideous, exposed to laughter on that pillory
called a theatre, has for me an extraordinary attraction. It is tasting the
fruit of hell. An infamous lover, how exquisite! To taste the apple, not of
Paradise, but of hell--such is my temptation. It is for that I hunger and
thirst. I am that Eve, the Eve of the depths. Probably you are, unknown to
yourself, a devil. I am in love with a nightmare. You are a moving puppet, =
of which
the strings are pulled by a spectre. You are the incarnation of infernal mi=
rth.
You are the master I require. I wanted a lover such as those of Medea and
Canidia. I felt sure that some night would bring me such a one. You are all
that I want. I am talking of a heap of things of which you probably know
nothing. Gwynplaine, hitherto I have remained untouched; I give myself to y=
ou,
pure as a burning ember. You evidently do not believe me; but if you only k=
new
how little I care!"
Her words flowed =
like
a volcanic eruption. Pierce Mount Etna, and you may obtain some idea of that
jet of fiery eloquence.
Gwynplaine stamme=
red,
"Madame--"
She placed her ha=
nd
on his mouth. "Silence," she said. "I am studying you. I am
unbridled desire, immaculate. I am a vestal bacchante. No man has known me,=
and
I might be the virgin pythoness at Delphos, and have under my naked foot the
bronze tripod, where the priests lean their elbows on the skin of the pytho=
n,
whispering questions to the invisible god. My heart is of stone, but it is =
like
those mysterious pebbles which the sea washes to the foot of the rock called
Huntly Nabb, at the mouth of the Tees, and which if broken are found to con=
tain
a serpent. That serpent is my love--a love which is all-powerful, for it has
brought you to me. An impossible distance was between us. I was in Sirius, =
and
you were in Allioth. You have crossed the immeasurable space, and here you =
are.
'Tis well. Be silent. Take me."
She ceased; he
trembled. Then she went on, smiling, "You see, Gwynplaine, to dream is=
to
create; to desire is to summon. To build up the chimera is to provoke the
reality. The all-powerful and terrible mystery will not be defied. It produ=
ces
result. You are here. Do I dare to lose caste? Yes. Do I dare to be your
mistress--your concubine--your slave--your chattel? Joyfully. Gwynplaine, I=
am
woman. Woman is clay longing to become mire. I want to despise myself. That
lends a zest to pride. The alloy of greatness is baseness. They combine in
perfection. Despise me, you who are despised. Nothing can be better.
Degradation on degradation. What joy! I pluck the double blossom of ignomin=
y.
Trample me under foot. You will only love me the more. I am sure of it. Do =
you understand
why I idolize you? Because I despise you. You are so immeasurably below me =
that
I place you on an altar. Bring the highest and lowest depths together, and =
you
have Chaos, and I delight in Chaos--Chaos, the beginning and end of everyth=
ing.
What is Chaos? A huge blot. Out of that blot God made light, and out of that
sink the world. You don't know how perverse I can be. Knead a star in mud, =
and
you will have my likeness."
She went on,--
"A wolf to a=
ll
beside; a faithful dog to you. How astonished they will all be! The
astonishment of fools is amusing. I understand myself. Am I a goddess?
Amphitrite gave herself to the Cyclops. Fluctivoma Amphitrite. Am I a fairy?
Urgele gave herself to Bugryx, a winged man, with eight webbed hands. Am I a
princess? Marie Stuart had Rizzio. Three beauties, three monsters. I am gre=
ater
than they, for you are lower than they. Gwynplaine, we were made for one
another. The monster that you are outwardly, I am within. Thence my love for
you. A caprice? Just so. What is a hurricane but a caprice? Our stars have a
certain affinity. Together we are things of night--you in your face, I in my
mind. As your countenance is defaced, so is my mind. You, in your turn, cre=
ate
me. You come, and my real soul shows itself. I did not know it. It is aston=
ishing.
Your coming has evoked the hydra in me, who am a goddess. You reveal my real
nature. See how I resemble you. Look at me as if I were a mirror. Your face=
is
my mind. I did not know I was so terrible. I am also, then, a monster. O
Gwynplaine, you do amuse me!"
She laughed, a
strange and childlike laugh; and, putting her mouth close to his ear,
whispered,--
"Do you want=
to
see a mad woman? look at me."
She poured her
searching look into Gwynplaine. A look is a philtre. Her loosened robe prov=
oked
a thousand dangerous feelings. Blind, animal ecstasy was invading his
mind--ecstasy combined with agony. Whilst she spoke, though he felt her wor=
ds
like burning coals, his blood froze within his veins. He had not strength to
utter a word.
She stopped, and
looked at him.
"O
monster!" she cried. She grew wild.
Suddenly she seiz=
ed
his hands.
"Gwynplaine,=
I
am the throne; you are the footstool. Let us join on the same level. Oh, how
happy I am in my fall! I wish all the world could know how abject I am beco=
me.
It would bow down all the lower. The more man abhors, the more does he crin=
ge.
It is human nature. Hostile, but reptile; dragon, but worm. Oh, I am as
depraved as are the gods! They can never say that I am not a king's bastard=
. I
act like a queen. Who was Rodope but a queen loving Pteh, a man with a
crocodile's head? She raised the third pyramid in his honour. Penthesilea l=
oved
the centaur, who, being now a star, is named Sagittarius. And what do you s=
ay
about Anne of Austria? Mazarin was ugly enough! Now, you are not only ugly;=
you
are deformed. Ugliness is mean, deformity is grand. Ugliness is the devil's
grin behind beauty; deformity is the reverse of sublimity. It is the back v=
iew.
Olympus has two aspects. One, by day, shows Apollo; the other, by night, sh=
ows
Polyphemus. You--you are a Titan. You would be Behemoth in the forests,
Leviathan in the deep, and Typhon in the sewer. You surpass everything. The=
re
is the trace of lightning in your deformity; your face has been battered by=
the
thunderbolt. The jagged contortion of forked lightning has imprinted its ma=
rk
on your face. It struck you and passed on. A mighty and mysterious wrath ha=
s,
in a fit of passion, cemented your spirit in a terrible and superhuman form.
Hell is a penal furnace, where the iron called Fatality is raised to a whit=
e heat.
You have been branded with it. To love you is to understand grandeur. I enj=
oy
that triumph. To be in love with Apollo--a fine effort, forsooth! Glory is =
to
be measured by the astonishment it creates. I love you. I have dreamt of you
night after night. This is my palace. You shall see my gardens. There are f=
resh
springs under the shrubs; arbours for lovers; and beautiful groups of marble
statuary by Bernini. Flowers! there are too many--during the spring the pla=
ce
is on fire with roses. Did I tell you that the queen is my sister? Do what =
you like
with me. I am made for Jupiter to kiss my feet, and for Satan to spit in my
face. Are you of any religion? I am a Papist. My father, James II., died in
France, surrounded by Jesuits. I have never felt before as I feel now that =
I am
near you. Oh, how I should like to pass the evening with you, in the midst =
of
music, both reclining on the same cushion, under a purple awning, in a gild=
ed
gondola on the soft expanse of ocean! Insult me, beat me, kick me, cuff me,
treat me like a brute! I adore you."
Caresses can roar=
. If
you doubt it, observe the lion's. The woman was horrible, and yet full of
grace. The effect was tragic. First he felt the claw, then the velvet of the
paw. A feline attack, made up of advances and retreats. There was death as =
well
as sport in this game of come and go. She idolized him, but arrogantly. The
result was contagious frenzy. Fatal language, at once inexpressible, violen=
t,
and sweet. The insulter did not insult; the adorer outraged the object of
adoration. She, who buffeted, deified him. Her tones imparted to her violent
yet amorous words an indescribable Promethean grandeur. According to Æ=
;schylus,
in the orgies in honour of the great goddess the women were smitten by this
evil frenzy when they pursued the satyrs under the stars. Such paroxysms ra=
ged
in the mysterious dances in the grove of Dodona. This woman was as if
transfigured--if, indeed, we can term that transfiguration which is the
antithesis of heaven.
Her hair quivered
like a mane; her robe opened and closed. The sunshine of the blue eye mingl=
ed
with the fire of the black one. She was unearthly.
Gwynplaine, giving
way, felt himself vanquished by the deep subtilty of this attack.
"I love
you!" she cried. And she bit him with a kiss.
Homeric clouds we=
re,
perhaps, about to be required to encompass Gwynplaine and Josiana, as they =
did
Jupiter and Juno. For Gwynplaine to be loved by a woman who could see and w=
ho
saw him, to feel on his deformed mouth the pressure of divine lips, was
exquisite and maddening. Before this woman, full of enigmas, all else faded
away in his mind. The remembrance of Dea struggled in the shadows with weak=
cries.
There is an antique bas-relief representing the Sphinx devouring a Cupid. T=
he
wings of the sweet celestial are bleeding between the fierce, grinning fang=
s.
Did Gwynplaine lo=
ve
this woman? Has man, like the globe, two poles? Are we, on our inflexible a=
xis,
a moving sphere, a star when seen from afar, mud when seen more closely, in
which night alternates with day? Has the heart two aspects--one on which its
love is poured forth in light; the other in darkness? Here a woman of light,
there a woman of the sewer. Angels are necessary. Is it possible that demons
are also essential? Has the soul the wings of the bat? Does twilight fall
fatally for all? Is sin an integral and inevitable part of our destiny? Mus=
t we
accept evil as part and portion of our whole? Do we inherit sin as a debt? =
What
awful subjects for thought!
Yet a voice tells=
us
that weakness is a crime. Gwynplaine's feelings are not to be described. The
flesh, life, terror, lust, an overwhelming intoxication of spirit, and all =
the
shame possible to pride. Was he about to succumb?
She repeated, &qu= ot;I love you!" and flung her frenzied arms around him. Gwynplaine panted.<= o:p>
Suddenly close at
hand there rang, clear and distinct, a little bell. It was the little bell
inside the wall. The duchess, turning her head, said,--
"What does s=
he
want of me?"
Quickly, with the
noise of a spring door, the silver panel, with the golden crown chased on i=
t,
opened. A compartment of a shaft, lined with royal blue velvet, appeared, a=
nd
on a golden salver a letter. The letter, broad and weighty, was placed so a=
s to
exhibit the seal, which was a large impression in red wax. The bell continu=
ed
to tinkle. The open panel almost touched the couch where the duchess and
Gwynplaine were sitting.
Leaning over, but still keeping her arm round his neck, she took the letter from the plate, a= nd touched the panel. The compartment closed in, and the bell ceased ringing.<= o:p>
The duchess broke=
the
seal, and, opening the envelope, drew out two documents contained therein, =
and
flung it on the floor at Gwynplaine's feet. The impression of the broken se=
al
was still decipherable, and Gwynplaine could distinguish a royal crown over=
the
initial A. The torn envelope lay open before him, so that he could read,
"To Her Grace the Duchess Josiana." The envelope had contained bo=
th
vellum and parchment. The former was a small, the latter a large document. =
On
the parchment was a large Chancery seal in green wax, called Lords'
sealing-wax.
The face of the
duchess, whose bosom was palpitating, and whose eyes were swimming with
passion, became overspread with a slight expression of dissatisfaction.
"Ah!" s=
he
said. "What does she send me? A lot of papers! What a spoil-sport that
woman is!"
Pushing aside the
parchment, she opened the vellum.
"It is her
handwriting. It is my sister's hand. It is quite provoking. Gwynplaine, I a=
sked
you if you could read. Can you?"
Gwynplaine nodded
assent.
She stretched her=
self
at full length on the couch, carefully drew her feet and arms under her rob=
e,
with a whimsical affectation of modesty, and, giving Gwynplaine the vellum,
watched him with an impassioned look.
"Well, you a=
re
mine. Begin your duties, my beloved. Read me what the queen writes."
Gwynplaine took t=
he
vellum, unfolded it, and, in a voice tremulous with many emotions, began to
read:--
"MADAM,--We =
are
graciously pleased to send to you herewith, sealed and signed by our trusty=
and
well-beloved William Cowper, Lord High Chancellor of England, a copy of a
report showing forth the very important fact that the legitimate son of
Linnæus Lord Clancharlie has just been discovered and recognized, bea=
ring
the name of Gwynplaine, in the lowest rank of a wandering and vagabond life,
among strollers and mountebanks. His false position dates from his earliest
days. In accordance with the laws of the country, and in virtue of his
hereditary rights, Lord Fermain Clancharlie, son of Lord Linnæus, wil=
l be
this day admitted, and installed in his position in the House of Lords. The=
refore,
having regard to your welfare, and wishing to preserve for your use the
property and estates of Lord Clancharlie of Hunkerville, we substitute him =
in
the place of Lord David Dirry-Moir, and recommend him to your good graces. =
We
have caused Lord Fermain to be conducted to Corleone Lodge. We will and
command, as sister and as Queen, that the said Fermain Lord Clancharlie,
hitherto called Gwynplaine, shall be your husband, and that you shall marry
him. Such is our royal pleasure."
While Gwynplaine,=
in
tremulous tones which varied at almost every word, was reading the document,
the duchess, half risen from the couch, listened with fixed attention. When
Gwynplaine finished, she snatched the letter from his hands.
"Anne R,&quo=
t;
she murmured in a tone of abstraction. Then picking up from the floor the
parchment she had thrown down, she ran her eye over it. It was the confessi=
on
of the shipwrecked crew of the Matutina, embodied in a report signed by the
sheriff of Southwark and by the lord chancellor.
Having perused the
report, she read the queen's letter over again. Then she said, "Be it
so." And calmly pointing with her finger to the door of the gallery
through which he had entered, she added, "Begone."
Gwynplaine was
petrified, and remained immovable. She repeated, in icy tones, "Since =
you
are my husband, begone." Gwynplaine, speechless, and with eyes downcast
like a criminal, remained motionless. She added, "You have no right to=
be
here; it is my lover's place." Gwynplaine was like a man transfixed.
"Very well," said she; "I must go myself. So you are my husb=
and.
Nothing can be better. I hate you." She rose, and with an indescribably
haughty gesture of adieu left the room. The curtain in the doorway of the
gallery fell behind her.
CHAPTER V - THEY RECOGNIZE, BUT DO NOT KNOW, EACH OTHER.<=
/span>
Gwynplaine was alone--alone, and in=
the
presence of the tepid bath and the deserted couch. The confusion in his mind
had reached its culminating point. His thoughts no longer resembled thought=
s.
They overflowed and ran riot; it was the anguish of a creature wrestling wi=
th perplexity.
He felt as if he were awaking from a horrid nightmare. The entrance into
unknown spheres is no simple matter.
From the time he =
had
received the duchess's letter, brought by the page, a series of surprising
adventures had befallen Gwynplaine, each one less intelligible than the oth=
er.
Up to this time, though in a dream, he had seen things clearly. Now he could
only grope his way. He no longer thought, nor even dreamed. He collapsed. He
sank down upon the couch which the duchess had vacated.
Suddenly he heard=
a
sound of footsteps, and those of a man. The noise came from the opposite si=
de
of the gallery to that by which the duchess had departed. The man approache=
d,
and his footsteps, though deadened by the carpet, were clear and distinct.
Gwynplaine, in spite of his abstraction, listened.
Suddenly, beyond =
the
silver web of curtain which the duchess had left partly open, a door, evide=
ntly
concealed by the painted glass, opened wide, and there came floating into t=
he
room the refrain of an old French song, carolled at the top of a manly and
joyous voice,--
"Trois petits gorets sur leur
fumier Juraient comme de
porteurs de chaise,"
and a man entered=
. He
wore a sword by his side, a magnificent naval uniform, covered with gold la=
ce,
and held in his hand a plumed hat with loops and cockade. Gwynplaine sprang=
up
erect as if moved by springs. He recognized the man, and was, in turn,
recognized by him. From their astonished lips came, simultaneously, this do=
uble
exclamation:--
"Gwynplaine!=
"
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k!"
The man with the
plumed hat advanced towards Gwynplaine, who stood with folded arms.
"What are you
doing here, Gwynplaine?"
"And you,
Tom-Jim-Jack, what are you doing here?"
"Oh! I
understand. Josiana! a caprice. A mountebank and a monster! The double
attraction is too powerful to be resisted. You disguised yourself in order =
to
get here, Gwynplaine?"
"And you, to=
o,
Tom-Jim-Jack?"
"Gwynplaine,
what does this gentleman's dress mean?"
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k,
what does that officer's uniform mean?"
"Gwynplaine,=
I
answer no questions."
"Neither do =
I,
Tom-Jim-Jack."
"Gwynplaine,=
my
name is not Tom-Jim-Jack."
"Tom-Jim-Jac=
k,
my name is not Gwynplaine."
"Gwynplaine,=
I
am here in my own house."
"I am here i=
n my
own house, Tom-Jim-Jack."
"I will not =
have
you echo my words. You are ironical; but I've got a cane. An end to your jo=
kes,
you wretched fool."
Gwynplaine became
ashy pale. "You are a fool yourself, and you shall give me satisfaction
for this insult."
"In your boo=
th
as much as you like, with fisticuffs."
"Here, and w=
ith
swords?"
"My friend
Gwynplaine, the sword is a weapon for gentlemen. With it I can only fight my
equals. At fisticuffs we are equal, but not so with swords. At the Tadcaster
Inn Tom-Jim-Jack could box with Gwynplaine; at Windsor the case is altered.
Understand this: I am a rear-admiral."
"And I am a =
peer
of England."
The man whom
Gwynplaine recognized as Tom-Jim-Jack burst out laughing. "Why not a k=
ing?
Indeed, you are right. An actor plays every part. You'll tell me next that =
you
are Theseus, Duke of Athens."
"I am a peer=
of
England, and we are going to fight."
"Gwynplaine,
this becomes tiresome. Don't play with one who can order you to be flogged.=
I
am Lord David Dirry-Moir."
"And I am Lo=
rd
Clancharlie."
Again Lord David
burst out laughing.
"Well said!
Gwynplaine is Lord Clancharlie. That is indeed the name the man must bear w=
ho
is to win Josiana. Listen. I forgive you; and do you know the reason? It's
because we are both lovers of the same woman."
The curtain in the
door was lifted, and a voice exclaimed, "You are the two husbands, my
lords."
They turned.
"Barkilphedr=
o!"
cried Lord David.
It was indeed he;=
he
bowed low to the two lords, with a smile on his face. Some few paces behind=
him
was a gentleman with a stern and dignified countenance, who carried in his =
hand
a black wand. This gentleman advanced, and, bowing three times to Gwynplain=
e,
said, "I am the Usher of the Black Rod. I come to fetch your lordship,=
in
obedience to her Majesty's commands."
BOOK THE EIGHTH - THE CAPITOL AND THINGS AROUND IT.
CHAPTER I - ANALYSIS OF MAJESTIC MATTERS.=
a>
Irresistible Fate ever carrying him
forward, which had now for so many hours showered its surprises on Gwynplai=
ne,
and which had transported him to Windsor, transferred him again to London.
Visionary realities succeeded each other without a moment's intermission. He
could not escape from their influence. Freed from one he met another. He ha=
d scarcely
time to breathe. Any one who has seen a juggler throwing and catching balls=
can
judge the nature of fate. Those rising and falling projectiles are like men
tossed in the hands of Destiny--projectiles and playthings.
On the evening of=
the
same day, Gwynplaine was an actor in an extraordinary scene. He was seated =
on a
bench covered with fleurs-de-lis; over his silken clothes he wore a robe of
scarlet velvet, lined with white silk, with a cape of ermine, and on his
shoulders two bands of ermine embroidered with gold. Around him were men of=
all
ages, young and old, seated like him on benches covered with fleurs-de-lis,=
and
dressed like him in ermine and purple. In front of him other men were kneel=
ing,
clothed in black silk gowns. Some of them were writing; opposite, and a sho=
rt
distance from him, he observed steps, a raised platform, a dais, a large
escutcheon glittering between a lion and a unicorn, and at the top of the
steps, on the platform under the dais, resting against the escutcheon, was a
gilded chair with a crown over it. This was a throne--the throne of Great
Britain.
Gwynplaine, himse= lf a peer of England, was in the House of Lords. How Gwynplaine's introduction to the House of Lords came about, we will now explain. Throughout the day, from morning to night, from Windsor to London, from Corleone Lodge to Westminster Hall, he had step by step mounted higher in the social grade. At each step = he grew giddier. He had been conveyed from Windsor in a royal carriage with a peer's escort. There is not much difference between a guard of honour and a prisoner's. On that day, travellers on the London and Windsor road saw a ga= lloping cavalcade of gentlemen pensioners of her Majesty's household escorting two carriages drawn at a rapid pace. In the first carriage sat the Usher of the Black Rod, his wand in his hand. In the second was to be seen a large hat w= ith white plumes, throwing into shadow and hiding the face underneath it. Who w= as it who was thus being hurried on--a prince, a prisoner? It was Gwynplaine.<= o:p>
It looked as if t=
hey
were conducting some one to the Tower, unless, indeed, they were escorting =
him
to the House of Lords. The queen had done things well. As it was for her fu=
ture
brother-in-law, she had provided an escort from her own household. The offi=
cer
of the Usher of the Black Rod rode on horseback at the head of the cavalcad=
e.
The Usher of the Black Rod carried, on a cushion placed on a seat of the
carriage, a black portfolio stamped with the royal crown. At Brentford, the
last relay before London, the carriages and escort halted. A four-horse car=
riage
of tortoise-shell, with two postilions, a coachman in a wig, and four footm=
en,
was in waiting. The wheels, steps, springs, pole, and all the fittings of t=
his
carriage were gilt. The horses' harness was of silver. This state coach was=
of
an ancient and extraordinary shape, and would have been distinguished by its
grandeur among the fifty-one celebrated carriages of which Roubo has left us
drawings.
The Usher of the
Black Rod and his officer alighted. The latter, having lifted the cushion, =
on
which rested the royal portfolio, from the seat in the postchaise, carried =
it
on outstretched hands, and stood behind the Usher. He first opened the door=
of
the empty carriage, then the door of that occupied by Gwynplaine, and, with
downcast eyes, respectfully invited him to descend. Gwynplaine left the cha=
ise,
and took his seat in the carriage. The Usher carrying the rod, and the offi=
cer
supporting the cushion, followed, and took their places on the low front se=
at
provided for pages in old state coaches. The inside of the carriage was lin=
ed with
white satin trimmed with Binche silk, with tufts and tassels of silver. The
roof was painted with armorial bearings. The postilions of the chaises they
were leaving were dressed in the royal livery. The attendants of the carria=
ge
they now entered wore a different but very magnificent livery.
Gwynplaine, in sp=
ite
of his bewildered state, in which he felt quite overcome, remarked the
gorgeously-attired footmen, and asked the Usher of the Black Rod,--
"Whose liver=
y is
that?"
He answered,--
"Yours, my
lord."
The House of Lords
was to sit that evening. Curia erat serena, run the old records. In England
parliamentary work is by preference undertaken at night. It once happened t=
hat
Sheridan began a speech at midnight and finished it at sunrise.
The two postchais=
es
returned to Windsor. Gwynplaine's carriage set out for London. This ornamen=
ted
four-horse carriage proceeded at a walk from Brentford to London, as befitt=
ed
the dignity of the coachman. Gwynplaine's servitude to ceremony was beginni=
ng
in the shape of his solemn-looking coachman. The delay was, moreover,
apparently prearranged; and we shall see presently its probable motive.
Night was falling,
though it was not quite dark, when the carriage stopped at the King's Gate,=
a
large sunken door between two turrets connecting Whitehall with Westminster.
The escort of gentlemen pensioners formed a circle around the carriage. A
footman jumped down from behind it and opened the door. The Usher of the Bl=
ack
Rod, followed by the officer carrying the cushion, got out of the carriage,=
and
addressed Gwynplaine.
"My lord, be
pleased to alight. I beg your lordship to keep your hat on."
Gwynplaine wore u=
nder
his travelling cloak the suit of black silk, which he had not changed since=
the
previous evening. He had no sword. He left his cloak in the carriage. Under=
the
arched way of the King's Gate there was a small side door raised some few s=
teps
above the road. In ceremonial processions the greatest personage never walks
first.
The Usher of the
Black Rod, followed by his officer, walked first; Gwynplaine followed. They
ascended the steps, and entered by the side door. Presently they were in a
wide, circular room, with a pillar in the centre, the lower part of a turre=
t.
The room, being on the ground floor, was lighted by narrow windows in the
pointed arches, which served but to make darkness visible. Twilight often l=
ends
solemnity to a scene. Obscurity is in itself majestic.
In this room,
thirteen men, disposed in ranks, were standing--three in the front row, six=
in
the second row, and four behind. In the front row one wore a crimson velvet
gown; the other two, gowns of the same colour, but of satin. All three had =
the
arms of England embroidered on their shoulders. The second rank wore tunics=
of
white silk, each one having a different coat of arms emblazoned in front. T=
he
last row were clad in black silk, and were thus distinguished. The first wo=
re a
blue cape. The second had a scarlet St. George embroidered in front. The th=
ird,
two embroidered crimson crosses, in front and behind. The fourth had a coll=
ar
of black sable fur. All were uncovered, wore wigs, and carried swords. Their
faces were scarcely visible in the dim light, neither could they see
Gwynplaine's face.
The Usher of the
Black Rod, raising his wand, said,--
"My Lord Fer=
main
Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, I, the Usher of the Black R=
od,
first officer of the presence chamber, hand your lordship over to Garter
King-at-Arms."
The person clothe=
d in
velvet, quitting his place in the ranks, bowed to the ground before Gwynpla=
ine,
and said,--
"My Lord Fer=
main
Clancharlie, I am Garter, Principal King-at-Arms of England. I am the offic=
er
appointed and installed by his grace the Duke of Norfolk, hereditary Earl
Marshal. I have sworn obedience to the king, peers, and knights of the gart=
er.
The day of my installation, when the Earl Marshal of England anointed me by
pouring a goblet of wine on my head, I solemnly promised to be attentive to=
the
nobility; to avoid bad company; to excuse, rather than accuse, gentlefolks;=
and
to assist widows and virgins. It is I who have the charge of arranging the
funeral ceremonies of peers, and the supervision of their armorial bearings=
. I place
myself at the orders of your lordship."
The first of those
wearing satin tunics, having bowed deeply, said,--
"My lord, I =
am Clarenceaux,
Second King-at-Arms of England. I am the officer who arranges the obsequies=
of
nobles below the rank of peers. I am at your lordship's disposal."
The other wearer =
of
the satin tunic bowed and spoke thus,--
"My lord, I =
am
Norroy, Third King-at-Arms of England. Command me."
The second row, e=
rect
and without bowing, advanced a pace. The right-hand man said,--
"My lord, we=
are
the six Dukes-at-Arms of England. I am York."
Then each of the
heralds, or Dukes-at-Arms, speaking in turn, proclaimed his title.
"I am
Lancaster."
"I am
Richmond."
"I am
Chester."
"I am
Somerset."
"I am
Windsor."
The coats of arms
embroidered on their breasts were those of the counties and towns from which
they took their names.
The third rank,
dressed in black, remained silent. Garter King-at-Arms, pointing them out to
Gwynplaine, said,--
"My lord, th=
ese
are the four Pursuivants-at-Arms. Blue Mantle."
The man with the =
blue
cape bowed.
"Rouge
Dragon."
He with the St.
George inclined his head.
"Rouge
Croix."
He with the scarl=
et
crosses saluted.
"Portcullis.=
"
He with the sable=
fur
collar made his obeisance.
On a sign from the
King-at-Arms, the first of the pursuivants, Blue Mantle, stepped forward and
received from the officer of the Usher the cushion of silver cloth and
crown-emblazoned portfolio. And the King-at-Arms said to the Usher of the B=
lack
Rod,--
"Proceed; I
leave in your hands the introduction of his lordship!"
The observance of
these customs, and also of others which will now be described, were the old
ceremonies in use prior to the time of Henry VIII., and which Anne for some
time attempted to revive. There is nothing like it in existence now.
Nevertheless, the House of Lords thinks that it is unchangeable; and, if
Conservatism exists anywhere, it is there.
It changes,
nevertheless. E pur si muove. For instance, what has become of the may-pole,
which the citizens of London erected on the 1st of May, when the peers went
down to the House? The last one was erected in 1713. Since then the may-pol=
e has
disappeared. Disuse.
Outwardly,
unchangeable; inwardly, mutable. Take, for example, the title of Albemarle.=
It
sounds eternal. Yet it has been through six different families--Odo,
Mandeville, Bethune, Plantagenet, Beauchamp, Monck. Under the title of Leic=
ester
five different names have been merged--Beaumont, Breose, Dudley, Sydney, Co=
ke.
Under Lincoln, six; under Pembroke, seven. The families change, under
unchanging titles. A superficial historian believes in immutability. In rea=
lity
it does not exist. Man can never be more than a wave; humanity is the ocean=
.
Aristocracy is pr=
oud
of what women consider a reproach--age! Yet both cherish the same illusion,
that they do not change. It is probable the House of Lords will not recogni=
ze
itself in the foregoing description, nor yet in that which follows, thus
resembling the once pretty woman, who objects to having any wrinkles. The
mirror is ever a scapegoat, yet its truths cannot be contested. To portray
exactly, constitutes the duty of a historian. The King-at-Arms, turning to
Gwynplaine, said,--
"Be pleased =
to
follow me, my lord." And added, "You will be saluted. Your lordsh=
ip,
in returning the salute, will be pleased merely to raise the brim of your
hat."
They moved off, in
procession, towards a door at the far side of the room. The Usher of the Bl=
ack
Rod walked in front; then Blue Mantle, carrying the cushion; then the
King-at-Arms; and after him came Gwynplaine, wearing his hat. The rest,
kings-at-arms, heralds, and pursuivants, remained in the circular room.
Gwynplaine, preceded by the Usher of the Black Rod, and escorted by the
King-at-Arms, passed from room to room, in a direction which it would now be
impossible to trace, the old Houses of Parliament having been pulled down.
Amongst others, he crossed that Gothic state chamber in which took place the
last meeting of James II. and Monmouth, and whose walls witnessed the usele=
ss debasement
of the cowardly nephew at the feet of his vindictive uncle. On the walls of
this chamber hung, in chronological order, nine fell-length portraits of fo=
rmer
peers, with their dates--Lord Nansladron, 1305; Lord Baliol, 1306; Lord
Benestede, 1314; Lord Cantilupe, 1356; Lord Montbegon, 1357; Lord Tibotot,
1373; Lord Zouch of Codnor, 1615; Lord Bella-Aqua, with no date; Lord Harren
and Surrey, Count of Blois, also without date.
It being now dark,
lamps were burning at intervals in the galleries. Brass chandeliers, with w=
ax
candles, illuminated the rooms, lighting them like the side aisles of a chu=
rch.
None but officials were present. In one room, which the procession crossed,
stood, with heads respectfully lowered, the four clerks of the signet, and =
the
Clerk of the Council. In another room stood the distinguished Knight Banner=
et, Philip
Sydenham of Brympton in Somersetshire. The Knight Banneret is a title confe=
rred
in time of war, under the unfurled royal standard. In another room was the
senior baronet of England, Sir Edmund Bacon of Suffolk, heir of Sir Nicholas
Bacon, styled, Primus baronetorum Anglicæ. Behind Sir Edmund was an
armour-bearer with an arquebus, and an esquire carrying the arms of Ulster,=
the
baronets being the hereditary defenders of the province of Ulster in Irelan=
d.
In another room was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, with his four accounta=
nts,
and the two deputies of the Lord Chamberlain, appointed to cleave the talli=
es.[21]
At the entrance o=
f a
corridor covered with matting, which was the communication between the Lower
and the Upper House, Gwynplaine was saluted by Sir Thomas Mansell of Margam,
Comptroller of the Queen's Household and Member for Glamorgan; and at the e=
xit
from the corridor by a deputation of one for every two of the Barons of the
Cinque Ports, four on the right and four on the left, the Cinque Ports being
eight in number. William Hastings did obeisance for Hastings; Matthew Aylmo=
r,
for Dover; Josias Burchett, for Sandwich; Sir Philip Boteler, for Hythe; Jo=
hn
Brewer, for New Rumney; Edward Southwell, for the town of Rye; James Hayes,=
for
Winchelsea; George Nailor, for Seaford. As Gwynplaine was about to return t=
he
salute, the King-at-Arms reminded him in a low voice of the etiquette,
"Only the brim of your hat, my lord." Gwynplaine did as directed.=
He
now entered the so-called Painted Chamber, in which there was no painting,
except a few of saints, and amongst them St. Edward, in the high arches of =
the
long and deep-pointed windows, which were divided by what formed the ceilin=
g of
Westminster Hall and the floor of the Painted Chamber. On the far side of t=
he
wooden barrier which divided the room from end to end, stood the three
Secretaries of State, men of mark. The functions of the first of these
officials comprised the supervision of all affairs relating to the south of=
England,
Ireland, the Colonies, France, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and Tur=
key.
The second had charge of the north of England, and watched affairs in the L=
ow
Countries, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, and Russia. The third, a Scot,=
had
charge of Scotland. The two first-mentioned were English, one of them being=
the
Honourable Robert Harley, Member for the borough of New Radnor. A Scotch
member, Mungo Graham, Esquire, a relation of the Duke of Montrose, was pres=
ent.
All bowed, without speaking, to Gwynplaine, who returned the salute by touc=
hing
his hat. The barrier-keeper lifted the wooden arm which, pivoting on a hing=
e,
formed the entrance to the far side of the Painted Chamber, where stood the
long table, covered with green cloth, reserved for peers. A branch of light=
ed
candles stood on the table. Gwynplaine, preceded by the Usher of the Black =
Rod,
Garter King-at-Arms, and Blue Mantle, penetrated into this privileged
compartment. The barrier-keeper closed the opening immediately Gwynplaine h=
ad
passed. The King-at-Arms, having entered the precincts of the privileged co=
mpartment,
halted. The Painted Chamber was a spacious apartment. At the farther end,
upright, beneath the royal escutcheon which was placed between the two wind=
ows,
stood two old men, in red velvet robes, with two rows of ermine trimmed with
gold lace on their shoulders, and wearing wigs, and hats with white plumes.
Through the openings of their robes might be detected silk garments and swo=
rd
hilts. Motionless behind them stood a man dressed in black silk, holding on
high a great mace of gold surmounted by a crowned lion. It was the Mace-bea=
rer
of the Peers of England. The lion is their crest. Et les Lions ce sont les
Barons et li Per, runs the manuscript chronicle of Bertrand Duguesclin.
The King-at-Arms
pointed out the two persons in velvet, and whispered to Gwynplaine,--
"My lord, th=
ese
are your equals. Be pleased to return their salute exactly as they make it.
These two peers are barons, and have been named by the Lord Chancellor as y=
our
sponsors. They are very old, and almost blind. They will, themselves, intro=
duce
you to the House of Lords. The first is Charles Mildmay, Lord Fitzwalter, s=
ixth
on the roll of barons; the second is Augustus Arundel, Lord Arundel of Trer=
ice,
thirty-eighth on the roll of barons." The King-at-Arms having advanced=
a
step towards the two old men, proclaimed "Fermain Clancharlie, Baron
Clancharlie, Baron Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sicily, greets your =
lordships!"
The two peers raised their hats to the full extent of the arm, and then
replaced them. Gwynplaine did the same. The Usher of the Black Rod stepped
forward, followed by Blue Mantle and Garter King at-Arms. The Mace-bearer t=
ook
up his post in front of Gwynplaine, the two peers at his side, Lord Fitzwal=
ter
on the right, and Lord Arundel of Trerice on the left. Lord Arundel, the el=
der
of the two, was very feeble. He died the following year, bequeathing to his
grandson John, a minor, the title which became extinct in 1768. The process=
ion,
leaving the Painted Chamber, entered a gallery in which were rows of pilast=
ers,
and between the spaces were sentinels, alternately pike-men of England and
halberdiers of Scotland. The Scotch halberdiers were magnificent kilted
soldiers, worthy to encounter later on at Fontenoy the French cavalry, and =
the
royal cuirassiers, whom their colonel thus addressed: "Messieurs les
maitres, assurez vos chapeaux. Nous allons avoir l'honneur de charger."
The captain of these soldiers saluted Gwynplaine, and the peers, his sponso=
rs,
with their swords. The men saluted with their pikes and halberds.
At the end of the
gallery shone a large door, so magnificent that its two folds seemed to be
masses of gold. On each side of the door there stood, upright and motionles=
s,
men who were called doorkeepers. Just before you came to this door, the gal=
lery
widened out into a circular space. In this space was an armchair with an
immense back, and on it, judging by his wig and from the amplitude of his
robes, was a distinguished person. It was William Cowper, Lord Chancellor of
England. To be able to cap a royal infirmity with a similar one has its adv=
antages.
William Cowper was short-sighted. Anne had also defective sight, but in a
lesser degree. The near-sightedness of William Cowper found favour in the e=
yes
of the short-sighted queen, and induced her to appoint him Lord Chancellor,=
and
Keeper of the Royal Conscience. William Cowper's upper lip was thin, and his
lower one thick--a sign of semi-good-nature.
This circular spa=
ce
was lighted by a lamp hung from the ceiling. The Lord Chancellor was sitting
gravely in his large armchair; at his right was the Clerk of the Crown, and=
at
his left the Clerk of the Parliaments.
Each of the clerks
had before him an open register and an inkhorn.
Behind the Lord
Chancellor was his mace-bearer, holding the mace with the crown on the top,
besides the train-bearer and purse-bearer, in large wigs.
All these officers
are still in existence. On a little stand, near the woolsack, was a sword, =
with
a gold hilt and sheath, and belt of crimson velvet.
Behind the Clerk =
of
the Crown was an officer holding in his hands the coronation robe.
Behind the Clerk =
of
the Parliaments another officer held a second robe, which was that of a pee=
r.
The robes, both of
scarlet velvet, lined with white silk, and having bands of ermine trimmed w=
ith
gold lace over the shoulders, were similar, except that the ermine band was
wider on the coronation robe.
The third officer,
who was the librarian, carried on a square of Flanders leather the red book=
, a
little volume, bound in red morocco, containing a list of the peers and
commons, besides a few blank leaves and a pencil, which it was the custom to
present to each new member on his entering the House.
Gwynplaine, betwe=
en
the two peers, his sponsors, brought up the procession, which stopped before
the woolsack.
The two peers, who
introduced him, uncovered their heads, and Gwynplaine did likewise.
The King-at-Arms
received from the hands of Blue Mantle the cushion of silver cloth, knelt d=
own,
and presented the black portfolio on the cushion to the Lord Chancellor.
The Lord Chancell=
or
took the black portfolio, and handed it to the Clerk of the Parliament.
The Clerk receive=
d it
ceremoniously, and then sat down.
The Clerk of the
Parliament opened the portfolio, and arose.
The portfolio
contained the two usual messages--the royal patent addressed to the House of
Lords, and the writ of summons.
The Clerk read al=
oud
these two messages, with respectful deliberation, standing.
The writ of summo=
ns,
addressed to Fermain Lord Clancharlie, concluded with the accustomed
formalities,--
"We strictly
enjoin you, on the faith and allegiance that you owe, to come and take your
place in person among the prelates and peers sitting in our Parliament at
Westminster, for the purpose of giving your advice, in all honour and consc=
ience,
on the business of the kingdom and of the church."
The reading of the
messages being concluded, the Lord Chancellor raised his voice,--
"The message=
of
the Crown has been read. Lord Clancharlie, does your lordship renounce
transubstantiation, adoration of saints, and the mass?"
Gwynplaine bowed.=
"The test has
been administered," said the Lord Chancellor.
And the Clerk of =
the
Parliament resumed,--
"His lordship
has taken the test."
The Lord Chancell=
or
added,--
"My Lord
Clancharlie, you can take your seat."
"So be it,&q=
uot;
said the two sponsors.
The King-at-Arms
rose, took the sword from the stand, and buckled it round Gwynplaine's wais=
t.
"Ce faict,&q=
uot;
says the old Norman charter, "le pair prend son espée, et monte=
aux
hauts siéges, et assiste a l'audience."
Gwynplaine heard a
voice behind him which said,--
"I array your
lordship in a peer's robe."
At the same time,=
the
officer who spoke to him, who was holding the robe, placed it on him, and t=
ied
the black strings of the ermine cape round his neck.
Gwynplaine, the
scarlet robe on his shoulders, and the golden sword by his side, was attired
like the peers on his right and left.
The librarian
presented to him the red book, and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat.
The King-at-Arms
murmured in his ear,--
"My lord, on
entering, will bow to the royal chair."
The royal chair is
the throne.
Meanwhile the two
clerks were writing, each at his table--one on the register of the Crown, t=
he
other on the register of the House.
Then both--the Cl=
erk
of the Crown preceding the other--brought their books to the Lord Chancello=
r,
who signed them. Having signed the two registers, the Lord Chancellor rose.=
"Fermain Lord
Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie, Baron Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in
Sicily, be you welcome among your peers, the lords spiritual and temporal of
Great Britain."
Gwynplaine's spon=
sors
touched his shoulder.
He turned round.<= o:p>
The folds of the
great gilded door at the end of the gallery opened.
It was the door of
the House of Lords.
Thirty-six hours =
only
had elapsed since Gwynplaine, surrounded by a different procession, had ent=
ered
the iron door of Southwark Jail.
What shadowy chim=
eras
had passed, with terrible rapidity through his brain--chimeras which were h=
ard
facts; rapidity, which was a capture by assault!
The creation of an equality with the
king, called Peerage, was, in barbarous epochs, a useful fiction. This
rudimentary political expedient produced in France and England different
results. In France, the peer was a mock king; in England, a real prince--le=
ss
grand than in France, but more genuine: we might say less, but worse.
Peerage was born =
in
France; the date is uncertain--under Charlemagne, says the legend; under Ro=
bert
le Sage, says history, and history is not more to be relied on than legend.
Favin writes: "The King of France wished to attach to himself the grea=
t of
his kingdom, by the magnificent title of peers, as if they were his
equals."
Peerage soon thru=
st
forth branches, and from France passed over to England.
The English peera=
ge
has been a great fact, and almost a mighty institution. It had for precedent
the Saxon wittenagemote. The Danish thane and the Norman vavassour commingl=
ed
in the baron. Baron is the same as vir, which is translated into Spanish by
varon, and which signifies, par excellence, "Man." As early as 10=
75,
the barons made themselves felt by the king--and by what a king! By William=
the
Conqueror. In 1086 they laid the foundation of feudality, and its basis was=
the
"Doomsday Book." Under John Lackland came conflict. The French pe=
erage
took the high hand with Great Britain, and demanded that the king of England
should appear at their bar. Great was the indignation of the English barons=
. At
the coronation of Philip Augustus, the King of England, as Duke of Normandy,
carried the first square banner, and the Duke of Guyenne the second. Against
this king, a vassal of the foreigner, the War of the Barons burst forth. The
barons imposed on the weak-minded King John Magna Charta, from which sprang=
the
House of Lords. The pope took part with the king, and excommunicated the lo=
rds.
The date was 1215, and the pope was Innocent III., who wrote the "Veni=
, Sancte
Spiritus," and who sent to John Lackland the four cardinal virtues in =
the
shape of four gold rings. The Lords persisted. The duel continued through m=
any
generations. Pembroke struggled. 1248 was the year of "the provisions =
of
Oxford." Twenty-four barons limited the king's powers, discussed him, =
and
called a knight from each county to take part in the widened breach. Here w=
as
the dawn of the Commons. Later on, the Lords added two citizens from each c=
ity,
and two burgesses from each borough. It arose from this, that up to the tim=
e of
Elizabeth the peers were judges of the validity of elections to the House of
Commons. From their jurisdiction sprang the proverb that the members return=
ed ought
to be without the three P's--sine Prece, sine Pretio, sine Poculo. This did=
not
obviate rotten boroughs. In 1293, the Court of Peers in France had still the
King of England under their jurisdiction; and Philippe le Bel cited Edward =
I.
to appear before him. Edward I. was the king who ordered his son to boil him
down after death, and to carry his bones to the wars. Under the follies of
their kings the Lords felt the necessity of fortifying Parliament. They div=
ided
it into two chambers, the upper and the lower. The Lords arrogantly kept th=
e supremacy.
"If it happens that any member of the Commons should be so bold as to
speak to the prejudice of the House of Lords, he is called to the bar of the
House to be reprimanded, and, occasionally, to be sent to the Tower."
There is the same distinction in voting. In the House of Lords they vote on=
e by
one, beginning with the junior, called the puisne baron. Each peer answers
"Content," or "Non-content." In the Commons they vote
together, by "Aye," or "No," in a crowd. The Commons
accuse, the peers judge. The peers, in their disdain of figures, delegated =
to the
Commons, who were to profit by it, the superintendence of the Exchequer--th=
us
named, according to some, after the table-cover, which was like a chess-boa=
rd;
and according to others, from the drawers of the old safe, where was kept,
behind an iron grating, the treasure of the kings of England. The
"Year-Book" dates from the end of the thirteenth century. In the =
War
of the Roses the weight of the Lords was thrown, now on the side of John of
Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, now on the side of Edmund, Duke of York. Wat Tyle=
r,
the Lollards, Warwick the King-maker, all that anarchy from which freedom i=
s to
spring, had for foundation, avowed or secret, the English feudal system. The
Lords were usefully jealous of the Crown; for to be jealous is to be watchf=
ul.
They circumscribed the royal initiative, diminished the category of cases o=
f high
treason, raised up pretended Richards against Henry IV., appointed themselv=
es
arbitrators, judged the question of the three crowns between the Duke of Yo=
rk
and Margaret of Anjou, and at need levied armies, and fought their battles =
of
Shrewsbury, Tewkesbury, and St. Albans, sometimes winning, sometimes losing.
Before this, in the thirteenth century, they had gained the battle of Lewes,
and had driven from the kingdom the four brothers of the king, bastards of
Queen Isabella by the Count de la Marche; all four usurers, who extorted mo=
ney
from Christians by means of the Jews; half princes, half sharpers--a thing =
common
enough in more recent times, but not held in good odour in those days. Up to
the fifteenth century the Norman Duke peeped out in the King of England, and
the acts of Parliament were written in French. From the reign of Henry VII.=
, by
the will of the Lords, these were written in English. England, British under
Uther Pendragon; Roman under Cæsar; Saxon under the Heptarchy; Danish
under Harold; Norman after William; then became, thanks to the Lords, Engli=
sh.
After that she became Anglican. To have one's religion at home is a great
power. A foreign pope drags down the national life. A Mecca is an octopus, =
and
devours it. In 1534, London bowed out Rome. The peerage adopted the reforme=
d religion,
and the Lords accepted Luther. Here we have the answer to the excommunicati=
on
of 1215. It was agreeable to Henry VIII.; but, in other respects, the Lords
were a trouble to him. As a bulldog to a bear, so was the House of Lords to
Henry VIII. When Wolsey robbed the nation of Whitehall, and when Henry robb=
ed
Wolsey of it, who complained? Four lords--Darcie, of Chichester; Saint John=
of
Bletsho; and (two Norman names) Mountjoie and Mounteagle. The king usurped.=
The
peerage encroached. There is something in hereditary power which is incorru=
ptible.
Hence the insubordination of the Lords. Even in Elizabeth's reign the barons
were restless. From this resulted the tortures at Durham. Elizabeth was as a
farthingale over an executioner's block. Elizabeth assembled Parliament as
seldom as possible, and reduced the House of Lords to sixty-five members,
amongst whom there was but one marquis (Winchester), and not a single duke.=
In
France the kings felt the same jealousy and carried out the same eliminatio=
n.
Under Henry III. there were no more than eight dukedoms in the peerage, and=
it
was to the great vexation of the king that the Baron de Mantes, the Baron d=
e Courcy,
the Baron de Coulommiers, the Baron de Chateauneuf-en-Thimerais, the Baron =
de
la Fère-en-Lardenois, the Baron de Mortagne, and some others besides,
maintained themselves as barons--peers of France. In England the crown saw =
the
peerage diminish with pleasure. Under Anne, to quote but one example, the p=
eerages
become extinct since the twelfth century amounted to five hundred and
sixty-five. The War of the Roses had begun the extermination of dukes, which
the axe of Mary Tudor completed. This was, indeed, the decapitation of the
nobility. To prune away the dukes was to cut off its head. Good policy,
perhaps; but it is better to corrupt than to decapitate. James I. was of th=
is
opinion. He restored dukedoms. He made a duke of his favourite Villiers, who
had made him a pig;[22] a transformation from the duke feudal to the duke c=
ourtier.
This sowing was to bring forth a rank harvest: Charles II. was to make two =
of
his mistresses duchesses--Barbara of Southampton, and Louise de la Querouel=
of
Portsmouth. Under Anne there were to be twenty-five dukes, of whom three we=
re
to be foreigners, Cumberland, Cambridge, and Schomberg. Did this court poli=
cy,
invented by James I., succeed? No. The House of Peers was irritated by the
effort to shackle it by intrigue. It was irritated against James I., it was
irritated against Charles I., who, we may observe, may have had something t=
o do
with the death of his father, just as Marie de Medicis may have had somethi=
ng
to do with the death of her husband. There was a rupture between Charles I.=
and
the peerage. The lords who, under James I., had tried at their bar extortio=
n,
in the person of Bacon, under Charles I. tried treason, in the person of
Stratford. They had condemned Bacon; they condemned Stratford. One had lost=
his
honour, the other lost his life. Charles I. was first beheaded in the perso=
n of
Stratford. The Lords lent their aid to the Commons. The king convokes
Parliament to Oxford; the revolution convokes it to London. Forty-four peers
side with the King, twenty-two with the Republic. From this combination of =
the people
with the Lords arose the Bill of Rights--a sketch of the French Droits de
l'homme, a vague shadow flung back from the depths of futurity by the
revolution of France on the revolution of England.
Such were the
services of the peerage. Involuntary ones, we admit, and dearly purchased,
because the said peerage is a huge parasite. But considerable services,
nevertheless.
The despotic work=
of
Louis XI., of Richelieu, and of Louis XIV., the creation of a sultan, level=
ling
taken for true equality, the bastinado given by the sceptre, the common
abasement of the people, all these Turkish tricks in France the peers preve=
nted
in England. The aristocracy was a wall, banking up the king on one side,
sheltering the people on the other. They redeemed their arrogance towards t=
he
people by their insolence towards the king. Simon, Earl of Leicester, said =
to
Henry III., "King, thou hast lied!" The Lords curbed the crown, a=
nd
grated against their kings in the tenderest point, that of venery. Every lo=
rd, passing
through a royal park, had the right to kill a deer: in the house of the king
the peer was at home; in the Tower of London the scale of allowance for the
king was no more than that for a peer--namely, twelve pounds sterling per w=
eek.
This was the House of Lords' doing.
Yet more. We owe =
to
it the deposition of kings. The Lords ousted John Lackland, degraded Edward
II., deposed Richard II., broke the power of Henry VI., and made Cromwell a
possibility. What a Louis XIV. there was in Charles I.! Thanks to Cromwell,=
it
remained latent. By-the-bye, we may here observe that Cromwell himself, tho=
ugh
no historian seems to have noticed the fact, aspired to the peerage. This w=
as
why he married Elizabeth Bouchier, descendant and heiress of a Cromwell, Lo=
rd
Bouchier, whose peerage became extinct in 1471, and of a Bouchier, Lord
Robesart, another peerage extinct in 1429. Carried on with the formidable
increase of important events, he found the suppression of a king a shorter =
way
to power than the recovery of a peerage. A ceremonial of the Lords, at times
ominous, could reach even to the king. Two men-at-arms from the Tower, with
their axes on their shoulders, between whom an accused peer stood at the ba=
r of
the house, might have been there in like attendance on the king as on any o=
ther
nobleman. For five centuries the House of Lords acted on a system, and carr=
ied
it out with determination. They had their days of idleness and weakness, as,
for instance, that strange time when they allowed themselves to be seduced =
by
the vessels loaded with cheeses, hams, and Greek wines sent them by Julius =
II.
The English aristocracy was restless, haughty, ungovernable, watchful, and =
patriotically
mistrustful. It was that aristocracy which, at the end of the seventeenth
century, by act the tenth of the year 1694, deprived the borough of
Stockbridge, in Hampshire, of the right of sending members to Parliament, a=
nd
forced the Commons to declare null the election for that borough, stained by
papistical fraud. It imposed the test on James, Duke of York, and, on his r=
efusal
to take it, excluded him from the throne. He reigned, notwithstanding; but =
the
Lords wound up by calling him to account and banishing him. That aristocracy
has had, in its long duration, some instinct of progress. It has always giv=
en
out a certain quantity of appreciable light, except now towards its end, wh=
ich
is at hand. Under James II. it maintained in the Lower House the proportion=
of three
hundred and forty-six burgesses against ninety-two knights. The sixteen bar=
ons,
by courtesy, of the Cinque Ports were more than counterbalanced by the fifty
citizens of the twenty-five cities. Though corrupt and egotistic, that
aristocracy was, in some instances, singularly impartial. It is harshly jud=
ged.
History keeps all its compliments for the Commons. The justice of this is
doubtful. We consider the part played by the Lords a very great one. Oligar=
chy
is the independence of a barbarous state, but it is an independence. Take P=
oland,
for instance, nominally a kingdom, really a republic. The peers of England =
held
the throne in suspicion and guardianship. Time after time they have made th=
eir
power more felt than that of the Commons. They gave check to the king. Thus=
, in
that remarkable year, 1694, the Triennial Parliament Bill, rejected by the
Commons, in consequence of the objections of William III., was passed by the
Lords. William III., in his irritation, deprived the Earl of Bath of the
governorship of Pendennis Castle, and Viscount Mordaunt of all his offices.=
The
House of Lords was the republic of Venice in the heart of the royalty of
England. To reduce the king to a doge was its object; and in proportion as =
it decreased
the power of the crown it increased that of the people. Royalty knew this, =
and
hated the peerage. Each endeavoured to lessen the other. What was thus lost=
by
each was proportionate profit to the people. Those two blind powers, monarc=
hy
and oligarchy, could not see that they were working for the benefit of a th=
ird,
which was democracy. What a delight it was to the crown, in the last centur=
y,
to be able to hang a peer, Lord Ferrers!
However, they hung
him with a silken rope. How polite!
"They would =
not
have hung a peer of France," the Duke of Richelieu haughtily remarked.
Granted. They would have beheaded him. Still more polite!
Montmorency Tanca=
rville
signed himself peer of France and England; thus throwing the English peerage
into the second rank. The peers of France were higher and less powerful,
holding to rank more than to authority, and to precedence more than to
domination. There was between them and the Lords that shade of difference w=
hich
separates vanity from pride. With the peers of France, to take precedence of
foreign princes, of Spanish grandees, of Venetian patricians; to see seated=
on
the lower benches the Marshals of France, the Constable and the Admiral of
France, were he even Comte de Toulouse and son of Louis XIV.; to draw a dis=
tinction
between duchies in the male and female line; to maintain the proper distance
between a simple comté, like Armagnac or Albret, and a comté
pairie, like Evreux; to wear by right, at five-and-twenty, the blue ribbon =
of
the Golden Fleece; to counterbalance the Duke de la Tremoille, the most anc=
ient
peer of the court, with the Duke Uzès, the most ancient peer of the
Parliament; to claim as many pages and horses to their carriages as an elec=
tor;
to be called monseigneur by the first President; to discuss whether the Duk=
e de
Maine dates his peerage as the Comte d'Eu, from 1458; to cross the grand
chamber diagonally, or by the side--such things were grave matters. Grave
matters with the Lords were the Navigation Act, the Test Act, the enrolment=
of
Europe in the service of England, the command of the sea, the expulsion of =
the Stuarts,
war with France. On one side, etiquette above all; on the other, empire abo=
ve
all. The peers of England had the substance, the peers of France the shadow=
.
To conclude, the House of Lords was a starting-point; towards civilization this is an immense thing. It had the honour to found a nation. It was the first incarnation of= the unity of the people: English resistance, that obscure but all-powerful forc= e, was born in the House of Lords. The barons, by a series of acts of violence against royalty, have paved the way for its eventual downfall. The House of Lords at the present day is somewhat sad and astonished at what it has unwillingly and unintentionally done, all the more that it is irrevocable.<= o:p>
What are concessi=
ons?
Restitutions;--and nations know it.
"I grant,&qu=
ot;
says the king.
"I get back =
my
own," says the people.
The House of Lords
believed that it was creating the privileges of the peerage, and it has
produced the rights of the citizen. That vulture, aristocracy, has hatched =
the
eagle's egg of liberty.
And now the egg is
broken, the eagle is soaring, the vulture dying.
Aristocracy is at=
its
last gasp; England is growing up.
Still, let us be =
just
towards the aristocracy. It entered the scale against royalty, and was its
counterpoise. It was an obstacle to despotism. It was a barrier. Let us tha=
nk
and bury it.
Near Westminster Abbey was an old N=
orman
palace which was burnt in the time of Henry VIII. Its wings were spared. In=
one
of them Edward VI. placed the House of Lords, in the other the House of
Commons. Neither the two wings nor the two chambers are now in existence. T=
he
whole has been rebuilt.
We have already s=
aid,
and we must repeat, that there is no resemblance between the House of Lords=
of
the present day and that of the past. In demolishing the ancient palace they
somewhat demolished its ancient usages. The strokes of the pickaxe on the
monument produce their counter-strokes on customs and charters. An old stone
cannot fall without dragging down with it an old law. Place in a round room=
a parliament
which has been hitherto held in a square room, and it will no longer be the
same thing. A change in the shape of the shell changes the shape of the fish
inside.
If you wish to
preserve an old thing, human or divine, a code or a dogma, a nobility or a
priesthood, never repair anything about it thoroughly, even its outside cov=
er.
Patch it up, nothing more. For instance, Jesuitism is a piece added to
Catholicism. Treat edifices as you would treat institutions. Shadows should
dwell in ruins. Worn-out powers are uneasy in chambers freshly decorated.
Ruined palaces accord best with institutions in rags. To attempt to describe
the House of Lords of other days would be to attempt to describe the unknow=
n.
History is night. In history there is no second tier. That which is no long=
er on
the stage immediately fades into obscurity. The scene is shifted, and all i=
s at
once forgotten. The past has a synonym, the unknown.
The peers of Engl=
and
sat as a court of justice in Westminster Hall, and as the higher legislative
chamber in a chamber specially reserved for the purpose, called The House of
Lords.
Besides the house=
of
peers of England, which did not assemble as a court unless convoked by the
crown, two great English tribunals, inferior to the house of peers, but
superior to all other jurisdiction, sat in Westminster Hall. At the end of =
that
hall they occupied adjoining compartments. The first was the Court of King's
Bench, in which the king was supposed to preside; the second, the Court of
Chancery, in which the Chancellor presided. The one was a court of justice,=
the
other a court of mercy. It was the Chancellor who counselled the king to
pardon; only rarely, though.
These two courts,
which are still in existence, interpreted legislation, and reconstructed it
somewhat, for the art of the judge is to carve the code into jurisprudence;=
a
task from which equity results as it best may. Legislation was worked up and
applied in the severity of the great hall of Westminster, the rafters of wh=
ich
were of chestnut wood, over which spiders could not spread their webs. There
are enough of them in all conscience in the laws.
To sit as a court=
and
to sit as a chamber are two distinct things. This double function constitut=
es
supreme power. The Long Parliament, which began in November 1640, felt the
revolutionary necessity for this two-edged sword. So it declared that, as H=
ouse
of Lords, it possessed judicial as well as legislative power.
This double power=
has
been, from time immemorial, vested in the House of Peers. We have just
mentioned that as judges they occupied Westminster Hall; as legislators, th=
ey
had another chamber. This other chamber, properly called the House of Lords,
was oblong and narrow. All the light in it came from four windows in deep
embrasures, which received their light through the roof, and a bull's-eye,
composed of six panes with curtains, over the throne. At night there was no
other light than twelve half candelabra, fastened to the wall. The chamber =
of
Venice was darker still. A certain obscurity is pleasing to those owls of
supreme power.
A high ceiling
adorned with many-faced relievos and gilded cornices, circled over the cham=
ber
where the Lords assembled. The Commons had but a flat ceiling. There is a
meaning in all monarchical buildings. At one end of the long chamber of the
Lords was the door; at the other, opposite to it, the throne. A few paces f=
rom
the door, the bar, a transverse barrier, and a sort of frontier, marked the
spot where the people ended and the peerage began. To the right of the thro=
ne
was a fireplace with emblazoned pinnacles, and two bas-reliefs of marble, r=
epresenting,
one, the victory of Cuthwolf over the Britons, in 572; the other, the
geometrical plan of the borough of Dunstable, which had four streets, paral=
lel
to the four quarters of the world. The throne was approached by three steps=
. It
was called the royal chair. On the two walls, opposite each other, were
displayed in successive pictures, on a huge piece of tapestry given to the
Lords by Elizabeth, the adventures of the Armada, from the time of its leav=
ing
Spain until it was wrecked on the coasts of Great Britain. The great hulls =
of
the ships were embroidered with threads of gold and silver, which had become
blackened by time. Against this tapestry, cut at intervals by the candelabr=
a fastened
in the wall, were placed, to the right of the throne, three rows of benches=
for
the bishops, and to the left three rows of benches for the dukes, marquises,
and earls, in tiers, and separated by gangways. On the three benches of the
first section sat the dukes; on those of the second, the marquises; on thos=
e of
the third, the earls. The viscounts' bench was placed across, opposite the
throne, and behind, between the viscounts and the bar, were two benches for=
the
barons.
On the highest be=
nch
to the right of the throne sat the two archbishops of Canterbury and York; =
on
the middle bench three bishops, London, Durham, and Winchester, and the oth=
er
bishops on the lowest bench. There is between the Archbishop of Canterbury =
and
the other bishops this considerable difference, that he is bishop "by
divine providence," whilst the others are only so "by divine
permission." On the right of the throne was a chair for the Prince of
Wales, and on the left, folding chairs for the royal dukes, and behind the
latter, a raised seat for minor peers, who had not the privilege of voting.
Plenty of fleurs-de-lis everywhere, and the great escutcheon of England over
the four walls, above the peers, as well as above the king.
The sons of peers=
and
the heirs to peerages assisted at the debates, standing behind the throne,
between the daïs and the wall. A large square space was left vacant
between the tiers of benches placed along three sides of the chamber and the
throne. In this space, which was covered with the state carpet, interwoven =
with
the arms of Great Britain, were four woolsacks--one in front of the throne,=
on
which sat the Lord Chancellor, between the mace and the seal; one in front =
of
the bishops, on which sat the judges, counsellors of state, who had the rig=
ht
to vote, but not to speak; one in front of the dukes, marquises, and earls,=
on
which sat the Secretaries of State; and one in front of the viscounts and
barons, on which sat the Clerk of the Crown and the Clerk of the Parliament,
and on which the two under-clerks wrote, kneeling.
In the middle of =
the
space was a large covered table, heaped with bundles of papers, registers, =
and
summonses, with magnificent inkstands of chased silver, and with high
candlesticks at the four corners.
The peers took th=
eir
seats in chronological order, each according to the date of the creation of=
his
peerage. They ranked according to their titles, and within their grade of
nobility according to seniority. At the bar stood the Usher of the Black Ro=
d,
his wand in his hand. Inside the door was the Deputy-Usher; and outside, the
Crier of the Black Rod, whose duty it was to open the sittings of the Court=
s of
Justice with the cry, "Oyez!" in French, uttered thrice, with a
solemn accent upon the first syllable. Near the Crier stood the Serjeant
Mace-Bearer of the Chancellor.
In royal ceremoni=
es
the temporal peers wore coronets on their heads, and the spiritual peers,
mitres. The archbishops wore mitres, with a ducal coronet; and the bishops,=
who
rank after viscounts, mitres, with a baron's cap.
It is to be remar=
ked,
as a coincidence at once strange and instructive, that this square formed by
the throne, the bishops, and the barons, with kneeling magistrates within i=
t,
was in form similar to the ancient parliament in France under the two first
dynasties. The aspect of authority was the same in France as in England.
Hincmar, in his treatise, "De Ordinatione Sacri Palatii," describ=
ed
in 853 the sittings of the House of Lords at Westminster in the eighteenth
century. Strange, indeed! a description given nine hundred years before the
existence of the thing described.
But what is histo=
ry?
An echo of the past in the future; a reflex from the future on the past.
The assembly of
Parliament was obligatory only once in every seven years.
The Lords deliber=
ated
in secret, with closed doors. The debates of the Commons were public. Publi=
city
entails diminution of dignity.
The number of the
Lords was unlimited. To create Lords was the menace of royalty; a means of
government.
At the beginning =
of
the eighteenth century the House of Lords already contained a very large nu=
mber
of members. It has increased still further since that period. To dilute the
aristocracy is politic. Elizabeth most probably erred in condensing the pee=
rage
into sixty-five lords. The less numerous, the more intense is a peerage. In
assemblies, the more numerous the members, the fewer the heads. James II.
understood this when he increased the Upper House to a hundred and eighty-e=
ight
lords; a hundred and eighty-six if we subtract from the peerages the two
duchies of royal favourites, Portsmouth and Cleveland. Under Anne the total=
number
of the lords, including bishops, was two hundred and seven. Not counting the
Duke of Cumberland, husband of the queen, there were twenty-five dukes, of =
whom
the premier, Norfolk, did not take his seat, being a Catholic; and of whom =
the
junior, Cambridge, the Elector of Hanover, did, although a foreigner.
Winchester, termed first and sole marquis of England, as Astorga was termed
sole Marquis of Spain, was absent, being a Jacobite; so that there were only
five marquises, of whom the premier was Lindsay, and the junior Lothian;
seventy-nine earls, of whom Derby was premier and Islay junior; nine viscou=
nts,
of whom Hereford was premier and Lonsdale junior; and sixty-two barons, of =
whom
Abergavenny was premier and Hervey junior. Lord Hervey, the junior baron, w=
as
what was called the "Puisné of the House." Derby, of whom =
Oxford,
Shrewsbury, and Kent took precedence, and who was therefore but the fourth
under James II., became (under Anne) premier earl. Two chancellors' names h=
ad
disappeared from the list of barons--Verulam, under which designation histo=
ry
finds us Bacon; and Wem, under which it finds us Jeffreys. Bacon and Jeffre=
ys!
both names overshadowed, though by different crimes. In 1705, the twenty-six
bishops were reduced to twenty-five, the see of Chester being vacant. Among=
st
the bishops some were peers of high rank, such as William Talbot, Bishop of
Oxford, who was head of the Protestant branch of that family. Others were
eminent Doctors, like John Sharp, Archbishop of York, formerly Dean of Norw=
ich;
the poet, Thomas Spratt, Bishop of Rochester, an apoplectic old man; and th=
at
Bishop of Lincoln, who was to die Archbishop of Canterbury, Wake, the adver=
sary
of Bossuet. On important occasions, and when a message from the Crown to the
House was expected, the whole of this august assembly--in robes, in wigs, in
mitres, or plumes--formed out, and displayed their rows of heads, in tiers,
along the walls of the House, where the storm was vaguely to be seen
exterminating the Armada--almost as much as to say, "The storm is at t=
he
orders of England."
The whole ceremony of the investitu=
re of
Gwynplaine, from his entry under the King's Gate to his taking the test und=
er
the nave window, was enacted in a sort of twilight.
Lord William Cowp=
er
had not permitted that he, as Lord Chancellor of England, should receive too
many details of circumstances connected with the disfigurement of the young
Lord Fermain Clancharlie, considering it below his dignity to know that a p=
eer
was not handsome; and feeling that his dignity would suffer if an inferior
should venture to intrude on him information of such a nature. We know that=
a
common fellow will take pleasure in saying, "That prince is
humpbacked;" therefore, it is abusive to say that a lord is deformed. =
To
the few words dropped on the subject by the queen the Lord Chancellor had
contented himself with replying, "The face of a peer is in his
peerage!"
Ultimately, howev=
er,
the affidavits he had read and certified enlightened him. Hence the precaut=
ions
which he took. The face of the new lord, on his entrance into the House, mi=
ght
cause some sensation. This it was necessary to prevent; and the Lord Chance=
llor
took his measures for the purpose. It is a fixed idea, and a rule of conduc=
t in
grave personages, to allow as little disturbance as possible. Dislike of in=
cident
is a part of their gravity. He felt the necessity of so ordering matters th=
at
the admission of Gwynplaine should take place without any hitch, and like t=
hat
of any other successor to the peerage.
It was for this
reason that the Lord Chancellor directed that the reception of Lord Fermain
Clancharlie should take place at the evening sitting. The Chancellor being =
the
doorkeeper--"Quodammodo ostiarus," says the Norman charter;
"Januarum cancellorumque," says Tertullian--he can officiate outs=
ide
the room on the threshold; and Lord William Cowper had used his right by
carrying out under the nave the formalities of the investiture of Lord Ferm=
ain
Clancharlie. Moreover, he had brought forward the hour for the ceremonies; =
so
that the new peer actually made his entrance into the House before the House
had assembled.
For the investitu=
re
of a peer on the threshold, and not in the chamber itself, there were
precedents. The first hereditary baron, John de Beauchamp, of Holt Castle,
created by patent by Richard II., in 1387, Baron Kidderminster, was thus
installed. In renewing this precedent the Lord Chancellor was creating for
himself a future cause for embarrassment, of which he felt the inconvenience
less than two years afterwards on the entrance of Viscount Newhaven into the
House of Lords.
Short-sighted as =
we
have already stated him to be, Lord William Cowper scarcely perceived the
deformity of Gwynplaine; while the two sponsors, being old and nearly blind,
did not perceive it at all.
The Lord Chancell=
or
had chosen them for that very reason.
More than this, t=
he
Lord Chancellor, having only seen the presence and stature of Gwynplaine,
thought him a fine-looking man. When the door-keeper opened the folding doo=
rs
to Gwynplaine there were but few peers in the house; and these few were nea=
rly
all old men. In assemblies the old members are the most punctual, just as
towards women they are the most assiduous.
On the dukes' ben=
ches
there were but two, one white-headed, the other gray--Thomas Osborne, Duke =
of
Leeds, and Schomberg, son of that Schomberg, German by birth, French by his
marshal's bâton, and English by his peerage, who was banished by the
edict of Nantes, and who, having fought against England as a Frenchman, fou=
ght
against France as an Englishman. On the benches of the lords spiritual there
sat only the Archbishopof Canterbury, Primate of England, above; and below,=
Dr.
Simon Patrick, Bishop of Ely, in conversation with Evelyn Pierrepoint, Marq=
uis of
Dorchester, who was explaining to him the difference between a gabion consi=
dered
singly and when used in the parapet of a field work, and between palisades =
and
fraises; the former being a row of posts driven info the ground in front of=
the
tents, for the purpose of protecting the camp; the latter sharp-pointed sta=
kes
set up under the wall of a fortress, to prevent the escalade of the besiege=
rs
and the desertion of the besieged; and the marquis was explaining further t=
he
method of placing fraises in the ditches of redoubts, half of each stake be=
ing buried
and half exposed. Thomas Thynne, Viscount Weymouth, having approached the l=
ight
of a chandelier, was examining a plan of his architect's for laying out his
gardens at Longleat, in Wiltshire, in the Italian style--as a lawn, broken =
up
into plots, with squares of turf alternating with squares of red and yellow
sand, of river shells, and of fine coal dust. On the viscounts' benches was=
a group
of old peers, Essex, Ossulstone, Peregrine, Osborne, William Zulestein, Ear=
l of
Rochford, and amongst them, a few more youthful ones, of the faction which =
did
not wear wigs, gathered round Prince Devereux, Viscount Hereford, and
discussing the question whether an infusion of apalaca holly was tea.
"Very nearly," said Osborne. "Quite," said Essex. This =
discussion
was attentively listened to by Paulet St. John, a cousin of Bolingbroke, of
whom Voltaire was, later on, in some degree the pupil; for Voltaire's
education, commenced by Père Porée, was finished by Bolingbro=
ke.
On the marquises' benches, Thomas de Grey, Marquis of Kent, Lord Chamberlai=
n to
the Queen, was informing Robert Bertie, Marquis of Lindsay, Lord Chamberlai=
n of
England, that the first prize in the great English lottery of 1694 had been=
won
by two French refugees, Monsieur Le Coq, formerly councillor in the parliam=
ent
of Paris, and Monsieur Ravenel, a gentleman of Brittany. The Earl of Wemyss=
was
reading a book, entitled "Pratique Curieuse des Oracles des
Sybilles." John Campbell, Earl of Greenwich, famous for his long chin,=
his
gaiety, and his eighty-seven years, was writing to his mistress. Lord Chand=
os
was trimming his nails.
The sitting which=
was
about to take place, being a royal one, where the crown was to be represent=
ed
by commissioners, two assistant door-keepers were placing in front of the
throne a bench covered with purple velvet. On the second woolsack sat the
Master of the Rolls, sacrorum scriniorum magister, who had then for his
residence the house formerly belonging to the converted Jews. Two under-cle=
rks
were kneeling, and turning over the leaves of the registers which lay on the
fourth woolsack. In the meantime the Lord Chancellor took his place on the
first woolsack. The members of the chamber took theirs, some sitting, others
standing; when the Archbishop of Canterbury rose and read the prayer, and t=
he
sitting of the house began.
Gwynplaine had
already been there for some time without attracting any notice. The second =
bench
of barons, on which was his place, was close to the bar, so that he had had=
to
take but a few steps to reach it. The two peers, his sponsors, sat, one on =
his
right, the other on his left, thus almost concealing the presence of the
new-comer.
No one having been
furnished with any previous information, the Clerk of the Parliament had re=
ad
in a low voice, and as it were, mumbled through the different documents
concerning the new peer, and the Lord Chancellor had proclaimed his admissi=
on
in the midst of what is called, in the reports, "general
inattention." Every one was talking. There buzzed through the House th=
at
cheerful hum of voices during which assemblies pass things which will not b=
ear
the light, and at which they wonder when they find out what they have done,=
too
late.
Gwynplaine was se=
ated
in silence, with his head uncovered, between the two old peers, Lord Fitzwa=
lter
and Lord Arundel. On entering, according to the instructions of the
King-at-Arms--afterwards renewed by his sponsors--he had bowed to the thron=
e.
Thus all was over=
. He
was a peer. That pinnacle, under the glory of which he had, all his life, s=
een
his master, Ursus, bow himself down in fear--that prodigious pinnacle was u=
nder
his feet. He was in that place, so dark and yet so dazzling in England. Old
peak of the feudal mountain, looked up to for six centuries by Europe and by
history! Terrible nimbus of a world of shadow! He had entered into the
brightness of its glory, and his entrance was irrevocable.
He was there in h=
is
own sphere, seated on his throne, like the king on his. He was there and
nothing in the future could obliterate the fact. The royal crown, which he =
saw
under the daïs, was brother to his coronet. He was a peer of that thro=
ne.
In the face of majesty he was peerage; less, but like. Yesterday, what was =
he?
A player. To-day, what was he? A prince.
Yesterday, nothin=
g;
to-day, everything.
It was a sudden
confrontation of misery and power, meeting face to face, and resolving
themselves at once into the two halves of a conscience. Two spectres, Adver=
sity
and Prosperity, were taking possession of the same soul, and each drawing t=
hat
soul towards itself.
Oh, pathetic divi=
sion
of an intellect, of a will, of a brain, between two brothers who are enemie=
s!
the Phantom of Poverty and the Phantom of Wealth! Abel and Cain in the same
man!
CHAPTER V - ARISTOCRATIC GOSSIP.
By degrees the seats of the House f=
illed
as the Lords arrived. The question was the vote for augmenting, by a hundred
thousand pounds sterling, the annual income of George of Denmark, Duke of
Cumberland, the queen's husband. Besides this, it was announced that several
bills assented to by her Majesty were to be brought back to the House by th=
e Commissioners
of the Crown empowered and charged to sanction them. This raised the sittin=
g to
a royal one. The peers all wore their robes over their usual court or ordin=
ary
dress. These robes, similar to that which had been thrown over Gwynplaine, =
were
alike for all, excepting that the dukes had five bands of ermine, trimmed w=
ith
gold; marquises, four; earls and viscounts, three; and barons, two. Most of=
the
lords entered in groups. They had met in the corridors, and were continuing=
the
conversations there begun. A few came in alone. The costumes of all were so=
lemn;
but neither their attitudes nor their words corresponded with them. On
entering, each one bowed to the throne.
The peers flowed =
in.
The series of great names marched past with scant ceremonial, the public not
being present. Leicester entered, and shook Lichfield's hand; then came Cha=
rles
Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough and Monmouth, the friend of Locke, under who=
se
advice he had proposed the recoinage of money; then Charles Campbell, Earl =
of
Loudoun, listening to Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke; then Dorme, Earl of Carn=
arvon;
then Robert Sutton, Baron Lexington, son of that Lexington who recommended
Charles II. to banish Gregorio Leti, the historiographer, who was so
ill-advised as to try to become a historian; then Thomas Bellasys, Viscount=
Falconberg,
a handsome old man; and the three cousins, Howard, Earl of Bindon, Bowes
Howard, Earl of Berkshire, and Stafford Howard, Earl of Stafford--all toget=
her;
then John Lovelace, Baron Lovelace, which peerage became extinct in 1736, so
that Richardson was enabled to introduce Lovelace in his book, and to creat=
e a
type under the name. All these personages--celebrated each in his own way,
either in politics or in war, and of whom many were an honour to England--w=
ere
laughing and talking.
It was history, a=
s it
were, seen in undress.
In less than half=
an
hour the House was nearly full. This was to be expected, as the sitting was=
a
royal one. What was more unusual was the eagerness of the conversations. The
House, so sleepy not long before, now hummed like a hive of bees.
The arrival of the
peers who had come in late had wakened them up. These lords had brought new=
s.
It was strange that the peers who had been there at the opening of the sitt=
ing
knew nothing of what had occurred, while those who had not been there knew =
all
about it. Several lords had come from Windsor.
For some hours pa=
st
the adventures of Gwynplaine had been the subject of conversation. A secret=
is
a net; let one mesh drop, and the whole goes to pieces. In the morning, in
consequence of the incidents related above, the whole story of a peer found=
on
the stage, and of a mountebank become a lord, had burst forth at Windsor in
Royal places. The princes had talked about it, and then the lackeys. From t=
he
Court the news soon reached the town. Events have a weight, and the mathema=
tical
rule of velocity, increasing in proportion to the squares of the distance, =
applies
to them. They fall upon the public, and work themselves through it with the
most astounding rapidity. At seven o'clock no one in London had caught wind=
of
the story; by eight Gwynplaine was the talk of the town. Only the lords who=
had
been so punctual that they were present before the assembling of the House =
were
ignorant of the circumstances, not having been in the town when the matter =
was
talked of by every one, and having been in the House, where nothing had been
perceived. Seated quietly on their benches, they were addressed by the eager
newcomers.
"Well!"
said Francis Brown, Viscount Montacute, to the Marquis of Dorchester.
"What?"=
"Is it
possible?"
"What?"=
"The Laughing
Man!"
"Who is the
Laughing Man?"
"Don't you k=
now
the Laughing Man?"
"No."
"He is a clo=
wn,
a fellow performing at fairs. He has an extraordinary face, which people ga=
ve a
penny to look at. A mountebank."
"Well, what
then?"
"You have ju=
st
installed him as a peer of England."
"You are the
laughing man, my Lord Montacute!"
"I am not
laughing, my Lord Dorchester."
Lord Montacute ma=
de a
sign to the Clerk of the Parliament, who rose from his woolsack, and confir=
med
to their lordships the fact of the admission of the new peer. Besides, he
detailed the circumstances.
"How
wonderful!" said Lord Dorchester. "I was talking to the Bishop of=
Ely
all the while."
The young Earl of
Annesley addressed old Lord Eure, who had but two years more to live, as he
died in 1707.
"My Lord
Eure."
"My Lord
Annesley."
"Did you know
Lord Linnæus Clancharlie?"
"A man of by=
gone
days. Yes I did."
"He died in
Switzerland?"
"Yes; we were
relations."
"He was a
republican under Cromwell, and remained a republican under Charles II.?&quo=
t;
"A republica=
n?
Not at all! He was sulking. He had a personal quarrel with the king. I know
from good authority that Lord Clancharlie would have returned to his
allegiance, if they had given him the office of Chancellor, which Lord Hyde=
held."
"You astonish
me, Lord Eure. I had heard that Lord Clancharlie was an honest
politician."
"An honest
politician! does such a thing exist? Young man, there is no such thing.&quo=
t;
"And Cato?&q=
uot;
"Oh, you bel=
ieve
in Cato, do you?"
"And
Aristides?"
"They did we=
ll
to exile him."
"And Thomas
More?"
"They did we=
ll
to cut off his head."
"And in your
opinion Lord Clancharlie was a man as you describe. As for a man remaining =
in
exile, why, it is simply ridiculous."
"He died
there."
"An ambitious
man disappointed?"
"You ask if I
knew him? I should think so indeed. I was his dearest friend."
"Do you know,
Lord Eure, that he married when in Switzerland?"
"I am pretty
sure of it."
"And that he=
had
a lawful heir by that marriage?"
"Yes; who is
dead."
"Who is
living."
"Living?&quo=
t;
"Living.&quo=
t;
"Impossible!=
"
"It is a
fact--proved, authenticated, confirmed, registered."
"Then that s=
on
will inherit the Clancharlie peerage?"
"He is not g=
oing
to inherit it."
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Because he =
has
inherited it. It is done."
"Done?"=
"Turn your h=
ead,
Lord Eure; he is sitting behind you, on the barons' benches."
Lord Eure turned,=
but
Gwynplaine's face was concealed under his forest of hair.
"So," s=
aid
the old man, who could see nothing but his hair, "he has already adopt=
ed
the new fashion. He does not wear a wig."
Grantham accosted
Colepepper.
"Some one is
finely sold."
"Who is
that?"
"David
Dirry-Moir."
"How is
that?"
"He is no lo=
nger
a peer."
"How can that
be?"
And Henry
Auverquerque, Earl of Grantham, told John Baron Colepepper the whole
anecdote--how the waif-flask had been carried to the Admiralty, about the
parchment of the Comprachicos, the jussu regis, countersigned Jeffreys, and=
the
confrontation in the torture-cell at Southwark, the proof of all the facts
acknowledged by the Lord Chancellor and by the Queen; the taking the test u=
nder
the nave, and finally the admission of Lord Fermain Clancharlie at the
commencement of the sitting. Both the lords endeavoured to distinguish his =
face
as he sat between Lord Fitzwalter and Lord Arundel, but with no better succ=
ess than
Lord Eure and Lord Annesley.
Gwynplaine, eithe=
r by
chance or by the arrangement of his sponsors, forewarned by the Lord
Chancellor, was so placed in shadow as to escape their curiosity.
"Who is it? =
Where
is he?"
Such was the
exclamation of all the new-comers, but no one succeeded in making him out
distinctly. Some, who had seen Gwynplaine in the Green Box, were exceedingly
curious, but lost their labour: as it sometimes happens that a young lady is
entrenched within a troop of dowagers, Gwynplaine was, as it were, envelope=
d in
several layers of lords, old, infirm, and indifferent. Good livers, with the
gout, are marvellously indifferent to stories about their neighbours.
There passed from
hand to hand copies of a letter three lines in length, written, it was said=
, by
the Duchess Josiana to the queen, her sister, in answer to the injunction m=
ade
by her Majesty, that she should espouse the new peer, the lawful heir of the
Clancharlies, Lord Fermain. This letter was couched in the following terms:=
--
"MADAM,--The
arrangement will suit me just as well. I can have Lord David for my
lover.--(Signed) JOSIANA."
This note, whethe=
r a
true copy or a forgery, was received by all with the greatest enthusiasm. A
young lord, Charles Okehampton, Baron Mohun, who belonged to the wigless
faction, read and re-read it with delight. Lewis de Duras, Earl of Faversha=
m,
an Englishman with a Frenchman's wit, looked at Mohun and smiled.
"That is a w=
oman
I should like to marry!" exclaimed Lord Mohun.
The lords around =
them
overheard the following dialogue between Duras and Mohun:--
"Marry the
Duchess Josiana, Lord Mohun!"
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"Plague take
it."
"She would m=
ake
one very happy."
"She would m=
ake
many very happy."
"But is it n=
ot
always a question of many?"
"Lord Mohun,=
you
are right. With regard to women, we have always the leavings of others. Has=
any
one ever had a beginning?"
"Adam,
perhaps."
"Not he.&quo=
t;
"Then
Satan."
"My dear
lord," concluded Lewis de Duras, "Adam only lent his name. Poor d=
upe!
He endorsed the human race. Man was begotten on the woman by the devil.&quo=
t;
Hugh Cholmondeley,
Earl of Cholmondeley, strong in points of law, was asked from the bishops'
benches by Nathaniel Crew, who was doubly a peer, being a temporal peer, as
Baron Crew, and a spiritual peer, as Bishop of Durham.
"Is it
possible?" said Crew.
"Is it
regular?" said Cholmondeley.
"The investi=
ture
of this peer was made outside the House," replied the bishop; "bu=
t it
is stated that there are precedents for it."
"Yes. Lord
Beauchamp, under Richard II.; Lord Chenay, under Elizabeth: and Lord Broghi=
ll,
under Cromwell."
"Cromwell go=
es
for nothing."
"What do you
think of it all?"
"Many differ=
ent
things."
"My Lord
Cholmondeley, what will be the rank of this young Lord Clancharlie in the
House?"
"My Lord Bis=
hop,
the interruption of the Republic having displaced ancient rights of precede=
nce,
Clancharlie now ranks in the peerage between Barnard and Somers, so that sh=
ould
each be called upon to speak in turn, Lord Clancharlie would be the eighth =
in
rotation."
"Really! he-=
-a
mountebank from a public show!"
"The act, per
se, does not astonish me, my Lord Bishop. We meet with such things. Still m=
ore
wonderful circumstances occur. Was not the War of the Roses predicted by the
sudden drying up of the river Ouse, in Bedfordshire, on January 1st, 1399. =
Now,
if a river dries up, a peer may, quite as naturally, fall into a servile
condition. Ulysses, King of Ithaca, played all kinds of different parts.
Fermain Clancharlie remained a lord under his player's garb. Sordid garments
touch not the soul's nobility. But taking the test and the investiture outs=
ide
the sitting, though strictly legal, might give rise to objections. I am of =
opinion
that it will be necessary to look into the matter, to see if there be any
ground to question the Lord Chancellor in Privy Council later on. We shall =
see
in a week or two what is best to be done."
And the Bishop
added,--
"All the sam=
e.
It is an adventure such as has not occurred since Earl Gesbodus's time.&quo=
t;
Gwynplaine, the
Laughing Man; the Tadcaster Inn; the Green Box; "Chaos Vanquished;&quo=
t;
Switzerland; Chillon; the Comprachicos; exile; mutilation; the Republic;
Jeffreys; James II.; the jussu regis; the bottle opened at the Admiralty; t=
he
father, Lord Linnæus; the legitimate son, Lord Fermain; the bastard s=
on,
Lord David; the probable lawsuits; the Duchess Josiana; the Lord Chancellor;
the Queen;--all these subjects of conversation ran from bench to bench.
Whispering is lik=
e a
train of gunpowder.
They seized on ev=
ery
incident. All the details of the occurrence caused an immense murmur through
the House. Gwynplaine, wandering in the depths of his reverie, heard the
buzzing, without knowing that he was the cause of it. He was strangely
attentive to the depths, not to the surface. Excess of attention becomes
isolation.
The buzz of
conversation in the House impedes its usual business no more than the dust
raised by a troop impedes its march. The judges--who in the Upper House were
mere assistants, without the privilege of speaking, except when questioned-=
-had
taken their places on the second woolsack; and the three Secretaries of Sta=
te
theirs on the third.
The heirs to peer=
ages
flowed into their compartment, at once without and within the House, at the
back of the throne.
The peers in their
minority were on their own benches. In 1705 the number of these little lords
amounted to no less than a dozen--Huntingdon, Lincoln, Dorset, Warwick, Bat=
h,
Barlington, Derwentwater--destined to a tragical death--Longueville, Lonsda=
le, Dudley,
Ward, and Carteret: a troop of brats made up of eight earls, two viscounts,=
and
two barons.
In the centre, on=
the
three stages of benches, each lord had taken his seat. Almost all the bisho=
ps
were there. The dukes mustered strong, beginning with Charles Seymour, Duke=
of
Somerset; and ending with George Augustus, Elector of Hanover, and Duke of
Cambridge, junior in date of creation, and consequently junior in rank. All
were in order, according to right of precedence: Cavendish, Duke of Devonsh=
ire,
whose grandfather had sheltered Hobbes, at Hardwicke, when he was ninety-tw=
o;
Lennox, Duke of Richmond; the three Fitzroys, the Duke of Southampton, the =
Duke
of Grafton, and the Duke of Northumberland; Butler, Duke of Ormond; Somerse=
t,
Duke of Beaufort; Beauclerk, Duke of St. Albans; Paulet, Duke of Bolton;
Osborne, Duke of Leeds; Wrottesley Russell, Duke of Bedford, whose motto and
device was Che sarà sarà, which expresses a determination to =
take
things as they come; Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham; Manners, Duke of Rutlan=
d;
and others. Neither Howard, Duke of Norfolk, nor Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury,
was present, being Catholics; nor Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, the French
Malbrouck, who was at that time fighting the French and beating them. There
were no Scotch dukes then--Queensberry, Montrose, and Roxburgh not being ad=
mitted
till 1707.
CHAPTER VI - THE HIGH AND THE LOW.
All at once a bright light broke up=
on the
House. Four doorkeepers brought and placed on each side of the throne four =
high
candelabra filled with wax-lights. The throne, thus illuminated, shone in a
kind of purple light. It was empty but august. The presence of the queen he=
rself
could not have added much majesty to it.
The Usher of the
Black Rod entered with his wand and announced,--
"The Lords
Commissioners of her Majesty."
The hum of
conversation immediately subsided.
A clerk, in a wig=
and
gown, appeared at the great door, holding a cushion worked with fleurs de l=
is,
on which lay parchment documents. These documents were bills. From each hung
the bille, or bulle, by a silken string, from which laws are called bills in
England and bulls at Rome. Behind the clerk walked three men in peers' robe=
s,
and wearing plumed hats.
These were the Ro=
yal
Commissioners. The first was the Lord High Treasurer of England, Godolphin;=
the
second, the Lord President of the Council, Pembroke; the third, the Lord of=
the
Privy Seal, Newcastle.
They walked one by
one, according to precedence, not of their rank, but of their
commission--Godolphin first, Newcastle last, although a duke.
They reached the
bench in front of the throne, to which they bowed, took off and replaced th=
eir
hats, and sat down on the bench.
The Lord Chancell=
or
turned towards the Usher of the Black Rod, and said,--
"Order the
Commons to the bar of the House."
The Usher of the
Black Rod retired.
The clerk, who was
one of the clerks of the House of Lords, placed on the table, between the f=
our
woolsacks, the cushion on which lay the bills.
Then there came an
interruption, which continued for some minutes.
Two doorkeepers
placed before the bar a stool with three steps.
This stool was
covered with crimson velvet, on which fleurs de lis were designed in gilt
nails.
The great door, w=
hich
had been closed, was reopened; and a voice announced,--
"The faithful
Commons of England."
It was the Usher =
of
the Black Rod announcing the other half of Parliament.
The lords put on
their hats.
The members of the
House of Commons entered, preceded by their Speaker, all with uncovered hea=
ds.
They stopped at t=
he
bar. They were in their ordinary garb; for the most part dressed in black, =
and
wearing swords. The Speaker, the Right Honourable John Smith, an esquire,
member for the borough of Andover, got up on the stool which was at the cen=
tre
of the bar. The Speaker of the Commons wore a robe of black satin, with lar=
ge
hanging sleeves, embroidered before and behind with brandenburgs of gold, a=
nd a
wig smaller than that of the Lord Chancellor. He was majestic, but inferior=
.
The Commons, both
Speaker and members, stood waiting with uncovered heads, before the peers, =
who
were seated, with their hats on.
Amongst the membe=
rs
of Commons might have been remarked the Chief Justice of Chester, Joseph
Jekyll; the Queen's three Serjeants-at-Law--Hooper, Powys, and Parker; James
Montagu, Solicitor-General; and the Attorney-General, Simon Harcourt. With =
the
exception of a few baronets and knights, and nine lords by courtesy--Hartin=
gton,
Windsor, Woodstock, Mordaunt, Granby, Scudamore, Fitzharding, Hyde, and
Berkeley--sons of peers and heirs to peerages--all were of the people, a so=
rt
of gloomy and silent crowd.
When the noise ma=
de
by the trampling of feet had ceased, the Crier of the Black Rod, standing by
the door, exclaimed:--
"Oyez!"=
The Clerk of the
Crown arose. He took, unfolded, and read the first of the documents on the
cushion. It was a message from the Queen, naming three commissioners to
represent her in Parliament, with power to sanction the bills.
"To wit--&qu=
ot;
Here the Clerk ra=
ised
his voice.
"Sidney Earl
Godolphin."
The Clerk bowed to
Lord Godolphin. Lord Godolphin raised his hat.
The Clerk
continued,--
"Thomas Herb=
ert,
Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery."
The Clerk bowed to
Lord Pembroke. Lord Pembroke touched his hat.
The Clerk resumed=
,--
"John Holles,
Duke of Newcastle."
The Duke of Newca=
stle
nodded.
The Clerk of the
Crown resumed his seat.
The Clerk of the
Parliaments arose. His under-clerk, who had been on his knees behind him, g=
ot
up also. Both turned their faces to the throne, and their backs to the Comm=
ons.
There were five b=
ills
on the cushion. These five bills, voted by the Commons and agreed to by the
Lords, awaited the royal sanction.
The Clerk of the
Parliaments read the first bill.
It was a bill pas=
sed
by the Commons, charging the country with the costs of the improvements mad=
e by
the Queen to her residence at Hampton Court, amounting to a million sterlin=
g.
The reading over,=
the
Clerk bowed low to the throne. The under-clerk bowed lower still; then, half
turning his head towards the Commons, he said,--
"The Queen
accepts your bounty--et ainsi le veut."
The Clerk read the
second bill.
It was a law
condemning to imprisonment and fine whosoever withdrew himself from the ser=
vice
of the trainbands. The trainbands were a militia, recruited from the middle=
and
lower classes, serving gratis, which in Elizabeth's reign furnished, on the
approach of the Armada, one hundred and eighty-five thousand foot-soldiers =
and
forty thousand horse.
The two clerks ma=
de a
fresh bow to the throne, after which the under-clerk, again half turning his
face to the Commons, said,--
"La Reine le
veut."
The third bill was
for increasing the tithes and prebends of the Bishopric of Lichfield and
Coventry, which was one of the richest in England; for making an increased
yearly allowance to the cathedral, for augmenting the number of its canons,=
and
for increasing its deaneries and benefices, "to the benefit of our holy
religion," as the preamble set forth. The fourth bill added to the bud=
get
fresh taxes--one on marbled paper; one on hackney coaches, fixed at the num=
ber
of eight hundred in London, and taxed at a sum equal to fifty-two francs ye=
arly
each; one on barristers, attorneys, and solicitors, at forty-eight francs a
year a head; one on tanned skins, notwithstanding, said the preamble, the
complaints of the workers in leather; one on soap, notwithstanding the
petitions of the City of Exeter and of the whole of Devonshire, where great
quantities of cloth and serge were manufactured; one on wine at four shilli=
ngs;
one on flour; one on barley and hops; and one renewing for four years "=
;the
necessities of the State," said the preamble, "requiring to be
attended to before the remonstrances of commerce"--tonnage-dues, varyi=
ng
from six francs per ton, for ships coming from the westward, to eighteen fr=
ancs
on those coming from the eastward. Finally, the bill, declaring the sums
already levied for the current year insufficient, concluded by decreeing a
poll-tax on each subject throughout the kingdom of four shillings per head,
adding that a double tax would be levied on every one who did not take the
fresh oath to Government. The fifth bill forbade the admission into the
hospital of any sick person who on entering did not deposit a pound sterlin=
g to
pay for his funeral, in case of death. These last three bills, like the fir=
st
two, were one after the other sanctioned and made law by a bow to the thron=
e,
and the four words pronounced by the under-clerk, "la Reine le veut,&q=
uot;
spoken over his shoulder to the Commons. Then the under-clerk knelt down ag=
ain
before the fourth woolsack, and the Lord Chancellor said,--
"Soit fait c=
omme
il est désiré."
This terminated t=
he
royal sitting. The Speaker, bent double before the Chancellor, descended fr=
om
the stool, backwards, lifting up his robe behind him; the members of the Ho=
use
of Commons bowed to the ground, and as the Upper House resumed the business=
of
the day, heedless of all these marks of respect, the Commons departed.
CHAPTER VII.
STORMS OF MEN ARE
WORSE THAN STORMS OF OCEANS.
The doors were closed again, the Us=
her of
the Black Rod re-entered; the Lords Commissioners left the bench of State, =
took
their places at the top of the dukes' benches, by right of their commission,
and the Lord Chancellor addressed the House:--
"My Lords, t=
he
House having deliberated for several days on the Bill which proposes to aug=
ment
by £100,000 sterling the annual provision for his Royal Highness the
Prince, her Majesty's Consort, and the debate having been exhausted and clo=
sed,
the House will proceed to vote; the votes will be taken according to custom,
beginning with the puisne Baron. Each Lord, on his name being called, will =
rise
and answer content, or non-content, and will be at liberty to explain the m=
otives
of his vote, if he thinks fit to do so.--Clerk, take the vote."
The Clerk of the
House, standing up, opened a large folio, and spread it open on a gilded de=
sk.
This book was the list of the Peerage.
The puisne of the
House of Lords at that time was John Hervey, created Baron and Peer in 1703,
from whom is descended the Marquis of Bristol.
The clerk called,=
--
"My Lord Joh=
n,
Baron Hervey."
An old man in a f=
air
wig rose, and said, "Content."
Then he sat down.=
The Clerk registe=
red
his vote.
The Clerk continu=
ed,--
"My Lord Fra=
ncis
Seymour, Baron Conway, of Killultagh."
"Content,&qu=
ot;
murmured, half rising, an elegant young man, with a face like a page, who
little thought that he was to be ancestor to the Marquises of Hertford.
"My Lord John
Leveson, Baron Gower," continued the Clerk.
This Baron, from =
whom
were to spring the Dukes of Sutherland, rose, and, as he reseated himself, =
said
"Content."
The Clerk went on=
.
"My Lord Hen=
eage
Finch, Baron Guernsey."
The ancestor of t=
he
Earls of Aylesford, neither older nor less elegant than the ancestor of the
Marquises of Hertford, justified his device, Aperto vivere voto, by the pro=
ud
tone in which he exclaimed, "Content."
Whilst he was
resuming his seat, the Clerk called the fifth Baron,--
"My Lord Joh=
n,
Baron Granville."
Rising and resumi=
ng
his seat quickly, "Content," exclaimed Lord Granville, of Potheri=
dge,
whose peerage was to become extinct in 1709.
The Clerk passed =
to
the sixth.
"My Lord Cha=
rles
Montague, Baron Halifax."
"Content,&qu=
ot;
said Lord Halifax, the bearer of a title which had become extinct in the
Saville family, and was destined to become extinct again in that of Montagu=
e.
Montague is distinct from Montagu and Montacute. And Lord Halifax added,
"Prince George has an allowance as Her Majesty's Consort; he has anoth=
er
as Prince of Denmark; another as Duke of Cumberland; another as Lord High
Admiral of England and Ireland; but he has not one as Commander-in-Chief. T=
his
is an injustice and a wrong which must be set right, in the interest of the
English people."
Then Lord Halifax
passed a eulogium on the Christian religion, abused popery, and voted the
subsidy.
Lord Halifax sat
down, and the Clerk resumed,--
"My Lord
Christopher, Baron Barnard."
Lord Barnard, from
whom were to descend the Dukes of Cleveland, rose to answer to his name.
"Content.&qu=
ot;
He took some time=
in
reseating himself, for he wore a lace band which was worth showing. For all
that, Lord Barnard was a worthy gentleman and a brave officer.
While Lord Barnard
was resuming his seat, the Clerk, who read by routine, hesitated for an
instant; he readjusted his spectacles, and leaned over the register with
renewed attention; then, lifting up his head, he said,--
"My Lord Fer=
main
Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville."
Gwynplaine arose.=
"Non-content=
,"
said he.
Every face was tu=
rned
towards him. Gwynplaine remained standing. The branches of candles, placed =
on
each side of the throne, lighted up his features, and marked them against t=
he
darkness of the august chamber in the relief with which a mask might show
against a background of smoke.
Gwynplaine had ma=
de
that effort over himself which, it may be remembered, was possible to him in
extremity. By a concentration of will equal to that which would be needed to
cow a tiger, he had succeeded in obliterating for a moment the fatal grin u=
pon
his face. For an instant he no longer laughed. This effort could not last l=
ong.
Rebellion against that which is our law or our fatality must be short-lived=
; at
times the waters of the sea resist the power of gravitation, swell into a w=
aterspout
and become a mountain, but only on the condition of falling back again.
Such a struggle w=
as
Gwynplaine's. For an instant, which he felt to be a solemn one, by a prodig=
ious
intensity of will, but for not much longer than a flash of lightning lasts,=
he
had thrown over his brow the dark veil of his soul--he held in suspense his
incurable laugh. From that face upon which it had been carved he had withdr=
awn
the joy. Now it was nothing but terrible.
"Who is this
man?" exclaimed all.
That forest of ha=
ir,
those dark hollows under the brows, the deep gaze of eyes which they could =
not
see, that head, on the wild outlines of which light and darkness mingled
weirdly, were a wonder indeed. It was beyond all understanding; much as they
had heard of him, the sight of Gwynplaine was a terror. Even those who expe=
cted
much found their expectations surpassed. It was as though on the mountain
reserved for the gods, during the banquet on a serene evening, the whole of=
the
all-powerful body being gathered together, the face of Prometheus, mangled =
by
the vulture's beak, should have suddenly appeared before them, like a
blood-coloured moon on the horizon. Olympus looking on Caucasus! What a vis=
ion!
Old and young, open-mouthed with surprise, fixed their eyes upon Gwynplaine=
.
An old man, respe=
cted
by the whole House, who had seen many men and many things, and who was inte=
nded
for a dukedom--Thomas, Earl of Wharton--rose in terror.
"What does a=
ll
this mean?" he cried. "Who has brought this man into the House? L=
et
him be put out."
And addressing
Gwynplaine haughtily,--
"Who are you?
Whence do you come?"
Gwynplaine
answered,--
"Out of the
depths."
And folding his a=
rms,
he looked at the lords.
"Who am I? I=
am
wretchedness. My lords, I have a word to say to you."
A shudder ran thr=
ough
the House. Then all was silence. Gwynplaine continued,--
"My lords, y=
ou
are highly placed. It is well. We must believe that God has His reasons tha=
t it
should be so. You have power, opulence, pleasure, the sun ever shining in y=
our
zenith; authority unbounded, enjoyment without a sting, and a total
forgetfulness of others. So be it. But there is something below you--above =
you,
it may be. My lords, I bring you news--news of the existence of mankind.&qu=
ot;
Assemblies are li=
ke
children. A strange occurrence is as a Jack-in-the-Box to them. It frightens
them; but they like it. It is as if a spring were touched and a devil jumps=
up.
Mirabeau, who was also deformed, was a case in point in France.
Gwynplaine felt
within himself, at that moment, a strange elevation. In addressing a body of
men, one's foot seems to rest on them; to rest, as it were, on a pinnacle of
souls--on human hearts, that quiver under one's heel. Gwynplaine was no lon=
ger
the man who had been, only the night before, almost mean. The fumes of the
sudden elevation which had disturbed him had cleared off and become
transparent, and in the state in which Gwynplaine had been seduced by a van=
ity
he now saw but a duty. That which had at first lessened now elevated him. He
was illuminated by one of those great flashes which emanate from duty.
All round Gwynpla=
ine
arose cries of "Hear, hear!"
Meanwhile, rigid =
and
superhuman, he succeeded in maintaining on his features that severe and sad
contraction under which the laugh was fretting like a wild horse struggling=
to
escape.
He resumed,--
"I am he who
cometh out of the depths. My lords, you are great and rich. There lies your
danger. You profit by the night; but beware! The dawn is all-powerful. You
cannot prevail over it. It is coming. Nay! it is come. Within it is the
day-spring of irresistible light. And who shall hinder that sling from hurl=
ing
the sun into the sky? The sun I speak of is Right. You are Privilege. Tremb=
le!
The real master of the house is about to knock at the door. What is the fat=
her
of Privilege? Chance. What is his son? Abuse. Neither Chance nor Abuse are
abiding. For both a dark morrow is at hand. I am come to warn you. I am com=
e to
impeach your happiness. It is fashioned out of the misery of your neighbour.
You have everything, and that everything is composed of the nothing of othe=
rs.
My lords, I am an advocate without hope, pleading a cause that is lost; but=
that
cause God will gain on appeal. As for me, I am but a voice. Mankind is a mo=
uth,
of which I am the cry. You shall hear me! I am about to open before you, pe=
ers
of England, the great assize of the people; of that sovereign who is the
subject; of that criminal who is the judge. I am weighed down under the loa=
d of
all that I have to say. Where am I to begin? I know not. I have gathered
together, in the vast diffusion of suffering, my innumerable and scattered
pleas. What am I to do with them now? They overwhelm me, and I must cast th=
em
to you in a confused mass. Did I foresee this? No. You are astonished. So a=
m I.
Yesterday I was a mountebank; to-day I am a peer. Deep play. Of whom? Of the
Unknown. Let us all tremble. My lords, all the blue sky is for you. Of this
immense universe you see but the sunshine. Believe me, it has its shadows. =
Amongst
you I am called Lord Fermain Clancharlie; but my true name is one of
poverty--Gwynplaine. I am a wretched thing carved out of the stuff of which=
the
great are made, for such was the pleasure of a king. That is my history. Ma=
ny
amongst you knew my father. I knew him not. His connection with you was his
feudal descent; his outlawry is the bond between him and me. What God willed
was well. I was cast into the abyss. For what end? To search its depths. I =
am a
diver, and I have brought back the pearl, truth. I speak, because I know. Y=
ou
shall hear me, my lords. I have seen, I have felt! Suffering is not a mere
word, ye happy ones! Poverty I grew up in; winter has frozen me; hunger I h=
ave
tasted; contempt I have suffered; pestilence I have undergone; shame I have=
drunk
of. And I will vomit all these up before you, and this ejection of all mise=
ry
shall sully your feet and flame about them. I hesitated before I allowed my=
self
to be brought to the place where I now stand, because I have duties to othe=
rs
elsewhere, and my heart is not here. What passed within me has nothing to do
with you. When the man whom you call Usher of the Black Rod came to seek me=
by
order of the woman whom you call the Queen, the idea struck me for a moment
that I would refuse to come. But it seemed to me that the hidden hand of God
pressed me to the spot, and I obeyed. I felt that I must come amongst you. =
Why?
Because of my rags of yesterday. It is to raise my voice among those who ha=
ve
eaten their fill that God mixed me up with the famished. Oh, have pity! Of =
this
fatal world to which you believe yourselves to belong you know nothing. Pla=
ced
so high, you are out of it. But I will tell you what it is. I have had
experience enough. I come from beneath the pressure of your feet. I can tell
you your weight. Oh, you who are masters, do you know what you are? do you =
see
what you are doing? No. Oh, it is dreadful! One night, one night of storm, a
little deserted child, an orphan alone in the immeasurable creation, I made=
my
entrance into that darkness which you call society. The first thing that I =
saw was
the law, under the form of a gibbet; the second was riches, your riches, un=
der
the form of a woman dead of cold and hunger; the third, the future, under t=
he
form of a child left to die; the fourth, goodness, truth, and justice, under
the figure of a vagabond, whose sole friend and companion was a wolf."=
Just then Gwynpla=
ine,
stricken by a sudden emotion, felt the sobs rising in his throat, causing h=
im,
most unfortunately, to burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
The contagion was
immediate. A cloud had hung over the assembly. It might have broken into
terror; it broke into delight. Mad merriment seized the whole House. Nothing
pleases the great chambers of sovereign man so much as buffoonery. It is th=
eir
revenge upon their graver moments.
The laughter of k=
ings
is like the laughter of the gods. There is always a cruel point in it. The
lords set to play. Sneers gave sting to their laughter. They clapped their
hands around the speaker, and insulted him. A volley of merry exclamations
assailed him like bright but wounding hailstones.
"Bravo,
Gwynplaine!"--"Bravo, Laughing Man!"--"Bravo, Snout of =
the
Green Box!"--"Mask of Tarrinzeau Field!"--"You are goin=
g to
give us a performance."--"That's right; talk
away!"--"There's a funny fellow!"--"How the beast does
laugh, to be sure!"--"Good-day, pantaloon!"--"How d'ye =
do,
my lord clown!"--"Go on with your speech!"--"That fello=
w a
peer of England?"--"Go on!"--"No, no!"--"Yes,=
yes!"
The Lord Chancell=
or
was much disturbed.
A deaf peer, James
Butler, Duke of Ormond, placing his hand to his ear like an ear trumpet, as=
ked
Charles Beauclerk, Duke of St. Albans,--
"How has he
voted?"
"Non-content=
."
"By
heavens!" said Ormond, "I can understand it, with such a face as =
his."
Do you think that=
you
can ever recapture a crowd once it has escaped your grasp? And all assembli=
es
are crowds alike. No, eloquence is a bit; and if the bit breaks, the audien=
ce
runs away, and rushes on till it has thrown the orator. Hearers naturally
dislike the speaker, which is a fact not as clearly understood as it ought =
to
be. Instinctively he pulls the reins, but that is a useless expedient. Howe=
ver,
all orators try it, as Gwynplaine did.
He looked for a
moment at those men who were laughing at him. Then he cried,--
"So, you ins=
ult
misery! Silence, Peers of England! Judges, listen to my pleading! Oh, I con=
jure
you, have pity. Pity for whom? Pity for yourselves. Who is in danger?
Yourselves! Do you not see that you are in a balance, and that there is in =
one
scale your power, and in the other your responsibility? It is God who is
weighing you. Oh, do not laugh. Think. The trembling of your consciences is=
the
oscillation of the balance in which God is weighing your actions. You are n=
ot
wicked; you are like other men, neither better nor worse. You believe
yourselves to be gods; but be ill to-morrow, and see your divinity shiverin=
g in
fever! We are worth one as much as the other. I address myself to honest me=
n; there
are such here. I address myself to lofty intellects; there are such here. I
address myself to generous souls; there are such here. You are fathers, son=
s,
and brothers; therefore you are often touched. He amongst you who has this
morning watched the awaking of his little child is a good man. Hearts are a=
ll
alike. Humanity is nothing but a heart. Between those who oppress and those=
who
are oppressed there is but a difference of place. Your feet tread on the he=
ads
of men. The fault is not yours; it is that of the social Babel. The buildin=
g is
faulty, and out of the perpendicular. One floor bears down the other. Liste=
n,
and I will tell you what to do. Oh! as you are powerful, be brotherly; as y=
ou are
great, be tender. If you only knew what I have seen! Alas, what gloom is th=
ere
beneath! The people are in a dungeon. How many are condemned who are innoce=
nt!
No daylight, no air, no virtue! They are without hope, and yet--there is the
danger--they expect something. Realize all this misery. There are beings who
live in death. There are little girls who at twelve begin by prostitution, =
and
who end in old age at twenty. As to the severities of the criminal code, th=
ey
are fearful. I speak somewhat at random, and do not pick my words. I say
everything that comes into my head. No later than yesterday I who stand here
saw a man lying in chains, naked, with stones piled on his chest, expire in=
torture.
Do you know of these things? No. If you knew what goes on, you would not da=
re
to be happy. Who of you have been to Newcastle-upon-Tyne? There, in the min=
es,
are men who chew coals to fill their stomachs and deceive hunger. Look here=
! in
Lancashire, Ribblechester has sunk, by poverty, from a town to a village. I=
do
not see that Prince George of Denmark requires a hundred thousand pounds ex=
tra.
I should prefer receiving a poor sick man into the hospital, without compel=
ling
him to pay his funeral expenses in advance. In Carnarvon, and at Strathmore=
, as
well as at Strathbickan, the exhaustion of the poor is horrible. At Stratfo=
rd
they cannot drain the marsh for want of money. The manufactories are shut up
all over Lancashire. There is forced idleness everywhere. Do you know that =
the
herring fishers at Harlech eat grass when the fishery fails? Do you know th=
at
at Burton-Lazars there are still lepers confined, on whom they fire if they
leave their tan houses! At Ailesbury, a town of which one of you is lord,
destitution is chronic. At Penkridge, in Coventry, where you have just endo=
wed
a cathedral and enriched a bishop, there are no beds in the cabins, and the=
y dig
holes in the earth in which to put the little children to lie, so that inst=
ead
of beginning life in the cradle, they begin it in the grave. I have seen th=
ese
things! My lords, do you know who pays the taxes you vote? The dying! Alas!=
you
deceive yourselves. You are going the wrong road. You augment the poverty of
the poor to increase the riches of the rich. You should do the reverse. Wha=
t!
take from the worker to give to the idle, take from the tattered to give to=
the
well-clad; take from the beggar to give to the prince! Oh yes! I have old
republican blood in my veins. I have a horror of these things. How I execra=
te
kings! And how shameless are the women! I have been told a sad story. How I
hate Charles II.! A woman whom my father loved gave herself to that king wh=
ilst
my father was dying in exile. The prostitute! Charles II., James II.! After=
a
scamp, a scoundrel. What is there in a king? A man, feeble and contemptible,
subject to wants and infirmities. Of what good is a king? You cultivate that
parasite royalty; you make a serpent of that worm, a dragon of that insect.=
O
pity the poor! You increase the weight of the taxes for the profit of the
throne. Look to the laws which you decree. Take heed of the suffering swarms
which you crush. Cast your eyes down. Look at what is at your feet. O ye gr=
eat,
there are the little. Have pity! yes, have pity on yourselves; for the peop=
le
is in its agony, and when the lower part of the trunk dies, the higher parts
die too. Death spares no limb. When night comes no one can keep his corner =
of
daylight. Are you selfish? then save others. The destruction of the vessel
cannot be a matter of indifference to any passenger. There can be no wreck =
for
some that is not wreck for all. O believe it, the abyss yawns for all!"=
;
The laughter
increased, and became irresistible. For that matter, such extravagance as t=
here
was in his words was sufficient to amuse any assembly. To be comic without =
and
tragic within, what suffering can be more humiliating? what pain deeper?
Gwynplaine felt it. His words were an appeal in one direction, his face in =
the
other. What a terrible position was his!
Suddenly his voice
rang out in strident bursts.
"How gay the=
se
men are! Be it so. Here is irony face to face with agony; a sneer mocking t=
he
death-rattle. They are all-powerful. Perhaps so; be it so. We shall see.
Behold! I am one of them; but I am also one of you, O ye poor! A king sold =
me.
A poor man sheltered me. Who mutilated me? A prince. Who healed and nourish=
ed
me? A pauper. I am Lord Clancharlie; but I am still Gwynplaine. I take my p=
lace
amongst the great; but I belong to the mean. I am amongst those who rejoice;
but I am with those who suffer. Oh, this system of society is false! Some d=
ay
will come that which is true. Then there will be no more lords, and there s=
hall
be free and living men. There will be no more masters; there will be father=
s. Such
is the future. No more prostration; no more baseness; no more ignorance; no
more human beasts of burden; no more courtiers; no more toadies; no more ki=
ngs;
but Light! In the meantime, see me here. I have a right, and I will use it.=
Is
it a right? No, if I use it for myself; yes, if I use it for all. I will sp=
eak
to you, my lords, being one of you. O my brothers below, I will tell them of
your nakedness. I will rise up with a bundle of the people's rags in my han=
d. I
will shake off over the masters the misery of the slaves; and these favoured
and arrogant ones shall no longer be able to escape the remembrance of the =
wretched,
nor the princes the itch of the poor; and so much the worse, if it be the b=
ite
of vermin; and so much the better, if it awake the lions from their
slumber."
Here Gwynplaine
turned towards the kneeling under-clerks, who were writing on the fourth
woolsack.
"Who are tho=
se
fellows kneeling down?--What are you doing? Get up; you are men."
These words, sudd=
enly
addressed to inferiors whom a lord ought not even to perceive, increased the
merriment to the utmost.
They had cried,
"Bravo!" Now they shouted, "Hurrah!" From clapping thei=
r hands
they proceeded to stamping their feet. One might have been back in the Green
Box, only that there the laughter applauded Gwynplaine; here it exterminated
him. The effort of ridicule is to kill. Men's laughter sometimes exerts all=
its
power to murder.
The laughter
proceeded to action. Sneering words rained down upon him. Humour is the fol=
ly
of assemblies. Their ingenious and foolish ridicule shuns facts instead of
studying them, and condemns questions instead of solving them. Any
extraordinary occurrence is a point of interrogation; to laugh at it is like
laughing at an enigma. But the Sphynx, which never laughs, is behind it.
Contradictory sho=
uts
arose,--
"Enough!
enough!" "Encore! encore!"
William Farmer, B=
aron
Leimpster, flung at Gwynplaine the insult cast by Ryc Quiney at Shakespeare=
,--
"Histrio,
mima!"
Lord Vaughan, a
sententious man, twenty-ninth on the barons' bench, exclaimed,--
"We must be =
back
in the days when animals had the gift of speech. In the midst of human tong=
ues
the jaw of a beast has spoken."
"Listen to
Balaam's ass," added Lord Yarmouth.
Lord Yarmouth
presented that appearance of sagacity produced by a round nose and a crooked
mouth.
"The rebel
Linnæus is chastised in his tomb. The son is the punishment of the
father," said John Hough, Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, whose preb=
endary
Gwynplaine's attack had glanced.
"He lies!&qu=
ot;
said Lord Cholmondeley, the legislator so well read up in the law. "Th=
at
which he calls torture is only the peine forte et dure, and a very good thi=
ng,
too. Torture is not practised in England."
Thomas Wentworth,
Baron Raby, addressed the Chancellor.
"My Lord
Chancellor, adjourn the House."
"No, no. Let=
him
go on. He is amusing. Hurrah! hip! hip! hip!"
Thus shouted the
young lords, their fun amounting to fury. Four of them especially were in t=
he
full exasperation of hilarity and hate. These were Laurence Hyde, Earl of
Rochester; Thomas Tufton, Earl of Thanet; Viscount Hatton; and the Duke of
Montagu.
"To your tri=
cks,
Gwynplaine!" cried Rochester.
"Put him out,
put him out!" shouted Thanet.
Viscount Hatton d=
rew
from his pocket a penny, which he flung to Gwynplaine.
And John Campbell,
Earl of Greenwich; Savage, Earl Rivers; Thompson, Baron Haversham; Warringt=
on,
Escrick Rolleston, Rockingham, Carteret, Langdale, Barcester, Maynard, Huns=
don,
Cäernarvon, Cavendish, Burlington, Robert Darcy, Earl of Holderness, O=
ther
Windsor, Earl of Plymouth, applauded.
There was a tumul= t as of pandemonium or of pantheon, in which the words of Gwynplaine were lost.<= o:p>
Amidst it all, th=
ere
was heard but one word of Gwynplaine's: "Beware!"
Ralph, Duke of
Montagu, recently down from Oxford, and still a beardless youth, descended =
from
the bench of dukes, where he sat the nineteenth in order, and placed himsel=
f in
front of Gwynplaine, with his arms folded. In a sword there is a spot which
cuts sharpest, and in a voice an accent which insults most keenly. Montagu
spoke with that accent, and sneering with his face close to that of Gwynpla=
ine,
shouted,--"What are you talking about?"
"I am
prophesying," said Gwynplaine.
The laughter expl=
oded
anew; and below this laughter, anger growled its continued bass. One of the
minors, Lionel Cranfield Sackville, Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, stood upon
his seat, not smiling, but grave as became a future legislator, and, without
saying a word, looked at Gwynplaine with his fresh twelve-year old face, and
shrugged his shoulders. Whereat the Bishop of St. Asaph's whispered in the =
ear
of the Bishop of St. David's, who was sitting beside him, as he pointed to =
Gwynplaine,
"There is the fool;" then pointing to the child, "there is t=
he
sage."
A chaos of compla=
int
rose from amidst the confusion of exclamations:--
"Gorgon's
face!"--"What does it all mean?"--"An insult to the Hou=
se!"--"The
fellow ought to be put out!"--"What a madman!"--"Shame!=
shame!"--"Adjourn
the House!"--"No; let him finish his speech!"--"Talk aw=
ay,
you buffoon!"
Lord Lewis of Dur=
as,
with his arms akimbo, shouted,--
"Ah! it does=
one
good to laugh. My spleen is cured. I propose a vote of thanks in these term=
s:
'The House of Lords returns thanks to the Green Box.'"
Gwynplaine, it ma=
y be
remembered, had dreamt of a different welcome.
A man who, climbi=
ng
up a steep and crumbling acclivity of sand above a giddy precipice, has fel=
t it
giving way under his hands, his nails, his elbows, his knees, his feet;
who--losing instead of gaining on his treacherous way, a prey to every terr=
or
of the danger, slipping back instead of ascending, increasing the certainty=
of
his fall by his very efforts to gain the summit, and losing ground in every
struggle for safety--has felt the abyss approaching nearer and nearer, until
the certainty of his coming fall into the yawning jaws open to receive him,=
has
frozen the marrow of his bones;--that man has experienced the sensations of
Gwynplaine.
He felt the groun=
d he
had ascended crumbling under him, and his audience was the precipice.
There is always s=
ome
one to say the word which sums all up.
Lord Scarsdale
translated the impression of the assembly in one exclamation,--
"What is the
monster doing here?"
Gwynplaine stood =
up,
dismayed and indignant, in a sort of final convulsion. He looked at them all
fixedly.
"What am I d=
oing
here? I have come to be a terror to you! I am a monster, do you say? No! I =
am the
people! I am an exception? No! I am the rule; you are the exception! You are
the chimera; I am the reality! I am the frightful man who laughs! Who laugh=
s at
what? At you, at himself, at everything! What is his laugh? Your crime and =
his
torment! That crime he flings at your head! That punishment he spits in you=
r face!
I laugh, and that means I weep!"
He paused. There =
was
less noise. The laughter continued, but it was more subdued. He may have
fancied that he had regained a certain amount of attention. He breathed aga=
in,
and resumed,--
"This laugh
which is on my face a king placed there. This laugh expresses the desolatio=
n of
mankind. This laugh means hate, enforced silence, rage, despair. This laugh=
is
the production of torture. This laugh is a forced laugh. If Satan were mark=
ed
with this laugh, it would convict God. But the Eternal is not like them that
perish. Being absolute, he is just; and God hates the acts of kings. Oh! you
take me for an exception; but I am a symbol. Oh, all-powerful men, fools th=
at you
are! open your eyes. I am the incarnation of All. I represent humanity, suc=
h as
its masters have made it. Mankind is mutilated. That which has been done to=
me
has been done to it. In it have been deformed right, justice, truth, reason,
intelligence, as eyes, nostrils, and ears have been deformed in me; its hea=
rt
has been made a sink of passion and pain, like mine, and, like mine, its
features have been hidden in a mask of joy. Where God had placed his finger,
the king set his sign-manual. Monstrous superposition! Bishops, peers, and
princes, the people is a sea of suffering, smiling on the surface. My lords=
, I
tell you that the people are as I am. To-day you oppress them; to-day you h=
oot
at me. But the future is the ominous thaw, in which that which was as stone
shall become wave. The appearance of solidity melts into liquid. A crack in=
the
ice, and all is over. There will come an hour when convulsion shall break d=
own
your oppression; when an angry roar will reply to your jeers. Nay, that hour
did come! Thou wert of it, O my father! That hour of God did come, and was
called the Republic! It was destroyed, but it will return. Meanwhile, remem=
ber
that the line of kings armed with the sword was broken by Cromwell, armed w=
ith
the axe. Tremble! Incorruptible solutions are at hand: the talons which were
cut are growing again; the tongues which were torn out are floating away, t=
hey
are turning to tongues of fire, and, scattered by the breath of darkness, a=
re
shouting through infinity; those who hunger are showing their idle teeth; f=
alse
heavens, built over real hells, are tottering. The people are suffering--th=
ey
are suffering; and that which is on high totters, and that which is below
yawns. Darkness demands its change to light; the damned discuss the elect. =
Behold!
it is the coming of the people, the ascent of mankind, the beginning of the
end, the red dawn of the catastrophe! Yes, all these things are in this lau=
gh
of mine, at which you laugh to-day! London is one perpetual fête. Be =
it
so. From one end to the other, England rings with acclamation. Well! but
listen. All that you see is I. You have your fêtes--they are my laugh;
you have your public rejoicings--they are my laugh; you have your weddings,=
consecrations,
and coronations--they are my laugh. The births of your princes are my laugh.
But above you is the thunderbolt--it is my laugh."
How could they st=
and
such nonsense? The laughter burst out afresh; and now it was overwhelming. =
Of
all the lava which that crater, the human mouth, ejects, the most corrosive=
is
joy. To inflict evil gaily is a contagion which no crowd can resist. All
executions do not take place on the scaffold; and men, from the moment they=
are
in a body, whether in mobs or in senates, have always a ready executioner
amongst them, called sarcasm. There is no torture to be compared to that of=
the
wretch condemned to execution by ridicule. This was Gwynplaine's fate. He w=
as stoned
with their jokes, and riddled by the scoffs shot at him. He stood there a m=
ark
for all. They sprang up; they cried, "Encore;" they shook with
laughter; they stamped their feet; they pulled each other's bands. The maje=
sty
of the place, the purple of the robes, the chaste ermine, the dignity of the
wigs, had no effect. The lords laughed, the bishops laughed, the judges lau=
ghed,
the old men's benches derided, the children's benches were in convulsions. =
The
Archbishop of Canterbury nudged the Archbishop of York; Henry Compton, Bish=
op
of London, brother of Lord Northampton, held his sides; the Lord Chancellor
bent down his head, probably to conceal his inclination to laugh; and, at t=
he
bar, that statue of respect, the Usher of the Black Rod, was laughing also.=
Gwynplaine, become
pallid, had folded his arms; and, surrounded by all those faces, young and =
old,
in which had burst forth this grand Homeric jubilee; in that whirlwind of
clapping hands, of stamping feet, and of hurrahs; in that mad buffoonery, of
which he was the centre; in that splendid overflow of hilarity; in the mids=
t of
that unmeasured gaiety, he felt that the sepulchre was within him. All was
over. He could no longer master the face which betrayed nor the audience wh=
ich
insulted him.
That eternal and
fatal law by which the grotesque is linked with the sublime--by which the l=
augh
re-echoes the groan, parody rides behind despair, and seeming is opposed to
being--had never found more terrible expression. Never had a light more
sinister illumined the depths of human darkness.
Gwynplaine was
assisting at the final destruction of his destiny by a burst of laughter. T=
he
irremediable was in this. Having fallen, we can raise ourselves up; but, be=
ing
pulverized, never. And the insult of their sovereign mockery had reduced hi=
m to
dust. From thenceforth nothing was possible. Everything is in accordance wi=
th
the scene. That which was triumph in the Green Box was disgrace and catastr=
ophe
in the House of Lords. What was applause there, was insult here. He felt so=
mething
like the reverse side of his mask. On one side of that mask he had the symp=
athy
of the people, who welcomed Gwynplaine; on the other, the contempt of the
great, rejecting Lord Fermain Clancharlie. On one side, attraction; on the
other, repulsion; both leading him towards the shadows. He felt himself, as=
it
were, struck from behind. Fate strikes treacherous blows. Everything will be
explained hereafter, but, in the meantime, destiny is a snare, and man sinks
into its pitfalls. He had expected to rise, and was welcomed by laughter. S=
uch
apotheoses have lugubrious terminations. There is a dreary expression--to b=
e sobered;
tragical wisdom born of drunkenness! In the midst of that tempest of gaiety
commingled with ferocity, Gwynplaine fell into a reverie.
An assembly in mad
merriment drifts as chance directs, and loses its compass when it gives its=
elf
to laughter. None knew whither they were tending, or what they were doing. =
The
House was obliged to rise, adjourned by the Lord Chancellor, "owing to
extraordinary circumstances," to the next day. The peers broke up. They
bowed to the royal throne and departed. Echoes of prolonged laughter were h=
eard
losing themselves in the corridors.
Assemblies, besid=
es
their official doors, have--under tapestry, under projections, and under
arches--all sorts of hidden doors, by which the members escape like water
through the cracks in a vase. In a short time the chamber was deserted. This
takes place quickly and almost imperceptibly, and those places, so lately f=
ull
of voices, are suddenly given back to silence.
Reverie carries o=
ne
far; and one comes by long dreaming to reach, as it were, another planet.
Gwynplaine sudden=
ly
awoke from such a dream. He was alone. The chamber was empty. He had not ev=
en
observed that the House had been adjourned. All the peers had departed, even
his sponsors. There only remained here and there some of the lower officers=
of
the House, waiting for his lordship to depart before they put the covers on=
and
extinguished the lights.
Mechanically he
placed his hat on his head, and, leaving his place, directed his steps to t=
he
great door opening into the gallery. As he was passing through the opening =
in
the bar, a doorkeeper relieved him of his peer's robes. This he scarcely fe=
lt.
In another instant he was in the gallery.
The officials who
remained observed with astonishment that the peer had gone out without bowi=
ng
to the throne!
CHAPTER VIII - HE WOULD BE A GOOD BROTHER, WERE HE NOT A =
GOOD
SON.
There was no one in the gallery.
Gwynplaine crossed
the circular space, from whence they had removed the arm-chair and the tabl=
es,
and where there now remained no trace of his investiture. Candelabra and
lustres, placed at certain intervals, marked the way out. Thanks to this st=
ring
of light, he retraced without difficulty, through the suite of saloons and
galleries, the way which he had followed on his arrival with the King-at-Ar=
ms
and the Usher of the Black Rod. He saw no one, except here and there some o=
ld
lord with tardy steps, plodding along heavily in front of him.
Suddenly, in the
silence of those great deserted rooms, bursts of indistinct exclamations
reached him, a sort of nocturnal clatter unusual in such a place. He direct=
ed
his steps to the place whence this noise proceeded, and found himself in a
spacious hall, dimly lighted, which was one of the exits from the House of
Lords. He saw a great glass door open, a flight of steps, footmen and links=
, a
square outside, and a few coaches waiting at the bottom of the steps.
This was the spot
from which the noise which he had heard had proceeded.
Within the door, =
and
under the hall lamp, was a noisy group in a storm of gestures and of voices=
.
Gwynplaine approa=
ched
in the gloom.
They were
quarrelling. On one side there were ten or twelve young lords, who wanted t=
o go
out; on the other, a man, with his hat on, like themselves, upright and wit=
h a
haughty brow, who barred their passage.
Who was this man?
Tom-Jim-Jack.
Some of these lor=
ds
were still in their robes, others had thrown them off, and were in their us=
ual
attire. Tom-Jim-Jack wore a hat with plumes--not white, like the peers; but
green tipped with orange. He was embroidered and laced from head to foot, h=
ad
flowing bows of ribbon and lace round his wrists and neck, and was feverish=
ly
fingering with his left hand the hilt of the sword which hung from his
waistbelt, and on the billets and scabbard of which were embroidered an
admiral's anchors.
It was he who was
speaking and addressing the young lords; and Gwynplaine overheard the
following:--
"I have told=
you
you are cowards. You wish me to withdraw my words. Be it so. You are not
cowards; you are idiots. You all combined against one man. That was not
cowardice. All right. Then it was stupidity. He spoke to you, and you did n=
ot
understand him. Here, the old are hard of hearing, the young devoid of
intelligence. I am one of your own order to quite sufficient extent to tell=
you
the truth. This new-comer is strange, and he has uttered a heap of nonsense=
, I
admit; but amidst all that nonsense there were some things which were true.=
His
speech was confused, undigested, ill-delivered. Be it so. He repeated, 'You
know, you know,' too often; but a man who was but yesterday a clown at a fa=
ir cannot
be expected to speak like Aristotle or like Doctor Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of
Salisbury. The vermin, the lions, the address to the under-clerks--all that=
was
in bad taste. Zounds! who says it wasn't? It was a senseless and fragmentary
and topsy-turvy harangue; but here and there came out facts which were true=
. It
is no small thing to speak even as he did, seeing it is not his trade. I sh=
ould
like to see you do it. Yes, you! What he said about the lepers at Burton La=
zars
is an undeniable fact. Besides, he is not the first man who has talked nons=
ense.
In fine, my lords, I do not like to see many set upon one. Such is my humou=
r;
and I ask your lordships' permission to take offence. You have displeased m=
e; I
am angry. I am grateful to God for having drawn up from the depth of his low
existence this peer of England, and for having given back his inheritance to
the heir; and, without heeding whether it will or will not affect my own af=
fairs,
I consider it a beautiful sight to see an insect transformed into an eagle,=
and
Gwynplaine into Lord Clancharlie. My lords, I forbid you holding any opinion
but mine. I regret that Lord Lewis Duras should not be here. I should like =
to
insult him. My lords, it is Fermain Clancharlie who has been the peer, and =
you
who have been the mountebanks. As to his laugh, it is not his fault. You ha=
ve
laughed at that laugh; men should not laugh at misfortune. If you think that
people cannot laugh at you as well, you are very much mistaken. You are ugl=
y.
You are badly dressed. My Lord Haversham, I saw your mistress the other day;
she is hideous--a duchess, but a monkey. Gentlemen who laugh, I repeat that=
I
should like to hear you try to say four words running! Many men jabber; very
few speak. You imagine you know something, because you have kept idle terms=
at
Oxford or Cambridge, and because, before being peers of England on the benc=
hes
of Westminster, you have been asses on the benches at Gonville and Caius. H=
ere
I am; and I choose to stare you in the face. You have just been impudent to
this new peer. A monster, certainly; but a monster given up to beasts. I had
rather be that man than you. I was present at the sitting, in my place as a
possible heir to a peerage. I heard all. I have not the right to speak; but=
I
have the right to be a gentleman. Your jeering airs annoyed me. When I am a=
ngry
I would go up to Mount Pendlehill, and pick the cloudberry which brings the=
thunderbolt
down on the gatherer. That is the reason why I have waited for you at the d=
oor.
We must have a few words, for we have arrangements to make. Did it strike y=
ou
that you failed a little in respect towards myself? My lords, I entertain a
firm determination to kill a few of you. All you who are here--Thomas Tufto=
n,
Earl of Thanet; Savage, Earl Rivers; Charles Spencer, Earl of Sunderland;
Laurence Hyde, Earl of Rochester; you Barons, Gray of Rolleston, Cary Hunsd=
on,
Escrick, Rockingham, little Carteret; Robert Darcy, Earl of Holderness;
William, Viscount Hutton; and Ralph, Duke of Montagu; and any who choose--I=
, David
Dirry-Moir, an officer of the fleet, summon, call, and command you to provi=
de
yourselves, in all haste, with seconds and umpires, and I will meet you fac=
e to
face and hand to hand, to-night, at once, to-morrow, by day or night, by
sunlight or by candlelight, where, when, or how you please, so long as ther=
e is
two sword-lengths' space; and you will do well to look to the flints of your
pistols and the edges of your rapiers, for it is my firm intention to cause
vacancies in your peerages.--Ogle Cavendish, take your measures, and think =
of
your motto, Cavendo tutus.--Marmaduke Langdale, you will do well, like your=
ancestor,
Grindold, to order a coffin to be brought with you.--George Booth, Earl of
Warrington, you will never again see the County Palatine of Chester, or your
labyrinth like that of Crete, or the high towers of Dunham Massy!--As to Lo=
rd
Vaughan, he is young enough to talk impertinently, and too old to answer for
it. I shall demand satisfaction for his words of his nephew Richard Vaughan,
Member of Parliament for the Borough of Merioneth.--As for you, John Campbe=
ll,
Earl of Greenwich, I will kill you as Achon killed Matas; but with a fair c=
ut,
and not from behind, it being my custom to present my heart and not my back=
to
the point of the sword.--I have spoken my mind, my lords. And so use witchc=
raft
if you like. Consult the fortune-tellers. Grease your skins with ointments =
and
drugs to make them invulnerable; hang round your necks charms of the devil =
or
the Virgin. I will fight you blest or curst, and I will not have you search=
ed
to see if you are wearing any wizard's tokens. On foot or on horseback, on =
the
highroad if you wish it, in Piccadilly, or at Charing Cross; and they shall
take up the pavement for our meeting, as they unpaved the court of the Louv=
re
for the duel between Guise and Bassompierre. All of you! Do you hear? I mea=
n to
fight you all.--Dorme, Earl of Caernarvon, I will make you swallow my sword=
up
to the hilt, as Marolles did to Lisle Mariveaux, and then we shall see, my
lord, whether you will laugh or not.--You, Burlington, who look like a girl=
of
seventeen--you shall choose between the lawn of your house in Middlesex, and
your beautiful garden at Londesborough in Yorkshire, to be buried in.--I be=
g to
inform your lordships that it does not suit me to allow your insolence in my
presence. I will chastise you, my lords. I take it ill that you should have
ridiculed Lord Fermain Clancharlie. He is worth more than you. As Clancharl=
ie,
he has nobility, which you have; as Gwynplaine, he has intellect, which you
have not. I make his cause my cause, insult to him insult to me, and your
ridicule my wrath. We shall see who will come out of this affair alive, bec=
ause
I challenge you to the death. Do you understand? With any arm, in any fashi=
on,
and you shall choose the death that pleases you best; and since you are clo=
wns
as well as gentlemen, I proportion my defiance to your qualities, and I give
you your choice of any way in which a man can be killed, from the sword of =
the
prince to the fist of the blackguard."
To this furious
onslaught of words the whole group of young noblemen answered by a smile.
"Agreed," they said.
"I choose
pistols," said Burlington.
"I," sa=
id
Escrick, "the ancient combat of the lists, with the mace and the
dagger."
"I," sa=
id
Holderness, "the duel with two knives, long and short, stripped to the
waist, and breast to breast."
"Lord
David," said the Earl of Thanet, "you are a Scot. I choose the cl=
aymore."
"I the
sword," said Rockingham.
"I," sa=
id
Duke Ralph, "prefer the fists; 'tis noblest."
Gwynplaine came o=
ut
from the shadow. He directed his steps towards him whom he had hitherto cal=
led
Tom-Jim-Jack, but in whom now, however, he began to perceive something more.
"I thank you," said he, "but this is my business."
Every head turned
towards him.
Gwynplaine advanc=
ed.
He felt himself impelled towards the man whom he heard called Lord David--h=
is
defender, and perhaps something nearer. Lord David drew back.
"Oh!" s=
aid
he. "It is you, is it? This is well-timed. I have a word for you as we=
ll.
Just now you spoke of a woman who, after having loved Lord Linnæus
Clancharlie, loved Charles II."
"It is
true."
"Sir, you
insulted my mother."
"Your
mother!" cried Gwynplaine. "In that case, as I guessed, we
are--"
"Brothers,&q=
uot;
answered Lord David, and he struck Gwynplaine. "We are brothers,"
said he; "so we can fight. One can only fight one's equal; who is one's
equal if not one's brother? I will send you my seconds; to-morrow we will c=
ut
each other's throats."
CHAPTER I - IT IS THROUGH EXCESS OF GREATNESS THAT MAN
REACHES EXCESS OF MISERY.
As midnight tolled from St. Paul's,=
a man
who had just crossed London Bridge struck into the lanes of Southwark. There
were no lamps lighted, it being at that time the custom in London, as in Pa=
ris,
to extinguish the public lamps at eleven o'clock--that is, to put them out =
just
as they became necessary. The streets were dark and deserted. When the lamps
are out men stay in. He whom we speak of advanced with hurried strides. He =
was
strangely dressed for walking at such an hour. He wore a coat of embroidered
silk, a sword by his side, a hat with white plumes, and no cloak. The watch=
men,
as they saw him pass, said, "It is a lord walking for a wager," a=
nd
they moved out of his way with the respect due to a lord and to a better.
The man was
Gwynplaine. He was making his escape. Where was he? He did not know. We have
said that the soul has its cyclones--fearful whirlwinds, in which heaven, t=
he
sea, day, night, life, death, are all mingled in unintelligible horror. It =
can
no longer breathe Truth; it is crushed by things in which it does not belie=
ve.
Nothingness becomes hurricane. The firmament pales. Infinity is empty. The =
mind
of the sufferer wanders away. He feels himself dying. He craves for a star.=
What
did Gwynplaine feel? a thirst--a thirst to see Dea.
He felt but that.=
To
reach the Green Box again, and the Tadcaster Inn, with its sounds and
light--full of the cordial laughter of the people; to find Ursus and Homo, =
to
see Dea again, to re-enter life. Disillusion, like a bow, shoots its arrow,
man, towards the True. Gwynplaine hastened on. He approached Tarrinzeau Fie=
ld.
He walked no longer now; he ran. His eyes pierced the darkness before him. =
His
glance preceded him, eagerly seeking the harbour on the horizon. What a mom=
ent
for him when he should see the lighted windows of Tadcaster Inn!
He reached the
bowling-green. He turned the corner of the wall, and saw before him, at the
other end of the field, some distance off, the inn--the only house, it may =
be
remembered, in the field where the fair was held.
He looked. There =
was
no light; nothing but a black mass.
He shuddered. The=
n he
said to himself that it was late; that the tavern was shut up; that it was =
very
natural; that every one was asleep; that he had only to awaken Nicless or
Govicum; that he must go up to the inn and knock at the door. He did so,
running no longer now, but rushing.
He reached the in=
n, breathless.
It is when, storm-beaten and struggling in the invisible convulsions of the
soul until he knows not whether he is in life or in death, that all the
delicacy of a man's affection for his loved ones, being yet unimpaired, pro=
ves
a heart true. When all else is swallowed up, tenderness still floats
unshattered. Not to awaken Dea too suddenly was Gwynplaine's first thought.=
He
approached the inn with as little noise as possible. He recognized the nook,
the old dog kennel, where Govicum used to sleep. In it, contiguous to the l=
ower
room, was a window opening on to the field. Gwynplaine tapped softly at the
pane. It would be enough to awaken Govicum, he thought.
There was no soun=
d in
Govicum's room.
"At his
age," said Gwynplaine, "a boy sleeps soundly."
With the back of =
his
hand he knocked against the window gently. Nothing stirred.
He knocked louder
twice. Still nothing stirred. Then, feeling somewhat uneasy, he went to the
door of the inn and knocked. No one answered. He reflected, and began to fe=
el a
cold shudder come over him.
"Master Nicl=
ess
is old, children sleep soundly, and old men heavily. Courage! louder!"=
He had tapped, he=
had
knocked, he had kicked the door; now he flung himself against it.
This recalled to =
him
a distant memory of Weymouth, when, a little child, he had carried Dea, an
infant, in his arms.
He battered the d=
oor
again violently, like a lord, which, alas! he was.
The house remained
silent. He felt that he was losing his head. He no longer thought of cautio=
n.
He shouted,--
"Nicless!
Govicum!"
At the same time =
he
looked up at the windows, to see if any candle was lighted. But the inn was
blank. Not a voice, not a sound, not a glimmer of light. He went to the gate
and knocked at it, kicked against it, and shook it, crying out wildly,--
"Ursus!
Homo!"
The wolf did not
bark.
A cold sweat stoo=
d in
drops upon his brow. He cast his eyes around. The night was dark; but there
were stars enough to render the fair-green visible. He saw--a melancholy si=
ght
to him--that everything on it had vanished.
There was not a
single caravan. The circus was gone. Not a tent, not a booth, not a cart,
remained. The strollers, with their thousand noisy cries, who had swarmed
there, had given place to a black and sullen void.
All were gone.
The madness of
anxiety took possession of him. What did this mean? What had happened? Was =
no
one left? Could it be that life had crumbled away behind him? What had happ=
ened
to them all? Good heavens! Then he rushed like a tempest against the house.=
He
struck the small door, the gate, the windows, the window-shutters, the wall=
s,
with fists and feet, furious with terror and agony of mind.
He called Nicless,
Govicum, Fibi, Vinos, Ursus, Homo. He tried every shout and every sound aga=
inst
this wall. At times he waited and listened; but the house remained mute and
dead. Then, exasperated, he began again with blows, shouts, and repeated
knockings, re-echoed all around. It might have been thunder trying to awake=
the
grave.
There is a certain
stage of fright in which a man becomes terrible. He who fears everything fe=
ars
nothing. He would strike the Sphynx. He defies the Unknown.
Gwynplaine renewed
the noise in every possible form--stopping, resuming, unwearying in the sho=
uts
and appeals by which he assailed the tragic silence. He called a thousand t=
imes
on the names of those who should have been there. He shrieked out every name
except that of Dea--a precaution of which he could not have explained the
reason himself, but which instinct inspired even in his distraction.
Having exhausted
calls and cries, nothing was left but to break in.
"I must enter
the house," he said to himself; "but how?"
He broke a pane of
glass in Govicum's room by thrusting his hand through it, tearing the flesh=
; he
drew the bolt of the sash and opened the window. Perceiving that his sword =
was
in the way, he tore it off angrily, scabbard, blade, and belt, and flung it=
on
the pavement. Then he raised himself by the inequalities in the wall, and
though the window was narrow, he was able to pass through it. He entered the
inn. Govicum's bed, dimly visible in its nook, was there; but Govicum was n=
ot in
it. If Govicum was not in his bed, it was evident that Nicless could not be=
in
his.
The whole house w=
as
dark. He felt in that shadowy interior the mysterious immobility of emptine=
ss,
and that vague fear which signifies--"There is no one here."
Gwynplaine, convu=
lsed
with anxiety, crossed the lower room, knocking against the tables, upsetting
the earthenware, throwing down the benches, sweeping against the jugs, and,
striding over the furniture, reached the door leading into the court, and b=
roke
it open with one blow from his knee, which sprung the lock. The door turned=
on
its hinges. He looked into the court. The Green Box was no longer there.
Gwynplaine left the house, and bega=
n to
explore Tarrinzeau Field in every direction. He went to every place where, =
the
day before, the tents and caravans had stood. He knocked at the stalls, tho=
ugh
he knew well that they were uninhabited. He struck everything that looked l=
ike
a door or a window. Not a voice arose from the darkness. Something like dea=
th
had been there.
The ant-hill had =
been
razed. Some measures of police had apparently been carried out. There had b=
een
what, in our days, would be called a razzia. Tarrinzeau Field was worse tha=
n a
desert; it had been scoured, and every corner of it scratched up, as it wer=
e,
by pitiless claws. The pocket of the unfortunate fair-green had been turned
inside out, and completely emptied.
Gwynplaine, after
having searched every yard of ground, left the green, struck into the crook=
ed
streets abutting on the site called East Point, and directed his steps towa=
rds
the Thames. He had threaded his way through a network of lanes, bounded onl=
y by
walls and hedges, when he felt the fresh breeze from the water, heard the d=
ull
lapping of the river, and suddenly saw a parapet in front of him. It was the
parapet of the Effroc stone.
This parapet boun=
ded
a block of the quay, which was very short and very narrow. Under it the high
wall, the Effroc stone, buried itself perpendicularly in the dark water bel=
ow.
Gwynplaine stoppe=
d at
the parapet, and, leaning his elbows on it, laid his head in his hands and =
set
to thinking, with the water beneath him.
Did he look at the
water? No. At what then? At the shadow; not the shadow without, but within =
him.
In the melancholy night-bound landscape, which he scarcely marked, in the o=
uter
depths, which his eyes did not pierce, were the blurred sketches of masts a=
nd
spars. Below the Effroc stone there was nothing on the river; but the quay
sloped insensibly downwards till, some distance off, it met a pier, at which
several vessels were lying, some of which had just arrived, others which we=
re
on the point of departure. These vessels communicated with the shore by lit=
tle
jetties, constructed for the purpose, some of stone, some of wood, or by
movable gangways. All of them, whether moored to the jetties or at anchor, =
were
wrapped in silence. There was neither voice nor movement on board, it being=
a
good habit of sailors to sleep when they can, and awake only when wanted. If
any of them were to sail during the night at high tide, the crews were not =
yet
awake. The hulls, like large black bubbles, and the rigging, like threads
mingled with ladders, were barely visible. All was livid and confused. Here=
and
there a red cresset pierced the haze.
Gwynplaine saw
nothing of all this. What he was musing on was destiny.
He was in a dream=
--a
vision--giddy in presence of an inexorable reality.
He fancied that he
heard behind him something like an earthquake. It was the laughter of the
Lords.
From that laughte=
r he
had just emerged. He had come out of it, having received a blow, and from w=
hom?
From his own brot=
her!
Flying from the
laughter, carrying with him the blow, seeking refuge, a wounded bird, in his
nest, rushing from hate and seeking love, what had he found?
Darkness.
No one.
Everything gone.<= o:p>
He compared that
darkness to the dream he had indulged in.
What a crumbling
away!
Gwynplaine had ju=
st
reached that sinister bound--the void. The Green Box gone was his universe
vanished.
His soul had been
closed up.
He reflected.
What could have
happened? Where were they? They had evidently been carried away. Destiny had
given him, Gwynplaine, a blow, which was greatness; its reaction had struck
them another, which was annihilation. It was clear that he would never see =
them
again. Precautions had been taken against that. They had scoured the
fair-green, beginning by Nicless and Govicum, so that he should gain no clue
through them. Inexorable dispersion! That fearful social system, at the same
time that it had pulverized him in the House of Lords, had crushed them in
their little cabin. They were lost; Dea was lost--lost to him for ever. Pow=
ers of
heaven! where was she? And he had not been there to defend her!
To have to make
guesses as to the absent whom we love is to put oneself to the torture. He
inflicted this torture on himself. At every thought that he fathomed, at ev=
ery
supposition which he made, he felt within him a moan of agony.
Through a success=
ion
of bitter reflections he remembered a man who was evidently fatal to him, a=
nd
who had called himself Barkilphedro. That man had inscribed on his brain a =
dark
sentence which reappeared now; he had written it in such terrible ink that
every letter had turned to fire; and Gwynplaine saw flaming at the bottom of
his thought the enigmatical words, the meaning of which was at length solve=
d:
"Destiny never opens one door without closing another."
All was over. The
final shadows had gathered about him. In every man's fate there may be an e=
nd
of the world for himself alone. It is called despair. The soul is full of
falling stars.
This, then, was w=
hat
he had come to.
A vapour had pass=
ed.
He had been mingled with it. It had lain heavily on his eyes; it had disord=
ered
his brain. He had been outwardly blinded, intoxicated within. This had last=
ed
the time of a passing vapour. Then everything melted away, the vapour and h=
is
life. Awaking from the dream, he found himself alone.
All vanished, all
gone, all lost--night--nothingness. Such was his horizon.
He was alone.
Alone has a synon=
ym,
which is Dead. Despair is an accountant. It sets itself to find its total; =
it
adds up everything, even to the farthings. It reproaches Heaven with its
thunderbolts and its pinpricks. It seeks to find what it has to expect from
fate. It argues, weighs, and calculates, outwardly cool, while the burning =
lava
is still flowing on within.
Gwynplaine examin=
ed
himself, and examined his fate.
The backward glan=
ce
of thought; terrible recapitulation!
When at the top o=
f a
mountain, we look down the precipice; when at the bottom, we look up at hea=
ven.
And we say, "I was there."
Gwynplaine was at=
the
very bottom of misfortune. How sudden, too, had been his fall!
Such is the hideo=
us
swiftness of misfortune, although it is so heavy that we might fancy it slo=
w.
But no! It would likewise appear that snow, from its coldness, ought to be =
the
paralysis of winter, and, from its whiteness, the immobility of the
winding-sheet. Yet this is contradicted by the avalanche.
The avalanche is =
snow
become a furnace. It remains frozen, but it devours. The avalanche had
enveloped Gwynplaine. He had been torn like a rag, uprooted like a tree,
precipitated like a stone. He recalled all the circumstances of his fall. He
put himself questions, and returned answers. Grief is an examination. There=
is
no judge so searching as conscience conducting its own trial.
What amount of
remorse was there in his despair? This he wished to find out, and dissected=
his
conscience. Excruciating vivisection!
His absence had
caused a catastrophe. Had this absence depended on him? In all that had
happened, had he been a free agent? No! He had felt himself captive. What w=
as
that which had arrested and detained him--a prison? No. A chain? No. What t=
hen?
Sticky slime! He had sunk into the slough of greatness.
To whom has it not
happened to be free in appearance, yet to feel that his wings are hampered?=
There had been
something like a snare spread for him. What is at first temptation ends by
captivity.
Nevertheless--and=
his
conscience pressed him on this point--had he merely submitted to what had b=
een
offered him? No; he had accepted it.
Violence and surp=
rise
had been used with him in a certain measure, it was true; but he, in a cert=
ain
measure, had given in. To have allowed himself to be carried off was not his
fault; but to have allowed himself to be inebriated was his weakness. There=
had
been a moment--a decisive moment--when the question was proposed. This
Barkilphedro had placed a dilemma before Gwynplaine, and had given him clear
power to decide his fate by a word. Gwynplaine might have said, "No.&q=
uot;
He had said, "Yes."
From that
"Yes," uttered in a moment of dizziness, everything had sprung.
Gwynplaine realized this now in the bitter aftertaste of that consent.
Nevertheless--for=
he
debated with himself--was it then so great a wrong to take possession of his
right, of his patrimony, of his heritage, of his house; and, as a patrician=
, of
the rank of his ancestors; as an orphan, of the name of his father? What ha=
d he
accepted? A restitution. Made by whom? By Providence.
Then his mind
revolted. Senseless acceptance! What a bargain had he struck! what a foolish
exchange! He had trafficked with Providence at a loss. How now! For an inco=
me
of £80,000 a year; for seven or eight titles; for ten or twelve palac=
es;
for houses in town, and castles in the country; for a hundred lackeys; for
packs of hounds, and carriages, and armorial bearings; to be a judge and
legislator; for a coronet and purple robes, like a king; to be a baron and a
marquis; to be a peer of England, he had given the hut of Ursus and the smi=
le
of Dea. For shipwreck and destruction in the surging immensity of greatness=
, he
had bartered happiness. For the ocean he had given the pearl. O madman! O f=
ool!
O dupe!
Yet nevertheless-=
-and
here the objection reappeared on firmer ground--in this fever of high fortu=
ne
which had seized him all had not been unwholesome. Perhaps there would have
been selfishness in renunciation; perhaps he had done his duty in the
acceptance. Suddenly transformed into a lord, what ought he to have done? T=
he
complication of events produces perplexity of mind. This had happened to hi=
m.
Duty gave contrary orders. Duty on all sides at once, duty multiple and con=
tradictory--this
was the bewilderment which he had suffered. It was this that had paralyzed =
him,
especially when he had not refused to take the journey from Corleone Lodge =
to
the House of Lords. What we call rising in life is leaving the safe for the
dangerous path. Which is, thenceforth, the straight line? Towards whom is o=
ur
first duty? Is it towards those nearest to ourselves, or is it towards mank=
ind
generally? Do we not cease to belong to our own circumscribed circle, and
become part of the great family of all? As we ascend we feel an increased p=
ressure
on our virtue. The higher we rise, the greater is the strain. The increase =
of
right is an increase of duty. We come to many cross-ways, phantom roads
perchance, and we imagine that we see the finger of conscience pointing each
one of them out to us. Which shall we take? Change our direction, remain wh=
ere
we are, advance, go back? What are we to do? That there should be cross-roa=
ds
in conscience is strange enough; but responsibility may be a labyrinth. And
when a man contains an idea, when he is the incarnation of a fact--when he =
is a
symbolical man, at the same time that he is a man of flesh and blood--is not
the responsibility still more oppressive? Thence the care-laden docility an=
d the
dumb anxiety of Gwynplaine; thence his obedience when summoned to take his
seat. A pensive man is often a passive man. He had heard what he fancied was
the command of duty itself. Was not that entrance into a place where oppres=
sion
could be discussed and resisted the realization of one of his deepest
aspirations? When he had been called upon to speak--he the fearful human
scantling, he the living specimen of the despotic whims under which, for six
thousand years, mankind has groaned in agony--had he the right to refuse? H=
ad
he the right to withdraw his head from under the tongue of fire descending =
from
on high to rest upon him?
In the obscure and
giddy debate of conscience, what had he said to himself? This: "The pe=
ople
are a silence. I will be the mighty advocate of that silence; I will speak =
for
the dumb; I will speak of the little to the great--of the weak to the power=
ful.
This is the purpose of my fate. God wills what He wills, and does it. It wa=
s a
wonder that Hardquanonne's flask, in which was the metamorphosis of Gwynpla=
ine
into Lord Clancharlie, should have floated for fifteen years on the ocean, =
on the
billows, in the surf, through the storms, and that all the raging of the sea
did it no harm. But I can see the reason. There are destinies with secret
springs. I have the key of mine, and know its enigma. I am predestined; I h=
ave
a mission. I will be the poor man's lord; I will speak for the speechless w=
ith
despair; I will translate inarticulate remonstrance; I will translate the
mutterings, the groans, the murmurs, the voices of the crowd, their ill-spo=
ken
complaints, their unintelligible words, and those animal-like cries which
ignorance and suffering put into men's mouths. The clamour of men is as
inarticulate as the howling of the wind. They cry out, but they are underst=
ood;
so that cries become equivalent to silence, and silence with them means thr=
owing
down their arms. This forced disarmament calls for help. I will be their he=
lp;
I will be the Denunciation; I will be the Word of the people. Thanks to me,
they shall be understood. I will be the bleeding mouth from which the gag h=
as
been torn. I will tell everything. This will be great indeed."
Yes; it is fine to
speak for the dumb, but to speak to the deaf is sad. And that was his second
part in the drama.
Alas! he had fail=
ed
irremediably. The elevation in which he had believed, the high fortune, had
melted away like a mirage. And what a fall! To be drowned in a surge of
laughter!
He had believed
himself strong--he who, during so many years, had floated with observant mi=
nd
on the wide sea of suffering; he who had brought back out of the great shad=
ow
so touching a cry. He had been flung against that huge rock the frivolity of
the fortunate. He believed himself an avenger; he was but a clown. He thoug=
ht
that he wielded the thunderbolt; he did but tickle. In place of emotion, he=
met
with mockery. He sobbed; they burst into gaiety, and under that gaiety he h=
ad sunk
fatally submerged.
And what had they
laughed at? At his laugh. So that trace of a hateful act, of which he must =
keep
the mark for ever--mutilation carved in everlasting gaiety; the stigmata of
laughter, image of the sham contentment of nations under their oppressors; =
that
mask of joy produced by torture; that abyss of grimace which he carried on =
his
features; the scar which signified Jussu regis, the attestation of a crime
committed by the king towards him, and the symbol of crime committed by roy=
alty
towards the people;--that it was which had triumphed over him; that it was
which had overwhelmed him; so that the accusation against the executioner
turned into sentence upon the victim. What a prodigious denial of justice!
Royalty, having had satisfaction of his father, had had satisfaction of him!
The evil that had been done had served as pretext and as motive for the evil
which remained to be done. Against whom were the lords angered? Against the
torturer? No; against the tortured. Here is the throne; there, the people.
Here, James II.; there, Gwynplaine. That confrontation, indeed, brought to
light an outrage and a crime. What was the outrage? Complaint. What was the
crime? Suffering. Let misery hide itself in silence, otherwise it becomes
treason. And those men who had dragged Gwynplaine on the hurdle of sarcasm,
were they wicked? No; but they, too, had their fatality--they were happy. T=
hey were
executioners, ignorant of the fact. They were good-humoured; they saw no us=
e in
Gwynplaine. He opened himself to them. He tore out his heart to show them, =
and
they cried, "Go on with your play!" But, sharpest sting! he had
laughed himself. The frightful chain which tied down his soul hindered his
thoughts from rising to his face. His disfigurement reached even his senses;
and, while his conscience was indignant, his face gave it the lie, and jest=
ed.
Then all was over. He was the laughing man, the caryatid of the weeping wor=
ld.
He was an agony petrified in hilarity, carrying the weight of a universe of
calamity, and walled up for ever with the gaiety, the ridicule, and the
amusement of others; of all the oppressed, of whom he was the incarnation, =
he partook
the hateful fate, to be a desolation not believed in; they jeered at his
distress; to them he was but an extraordinary buffoon lifted out of some
frightful condensation of misery, escaped from his prison, changed to a dei=
ty,
risen from the dregs of the people to the foot of the throne, mingling with=
the
stars, and who, having once amused the damned, now amused the elect. All th=
at
was in him of generosity, of enthusiasm, of eloquence, of heart, of soul, of
fury, of anger, of love, of inexpressible grief, ended in--a burst of laugh=
ter!
And he proved, as he had told the lords, that this was not the exception; b=
ut
that it was the normal, ordinary, universal, unlimited, sovereign fact, so =
amalgamated
with the routine of life that they took no account of it. The hungry pauper
laughs, the beggar laughs, the felon laughs, the prostitute laughs, the orp=
han
laughs to gain his bread; the slave laughs, the soldier laughs, the people =
laugh.
Society is so constituted that every perdition, every indigence, every
catastrophe, every fever, every ulcer, every agony, is resolved on the surf=
ace
of the abyss into one frightful grin of joy. Now he was that universal grin,
and that grin was himself. The law of heaven, the unknown power which gover=
ns,
had willed that a spectre visible and palpable, a spectre of flesh and bone=
, should
be the synopsis of the monstrous parody which we call the world; and he was
that spectre, immutable fate!
He had cried,
"Pity for those who suffer." In vain! He had striven to awake pit=
y;
he had awakened horror. Such is the law of apparitions.
But while he was a
spectre, he was also a man; here was the heartrending complication. A spect=
re
without, a man within. A man more than any other, perhaps, since his double
fate was the synopsis of all humanity. And he felt that humanity was at once
present in him and absent from him. There was in his existence something
insurmountable. What was he? A disinherited heir? No; for he was a lord. Wa=
s he
a lord? No; for he was a rebel. He was the light-bearer; a terrible
spoil-sport. He was not Satan, certainly; but he was Lucifer. His entrance,
with his torch in his hand, was sinister.
Sinister for whom?
for the sinister. Terrible to whom? to the terrible. Therefore they rejected
him. Enter their order? be accepted by them? Never. The obstacle which he
carried in his face was frightful; but the obstacle which he carried in his
ideas was still more insurmountable. His speech was to them more deformed t=
han
his face. He had no possible thought in common with the world of the great =
and
powerful, in which he had by a freak of fate been born, and from which anot=
her
freak of fate had driven him out. There was between men and his face a mask=
, and
between society and his mind a wall. In mixing, from infancy, a wandering
mountebank, with that vast and tough substance which is called the crowd, in
saturating himself with the attraction of the multitude, and impregnating
himself with the great soul of mankind, he had lost, in the common sense of=
the
whole of mankind, the particular sense of the reigning classes. On their
heights he was impossible. He had reached them wet with water from the well=
of
Truth; the odour of the abyss was on him. He was repugnant to those princes
perfumed with lies. To those who live on fiction, truth is disgusting; and =
he
who thirsts for flattery vomits the real, when he has happened to drink it =
by
mistake. That which Gwynplaine brought was not fit for their table. For what
was it? Reason, wisdom, justice; and they rejected them with disgust.
There were bishops
there. He brought God into their presence. Who was this intruder?
The two poles rep=
el
each other. They can never amalgamate, for transition is wanting. Hence the=
result--a
cry of anger--when they were brought together in terrible juxtaposition: all
misery concentrated in a man, face to face with all pride concentrated in a
caste.
To accuse is usel=
ess.
To state is sufficient. Gwynplaine, meditating on the limits of his destiny,
proved the total uselessness of his effort. He proved the deafness of high
places. The privileged have no hearing on the side next the disinherited. I=
s it
their fault? Alas! no. It is their law. Forgive them! To be moved would be =
to
abdicate. Of lords and princes expect nothing. He who is satisfied is
inexorable. For those that have their fill the hungry do not exist. The hap=
py
ignore and isolate themselves. On the threshold of their paradise, as on th=
e threshold
of hell, must be written, "Leave all hope behind."
Gwynplaine had met
with the reception of a spectre entering the dwelling of the gods.
Here all that was
within him rose in rebellion. No, he was no spectre; he was a man. He told
them, he shouted to them, that he was Man.
He was not a phan=
tom.
He was palpitating flesh. He had a brain, and he thought; he had a heart, a=
nd
he loved; he had a soul, and he hoped. Indeed, to have hoped overmuch was h=
is
whole crime.
Alas! he had
exaggerated hope into believing in that thing at once so brilliant and so d=
ark
which is called Society. He who was without had re-entered it. It had at on=
ce,
and at first sight, made him its three offers, and given him its three
gifts--marriage, family, and caste. Marriage? He had seen prostitution on t=
he
threshold. Family? His brother had struck him, and was awaiting him the next
day, sword in hand. Caste? It had burst into laughter in his face, at him t=
he
patrician, at him the wretch. It had rejected, almost before it had admitted
him. So that his first three steps into the dense shadow of society had ope=
ned
three gulfs beneath him.
And it was by a
treacherous transfiguration that his disaster had begun; and catastrophe had
approached him with the aspect of apotheosis!
Ascend had signif=
ied
Descend!
His fate was the
reverse of Job's. It was through prosperity that adversity had reached him.=
O tragical enigma=
of
life! Behold what pitfalls! A child, he had wrestled against the night, and=
had
been stronger than it; a man, he had wrestled against destiny, and had over=
come
it. Out of disfigurement he had created success; and out of misery, happine=
ss.
Of his exile he had made an asylum. A vagabond, he had wrestled against spa=
ce;
and, like the birds of the air, he had found his crumb of bread. Wild and
solitary, he had wrestled against the crowd, and had made it his friend. An
athlete, he had wrestled against that lion, the people; and he had tamed it=
. Indigent,
he had wrestled against distress, he had faced the dull necessity of living,
and from amalgamating with misery every joy of his heart, he had at length =
made
riches out of poverty. He had believed himself the conqueror of life. Of a
sudden he was attacked by fresh forces, reaching him from unknown depths; t=
his
time, with menaces no longer, but with smiles and caresses. Love, serpent-l=
ike
and sensual, had appeared to him, who was filled with angelic love. The fle=
sh
had tempted him, who had lived on the ideal. He had heard words of voluptuo=
usness
like cries of rage; he had felt the clasp of a woman's arms, like the convo=
lutions
of a snake; to the illumination of truth had succeeded the fascination of
falsehood; for it is not the flesh that is real, but the soul. The flesh is
ashes, the soul is flame. For the little circle allied to him by the
relationship of poverty and toil, which was his true and natural family, had
been substituted the social family--his family in blood, but of tainted blo=
od;
and even before he had entered it, he found himself face to face with an
intended fractricide. Alas! he had allowed himself to be thrown back into t=
hat society
of which Brantôme, whom he had not read, wrote: "The son has a r=
ight
to challenge his father!" A fatal fortune had cried to him, "Thou=
art
not of the crowd; thou art of the chosen!" and had opened the ceiling
above his head, like a trap in the sky, and had shot him up, through this
opening, causing him to appear, wild, and unexpected, in the midst of princ=
es
and masters. Then suddenly he saw around him, instead of the people who
applauded him, the lords who cursed him. Mournful metamorphosis! Ignominious
ennobling! Rude spoliation of all that had been his happiness! Pillage of h=
is
life by derision! Gwynplaine, Clancharlie, the lord, the mountebank, torn o=
ut
of his old lot, out of his new lot, by the beaks of those eagles!
What availed it t=
hat
he had commenced life by immediate victory over obstacle? Of what good had =
been
his early triumphs? Alas! the fall must come, ere destiny be complete.
So, half against =
his
will, half of it--because after he had done with the wapentake he had to do
with Barkilphedro, and he had given a certain amount of consent to his
abductions--he had left the real for the chimerical; the true for the false;
Dea for Josiana; love for pride; liberty for power; labour proud and poor f=
or
opulence full of unknown responsibilities; the shade in which is God for the
lurid flames in which the devils dwell; Paradise for Olympus!
He had tasted the
golden fruit. He was now spitting out the ashes to which it turned.
Lamentable result!
Defeat, failure, fall into ruin, insolent expulsion of all his hopes,
frustrated by ridicule. Immeasurable disillusion! And what was there for hi=
m in
the future? If he looked forward to the morrow, what did he see? A drawn sw=
ord,
the point of which was against his breast, and the hilt in the hand of his
brother. He could see nothing but the hideous flash of that sword. Josiana =
and
the House of Lords made up the background in a monstrous chiaroscuro full of
tragic shadows.
And that brother
seemed so brave and chivalrous! Alas! he had hardly seen the Tom-Jim-Jack w=
ho
had defended Gwynplaine, the Lord David who had defended Lord Clancharlie; =
but
he had had time to receive a blow from him and to love him.
He was crushed.
He felt it imposs=
ible
to proceed further. Everything had crumbled about him. Besides, what was the
good of it? All weariness dwells in the depths of despair.
The trial had been
made. It could not be renewed.
Gwynplaine was li=
ke a
gamester who has played all his trumps away, one after the other. He had
allowed himself to be drawn to a fearful gambling-table, without thinking w=
hat
he was about; for, so subtle is the poison of illusion, he had staked Dea
against Josiana, and had gained a monster; he had staked Ursus against a
family, and had gained an insult; he had played his mountebank platform aga=
inst
his seat in the Lords; for the applause which was his he had gained insult.=
His
last card had fallen on that fatal green cloth, the deserted bowling-green.=
Gwynplaine
had lost. Nothing remained but to pay. Pay up, wretched man!
The thunder-stric=
ken
lie still. Gwynplaine remained motionless. Anybody perceiving him from afar=
, in
the shadow, stiff, and without movement, might have fancied that he saw an
upright stone.
Hell, the serpent,
and reverie are tortuous. Gwynplaine was descending the sepulchral spirals =
of
the deepest thought.
He reflected on t=
hat
world of which he had just caught a glimpse with the icy contemplation of a
last look. Marriage, but no love; family, but no brotherly affection; riche=
s,
but no conscience; beauty, but no modesty; justice, but no equity; order, b=
ut
no equilibrium; authority, but no right; power, but no intelligence; splend=
our,
but no light. Inexorable balance-sheet! He went throughout the supreme visi=
on
in which his mind had been plunged. He examined successively destiny,
situation, society, and himself. What was destiny? A snare. Situation? Desp=
air.
Society? Hatred. And himself? A defeated man. In the depths of his soul he
cried. Society is the stepmother, Nature is the mother. Society is the worl=
d of
the body, Nature is the world of the soul. The one tends to the coffin, to =
the
deal box in the grave, to the earth-worms, and ends there. The other tends =
to
expanded wings, to transformation into the morning light, to ascent into the
firmament, and there revives into new life.
By degrees a paro=
xysm
came over him, like a sweeping surge. At the close of events there is alway=
s a
last flash, in which all stands revealed once more.
He who judges mee=
ts
the accused face to face. Gwynplaine reviewed all that society and all that
nature had done for him. How kind had nature been to him! How she, who is t=
he
soul, had succoured him! All had been taken from him, even his features. The
soul had given him all back--all, even his features; because there was on e=
arth
a heavenly blind girl made expressly for him, who saw not his ugliness, and=
who
saw his beauty.
And it was from t=
his
that he had allowed himself to be separated--from that adorable girl, from =
his
own adopted one, from her tenderness, from her divine blind gaze, the only =
gaze
on earth that saw him, that he had strayed! Dea was his sister, because he =
felt
between them the grand fraternity of above--the mystery which contains the
whole of heaven. Dea, when he was a little child, was his virgin; because e=
very
child has his virgin, and at the commencement of life a marriage of souls i=
s always
consummated in the plenitude of innocence. Dea was his wife, for theirs was=
the
same nest on the highest branch of the deep-rooted tree of Hymen. Dea was s=
till
more--she was his light, for without her all was void, and nothingness; and=
for
him her head was crowned with rays. What would become of him without Dea? W=
hat
could he do with all that was himself? Nothing in him could live without he=
r.
How, then, could he have lost sight of her for a moment? O unfortunate man!=
He
allowed distance to intervene between himself and his star and, by the unkn=
own
and terrible laws of gravitation in such things, distance is immediate loss=
.
Where was she, the
star? Dea! Dea! Dea! Dea! Alas! he had lost her light. Take away the star, =
and
what is the sky? A black mass. But why, then, had all this befallen him? Oh,
what happiness had been his! For him God had remade Eden. Too close was the
resemblance, alas! even to allowing the serpent to enter; but this time it =
was
the man who had been tempted. He had been drawn without, and then, by a
frightful snare, had fallen into a chaos of murky laughter, which was hell.=
O
grief! O grief! How frightful seemed all that had fascinated him! That Josi=
ana,
fearful creature!--half beast, half goddess! Gwynplaine was now on the reve=
rse side
of his elevation, and he saw the other aspect of that which had dazzled him=
. It
was baleful. His peerage was deformed, his coronet was hideous; his purple
robe, a funeral garment; those palaces, infected; those trophies, those
statues, those armorial bearings, sinister; the unwholesome and treacherous=
air
poisoned those who breathed it, and turned them mad. How brilliant the rags=
of
the mountebank, Gwynplaine, appeared to him now! Alas! where was the Green =
Box,
poverty, joy, the sweet wandering life--wandering together, like the swallo=
ws?
They never left each other then; he saw her every minute, morning, evening.=
At table
their knees, their elbows, touched; they drank from the same cup; the sun s=
hone
through the pane, but it was only the sun, and Dea was Love. At night they
slept not far from each other; and the dream of Dea came and hovered over
Gwynplaine, and the dream of Gwynplaine spread itself mysteriously above the
head of Dea. When they awoke they could be never quite sure that they had n=
ot
exchanged kisses in the azure mists of dreams. Dea was all innocence; Ursus,
all wisdom. They wandered from town to town; and they had for provision and=
for
stimulant the frank, loving gaiety of the people. They were angel vagabonds,
with enough of humanity to walk the earth and not enough of wings to fly aw=
ay;
and now all had disappeared! Where was it gone? Was it possible that it was=
all
effaced? What wind from the tomb had swept over them? All was eclipsed! All=
was
lost! Alas! power, irresistible and deaf to appeal, which weighs down the p=
oor,
flings its shadow over all, and is capable of anything. What had been done =
to
them? And he had not been there to protect them, to fling himself in front =
of
them, to defend them, as a lord, with his title, his peerage, and his sword=
; as
a mountebank, with his fists and his nails!
And here arose a
bitter reflection, perhaps the most bitter of all. Well, no; he could not h=
ave
defended them. It was he himself who had destroyed them; it was to save him,
Lord Clancharlie, from them; it was to isolate his dignity from contact with
them, that the infamous omnipotence of society had crushed them. The best w=
ay
in which he could protect them would be to disappear, and then the cause of
their persecution would cease. He out of the way, they would be allowed to =
remain
in peace. Into what icy channel was his thought beginning to run! Oh! why h=
ad
he allowed himself to be separated from Dea? Was not his first duty towards
her? To serve and to defend the people? But Dea was the people. Dea was an
orphan. She was blind; she represented humanity. Oh! what had they done to
them? Cruel smart of regret! His absence had left the field free for the
catastrophe. He would have shared their fate; either they would have been t=
aken
and carried away with him, or he would have been swallowed up with them. An=
d,
now, what would become of him without them? Gwynplaine without Dea! Was it
possible? Without Dea was to be without everything. It was all over now. The
beloved group was for ever buried in irreparable disappearance. All was spe=
nt.
Besides, condemned and damned as Gwynplaine was, what was the good of furth=
er struggle?
He had nothing more to expect either of men or of heaven. Dea! Dea! Where is
Dea? Lost! What? lost? He who has lost his soul can regain it but through o=
ne
outlet--death.
Gwynplaine,
tragically distraught, placed his hand firmly on the parapet, as on a solut=
ion,
and looked at the river.
It was his third
night without sleep. Fever had come over him. His thoughts, which he believ=
ed
to be clear, were blurred. He felt an imperative need of sleep. He remained=
for
a few instants leaning over the water. Its darkness offered him a bed of
boundless tranquillity in the infinity of shadow. Sinister temptation!
He took off his c=
oat,
which he folded and placed on the parapet; then he unbuttoned his waistcoat=
. As
he was about to take it off, his hand struck against something in the pocke=
t.
It was the red book which had been given him by the librarian of the House =
of
Lords: he drew it from the pocket, examined it in the vague light of the ni=
ght,
and found a pencil in it, with which he wrote on the first blank that he fo=
und
these two lines,--
"I depart. L=
et
my brother David take my place, and may he be happy!"
Then he signed,
"Fermain Clancharlie, peer of England."
He took off his
waistcoat and placed it upon the coat; then his hat, which he placed upon t=
he
waistcoat. In the hat he laid the red book open at the page on which he had
written. Seeing a stone lying on the ground, he picked it up and placed it =
in
the hat. Having done all this, he looked up into the deep shadow above him.
Then his head sank slowly, as if drawn by an invisible thread towards the
abyss.
There was a hole =
in
the masonry near the base of the parapet; he placed his foot in it, so that=
his
knee stood higher than the top, and scarcely an effort was necessary to spr=
ing
over it. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned over. "So be
it," said he.
And he fixed his =
eyes
on the deep waters. Just then he felt a tongue licking his hands.
He shuddered, and
turned round.
Homo was behind h=
im.
CONCLUSION - THE NIGHT AND THE SEA.
CHAPTER I - A WATCH-DOG MAY BE A GUARDIAN ANGEL.=
span>
Gwynplaine uttered a cry.
"Is that you,
wolf?"
Homo wagged his t= ail. His eyes sparkled in the darkness. He was looking earnestly at Gwynplaine.<= o:p>
Then he began to =
lick
his hands again. For a moment Gwynplaine was like a drunken man, so great is
the shock of Hope's mighty return.
Homo! What an
apparition! During the last forty-eight hours he had exhausted what might be
termed every variety of the thunder-bolt. But one was left to strike him--t=
he
thunderbolt of joy. And it had just fallen upon him. Certainty, or at least=
the
light which leads to it, regained; the sudden intervention of some mysterio=
us
clemency possessed, perhaps, by destiny; life saying, "Behold me!"=
; in
the darkest recess of the grave; the very moment in which all expectation h=
as
ceased bringing back health and deliverance; a place of safety discovered at
the most critical instant in the midst of crumbling ruins--Homo was all thi=
s to
Gwynplaine. The wolf appeared to him in a halo of light.
Meanwhile, Homo h=
ad
turned round. He advanced a few steps, and then looked back to see if
Gwynplaine was following him.
Gwynplaine was do=
ing
so. Homo wagged his tail, and went on.
The road taken by=
the
wolf was the slope of the quay of the Effroc-stone. This slope shelved down=
to
the Thames; and Gwynplaine, guided by Homo, descended it.
Homo turned his h=
ead
now and then, to make sure that Gwynplaine was behind him.
In some situation=
s of
supreme importance nothing approaches so near an omniscient intelligence as=
the
simple instinct of a faithful animal. An animal is a lucid somnambulist.
There are cases in
which the dog feels that he should follow his master; others, in which he
should precede him. Then the animal takes the direction of sense. His
imperturbable scent is a confused power of vision in what is twilight to us=
. He
feels a vague obligation to become a guide. Does he know that there is a
dangerous pass, and that he can help his master to surmount it? Probably no=
t.
Perhaps he does. In any case, some one knows it for him. As we have already
said, it often happens in life that some mighty help which we have held to =
have
come from below has, in reality, come from above. Who knows all the mysteri=
ous
forms assumed by God?
What was this ani=
mal?
Providence.
Having reached the
river, the wolf led down the narrow tongue of land which bordered the Thame=
s.
Without noise or =
bark
he pushed forward on his silent way. Homo always followed his instinct and =
did
his duty, but with the pensive reserve of an outlaw.
Some fifty paces
more, and he stopped. A wooden platform appeared on the right. At the botto=
m of
this platform, which was a kind of wharf on piles, a black mass could be ma=
de
out, which was a tolerably large vessel. On the deck of the vessel, near the
prow, was a glimmer, like the last flicker of a night-light.
The wolf, having =
finally
assured himself that Gwynplaine was there, bounded on to the wharf. It was a
long platform, floored and tarred, supported by a network of joists, and un=
der
which flowed the river. Homo and Gwynplaine shortly reached the brink.
The ship moored to
the wharf was a Dutch vessel, of the Japanese build, with two decks, fore a=
nd
aft, and between them an open hold, reached by an upright ladder, in which =
the
cargo was laden. There was thus a forecastle and an afterdeck, as in our old
river boats, and a space between them ballasted by the freight. The paper b=
oats
made by children are of a somewhat similar shape. Under the decks were the
cabins, the doors of which opened into the hold and were lighted by glazed =
portholes.
In stowing the cargo a passage was left between the packages of which it
consisted. These vessels had a mast on each deck. The foremast was called P=
aul,
the mainmast Peter--the ship being sailed by these two masts, as the Church=
was
guided by her two apostles. A gangway was thrown, like a Chinese bridge, fr=
om
one deck to the other, over the centre of the hold. In bad weather, both fl=
aps
of the gangway were lowered, on the right and left, on hinges, thus making a
roof over the hold; so that the ship, in heavy seas, was hermetically close=
d.
These sloops, being of very massive construction, had a beam for a tiller, =
the strength
of the rudder being necessarily proportioned to the height of the vessel. T=
hree
men, the skipper and two sailors, with a cabin-boy, sufficed to navigate th=
ese
ponderous sea-going machines. The decks, fore and aft, were, as we have alr=
eady
said, without bulwarks. The great lumbering hull of this particular vessel =
was
painted black, and on it, visible even in the night, stood out, in white
letters, the words, Vograat, Rotterdam.
About that time m=
any
events had occurred at sea, and amongst others, the defeat of the Baron de
Pointi's eight ships off Cape Carnero, which had driven the whole French fl=
eet
into refuge at Gibraltar; so that the Channel was swept of every man-of-war,
and merchant vessels were able to sail backwards and forwards between London
and Rotterdam, without a convoy.
The vessel on whi=
ch
was to be read the word Vograat, and which Gwynplaine was now close to, lay
with her main-deck almost level with the wharf. But one step to descend, and
Homo in a bound, and Gwynplaine in a stride, were on board.
The deck was clea=
r,
and no stir was perceptible. The passengers, if, as was likely, there were =
any,
were already on board, the vessel being ready to sail, and the cargo stowed=
, as
was apparent from the state of the hold, which was full of bales and cases.=
But
they were, doubtless, lying asleep in the cabins below, as the passage was =
to
take place during the night. In such cases the passengers do not appear on =
deck
till they awake the following morning. As for the crew, they were probably
having their supper in the men's cabin, whilst awaiting the hour fixed for
sailing, which was now rapidly approaching. Hence the silence on the two de=
cks
connected by the gangway.
The wolf had almo=
st
run across the wharf; once on board, he slackened his pace into a discreet
walk. He still wagged his tail--no longer joyfully, however, but with the s=
ad
and feeble wag of a dog troubled in his mind. Still preceding Gwynplaine, he
passed along the after-deck, and across the gangway.
Gwynplaine, having
reached the gangway, perceived a light in front of him. It was the same tha=
t he
had seen from the shore. There was a lantern on the deck, close to the
foremast, by the gleam of which was sketched in black, on the dim backgroun=
d of
the night, what Gwynplaine recognized to be Ursus's old four-wheeled van.
This poor wooden
tenement, cart and hut combined, in which his childhood had rolled along, w=
as
fastened to the bottom of the mast by thick ropes, of which the knots were
visible at the wheels. Having been so long out of service, it had become
dreadfully rickety; it leant over feebly on one side; it had become quite
paralytic from disuse; and, moreover, it was suffering from that incurable
malady--old age. Mouldy and out of shape, it tottered in decay. The materia=
ls
of which it was built were all rotten. The iron was rusty, the leather torn,
the wood-work worm-eaten. There were lines of cracks across the window in
front, through which shone a ray from the lantern. The wheels were warped. =
The lining,
the floor, and the axletrees seemed worn out with fatigue. Altogether, it
presented an indescribable appearance of beggary and prostration. The shaft=
s,
stuck up, looked like two arms raised to heaven. The whole thing was in a s=
tate
of dislocation. Beneath it was hanging Homo's chain.
Does it not seem =
that
the law and the will of nature would have dictated Gwynplaine's headlong ru=
sh
to throw himself upon life, happiness, love regained? So they would, except=
in
some case of deep terror such as his. But he who comes forth, shattered in
nerve and uncertain of his way, from a series of catastrophes, each one lik=
e a
fresh betrayal, is prudent even in his joy; hesitates, lest he should bear =
the
fatality of which he has been the victim to those whom he loves; feels that
some evil contagion may still hang about him, and advances towards happines=
s with
wary steps. The gates of Paradise reopen; but before he enters he examines =
his
ground.
Gwynplaine,
staggering under the weight of his emotion, looked around him, while the wo=
lf
went and lay down silently by his chain.
CHAPTER II - BARKILPHEDRO, HAVING AIMED AT THE EAGLE, BRI=
NGS
DOWN THE DOVE.=
The step of the little van was down=
--the
door ajar--there was no one inside. The faint light which broke through the
pane in front sketched the interior of the caravan vaguely in melancholy
chiaroscuro. The inscriptions of Ursus, gloryifying the grandeur of Lords,
showed distinctly on the worn-out boards, which were both the wall without =
and the
wainscot within. On a nail, near the door, Gwynplaine saw his esclavine and=
his
cape hung up, as they hang up the clothes of a corpse in a dead-house. Just
then he had neither waistcoat nor coat on.
Behind the van something was laid out on the deck at the foot of the mast, which was light= ed by the lantern. It was a mattress, of which he could make out one corner. On this mattress some one was probably lying, for he could see a shadow move.<= o:p>
Some one was
speaking. Concealed by the van, Gwynplaine listened. It was Ursus's voice. =
That
voice, so harsh in its upper, so tender in its lower, pitch; that voice, wh=
ich
had so often upbraided Gwynplaine, and which had taught him so well, had lo=
st
the life and clearness of its tone. It was vague and low, and melted into a
sigh at the end of every sentence. It bore but a confused resemblance to his
natural and firm voice of old. It was the voice of one in whom happiness is
dead. A voice may become a ghost.
He seemed to be
engaged in monologue rather than in conversation. We are already aware,
however, that soliloquy was a habit with him. It was for that reason that he
passed for a madman.
Gwynplaine held h=
is
breath, so as not to lose a word of what Ursus said, and this was what he
heard.
"This is a v=
ery
dangerous kind of craft, because there are no bulwarks to it. If we were to
slip, there is nothing to prevent our going overboard. If we have bad weath=
er,
we shall have to take her below, and that will be dreadful. An awkward step=
, a
fright, and we shall have a rupture of the aneurism. I have seen instances =
of
it. O my God! what is to become of us? Is she asleep? Yes. She is asleep. Is
she in a swoon? No. Her pulse is pretty strong. She is only asleep. Sleep i=
s a
reprieve. It is the happy blindness. What can I do to prevent people walking
about here? Gentlemen, if there be anybody on deck, I beg of you to make no=
noise.
Do not come near us, if you do not mind. You know a person in delicate heal=
th
requires a little attention. She is feverish, you see. She is very young. '=
Tis
a little creature who is rather feverish. I put this mattress down here so =
that
she may have a little air. I explain all this so that you should be careful.
She fell down exhausted on the mattress as if she had fainted. But she is
asleep. I do hope that no one will awake her. I address myself to the ladie=
s,
if there are any present. A young girl, it is pitiful! We are only poor
mountebanks, but I beg a little kindness, and if there is anything to pay f=
or
not making a noise, I will pay it. I thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Is th=
ere
any one there? No? I don't think there is. My talk is mere loss of breath. =
So
much the better. Gentlemen, I thank you, if you are there; and I thank you
still more if you are not. Her forehead is all in perspiration. Come, let us
take our places in the galleys again. Put on the chain. Misery is come back=
. We
are sinking again. A hand, the fearful hand which we cannot see, but the we=
ight
of which we feel ever upon us, has suddenly struck us back towards the dark=
point
of our destiny. Be it so. We will bear up. Only I will not have her ill. I =
must
seem a fool to talk aloud like this, when I am alone; but she must feel she=
has
some one near her when she awakes. What shall I do if somebody awakes her
suddenly! No noise, in the name of Heaven! A sudden shock which would awake=
her
suddenly would be of no use. It will be a pity if anybody comes by. I belie=
ve
that every one on board is asleep. Thanks be to Providence for that mercy.
Well, and Homo? Where is he, I wonder? In all this confusion I forgot to tie
him up. I do not know what I am doing. It is more than an hour since I have
seen him. I suppose he has been to look for his supper somewhere ashore. I =
hope
nothing has happened to him. Homo! Homo!"
Homo struck his t=
ail softly
on the planks of the deck.
"You are the=
re.
Oh! you are there! Thank God for that. If Homo had been lost, it would have
been too much to bear. She has moved her arm. Perhaps she is going to awake.
Quiet, Homo! The tide is turning. We shall sail directly. I think it will b=
e a
fine night. There is no wind: the flag droops. We shall have a good passage=
. I
do not know what moon it is, but there is scarcely a stir in the clouds. Th=
ere
will be no swell. It will be a fine night. Her cheek is pale; it is only
weakness! No, it is flushed; it is only the fever. Stay! It is rosy. She is
well! I can no longer see clearly. My poor Homo, I no longer see distinctly=
. So
we must begin life afresh. We must set to work again. There are only we two
left, you see. We will work for her, both of us! She is our child, Ah! the
vessel moves! We are off! Good-bye, London! Good evening! good-night! To the
devil with horrible London!"
He was right. He
heard the dull sound of the unmooring as the vessel fell away from the whar=
f. Abaft
on the poop a man, the skipper, no doubt, just come from below, was standin=
g.
He had slipped the hawser and was working the tiller. Looking only to the
rudder, as befitted the combined phlegm of a Dutchman and a sailor, listeni=
ng
to nothing but the wind and the water, bending against the resistance of the
tiller, as he worked it to port or starboard, he looked in the gloom of the
after-deck like a phantom bearing a beam upon its shoulder. He was alone th=
ere.
So long as they were in the river the other sailors were not required. In a=
few
minutes the vessel was in the centre of the current, with which she drifted
without rolling or pitching. The Thames, little disturbed by the ebb, was c=
alm.
Carried onwards by the tide, the vessel made rapid way. Behind her the black
scenery of London was fading in the mist.
Ursus went on
talking.
"Never mind,=
I
will give her digitalis. I am afraid that delirium will supervene. She
perspires in the palms of her hands. What sin can we have committed in the
sight of God? How quickly has all this misery come upon us! Hideous rapidit=
y of
evil! A stone falls. It has claws. It is the hawk swooping on the lark. It =
is
destiny. There you lie, my sweet child! One comes to London. One says: What=
a
fine city! What fine buildings! Southwark is a magnificent suburb. One sett=
les
there. But now they are horrid places. What would you have me do there? I am
going to leave. This is the 30th of April. I always distrusted the month of
April. There are but two lucky days in April, the 5th and the 27th; and four
unlucky ones--the 10th, the 20th, the 29th, and the 30th. This has been pla=
ced beyond
doubt by the calculations of Cardan. I wish this day were over. Departure i=
s a
comfort. At dawn we shall be at Gravesend, and to-morrow evening at Rotterd=
am.
Zounds! I will begin life again in the van. We will draw it, won't we,
Homo?"
A light tapping
announced the wolf's consent.
Ursus continued,-=
-
"If one could
only get out of a grief as one gets out of a city! Homo, we must yet be hap=
py.
Alas! there must always be the one who is no more. A shadow remains on those
who survive. You know whom I mean, Homo. We were four, and now we are but
three. Life is but a long loss of those whom we love. They leave behind the=
m a
train of sorrows. Destiny amazes us by a prolixity of unbearable suffering;=
who
then can wonder that the old are garrulous? It is despair that makes the
dotard, old fellow! Homo, the wind continues favourable. We can no longer s=
ee
the dome of St. Paul's. We shall pass Greenwich presently. That will be six
good miles over. Oh! I turn my back for ever on those odious capitals, full=
of
priests, of magistrates, and of people. I prefer looking at the leaves rust=
ling
in the woods. Her forehead is still in perspiration. I don't like those gre=
at
violet veins in her arm. There is fever in them. Oh! all this is killing me.
Sleep, my child. Yes; she sleeps."
Here a voice spok=
e:
an ineffable voice, which seemed from afar, and appeared to come at once fr=
om
the heights and the depths--a voice divinely fearful, the voice of Dea.
All that Gwynplai=
ne
had hitherto felt seemed nothing. His angel spoke. It seemed as though he h=
eard
words spoken from another world in a heaven-like trance.
The voice said,--=
"He did well=
to
go. This world was not worthy of him. Only I must go with him. Father! I am=
not
ill; I heard you speak just now. I am very well, quite well. I was asleep.
Father, I am going to be happy."
"My child,&q=
uot;
said Ursus in a voice of anguish, "what do you mean by that?"
The answer was,--=
"Father, do =
not
be unhappy."
There was a pause=
, as
if to take breath, and then these few words, pronounced slowly, reached
Gwynplaine.
"Gwynplaine =
is
no longer here. It is now that I am blind. I knew not what night was. Night=
is
absence."
The voice stopped
once more, and then continued,--
"I always fe=
ared
that he would fly away. I felt that he belonged to heaven. He has taken fli=
ght
suddenly. It was natural that it should end thus. The soul flies away like a
bird. But the nest of the soul is in the height, where dwells the Great
Loadstone, who draws all towards Him. I know where to find Gwynplaine. I ha=
ve
no doubt about the way. Father, it is yonder. Later on, you will rejoin us,=
and
Homo, too."
Homo, hearing his
name pronounced, wagged his tail softly against the deck.
"Father!&quo=
t;
resumed the voice, "you understand that once Gwynplaine is no longer h=
ere,
all is over. Even if I would remain, I could not, because one must breathe.=
We
must not ask for that which is impossible. I was with Gwynplaine. It was qu=
ite
natural, I lived. Now Gwynplaine is no more, I die. The two things are alik=
e:
either he must come or I must go. Since he cannot come back, I am going to =
him.
It is good to die. It is not at all difficult. Father, that which is
extinguished here shall be rekindled elsewhere. It is a heartache to live in
this world. It cannot be that we shall always be unhappy. When we go to what
you call the stars, we shall marry, we shall never part again, and we shall
love, love, love; and that is what is God."
"There, ther=
e,
do not agitate yourself," said Ursus.
The voice
continued,--
"Well, for
instance; last year. In the spring of last year we were together, and we we=
re
happy. How different it is now! I forget what little village we were in, but
there were trees, and I heard the linnets singing. We came to London; all w=
as
changed. This is no reproach, mind. When one comes to a fresh place, how is=
one
to know anything about it? Father, do you remember that one day there was a
woman in the great box; you said: 'It is a duchess.' I felt sad. I think it
might have been better had we kept to the little towns. Gwynplaine has done
right, withal. Now my turn has come. Besides, you have told me yourself, th=
at when
I was very little, my mother died, and that I was lying on the ground with =
the
snow falling upon me, and that he, who was also very little then, and alone,
like myself, picked me up, and that it was thus that I came to be alive; so=
you
cannot wonder that now I should feel it absolutely necessary to go and sear=
ch
the grave to see if Gwynplaine be in it. Because the only thing which exist=
s in
life is the heart; and after life, the soul. You take notice of what I say,
father, do you not? What is moving? It seems as if we are in something that=
is
moving, yet I do not hear the sound of the wheels."
After a pause the
voice added,--
"I cannot
exactly make out the difference between yesterday and to-day. I do not
complain. I do not know what has occurred, but something must have
happened."
These words, utte=
red
with deep and inconsolable sweetness, and with a sigh which Gwynplaine hear=
d,
wound up thus,--
"I must go,
unless he should return."
Ursus muttered
gloomily: "I do not believe in ghosts."
He went on,--
"This is a s=
hip.
You ask why the house moves; it is because we are on board a vessel. Be cal=
m;
you must not talk so much. Daughter, if you have any love for me, do not
agitate yourself, it will make you feverish. I am so old, I could not bear =
it
if you were to have an illness. Spare me! do not be ill!"
Again the voice
spoke,--
"What is the=
use
of searching the earth, when we can only find in heaven?"
Ursus replied, wi=
th a
half attempt at authority,--
"Be calm. Th=
ere
are times when you have no sense at all. I order you to rest. After all, you
cannot be expected to know what it is to rupture a blood-vessel. I should be
easy if you were easy. My child, do something for me as well. If he picked =
you
up, I took you in. You will make me ill. That is wrong. You must calm yours=
elf,
and go to sleep. All will come right. I give you my word of honour, all will
come right. Besides, it is very fine weather. The night might have been mad=
e on
purpose. To-morrow we shall be at Rotterdam, which is a city in Holland, at=
the
mouth of the Meuse."
"Father,&quo=
t;
said the voice, "look here; when two beings have always been together =
from
infancy, their state should not be disturbed, or death must come, and it ca=
nnot
be otherwise. I love you all the same, but I feel that I am no longer
altogether with you, although I am as yet not altogether with him."
"Come! try to
sleep," repeated Ursus.
The voice answere=
d,--
"I shall have
sleep enough soon."
Ursus replied, in
trembling tones,--
"I tell you =
that
we are going to Holland, to Rotterdam, which is a city."
"Father,&quo=
t;
continued the voice, "I am not ill; if you are anxious about that, you=
may
rest easy. I have no fever. I am rather hot; it is nothing more."
Ursus stammered
out,--
"At the mout=
h of
the Meuse--"
"I am quite
well, father; but look here! I feel that I am going to die!"
"Do nothing =
so
foolish," said Ursus. And he added, "Above all, God forbid she sh=
ould
have a shock!"
There was a silen=
ce.
Suddenly Ursus cried out,--
"What are you
doing? Why are you getting up? Lie down again, I implore of you."
Gwynplaine shiver=
ed,
and stretched out his head.
CHAPTER III - PARADISE REGAINED BELOW.<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
He saw Dea. She had just raised her=
self
up on the mattress. She had on a long white dress, carefully closed, and
showing only the delicate form of her neck. The sleeves covered her arms; t=
he
folds, her feet. The branch-like tracery of blue veins, hot and swollen with
fever, were visible on her hands. She was shivering and rocking, rather tha=
n reeling,
to and fro, like a reed. The lantern threw up its glancing light on her
beautiful face. Her loosened hair floated over her shoulders. No tears fell=
on
her cheeks. In her eyes there was fire, and darkness. She was pale, with th=
at
paleness which is like the transparency of a divine life in an earthly face.
Her fragile and exquisite form was, as it were, blended and interfused with=
the
folds of her robe. She wavered like the flicker of a flame, while, at the s=
ame time,
she was dwindling into shadow. Her eyes, opened wide, were resplendent. She=
was
as one just freed from the sepulchre; a soul standing in the dawn.
Ursus, whose back
only was visible to Gwynplaine, raised his arms in terror. "O my child=
! O
heavens! she is delirious. Delirium is what I feared worst of all. She must
have no shock, for that might kill her; yet nothing but a shock can prevent=
her
going mad. Dead or mad! what a situation. O God! what can I do? My child, l=
ie
down again."
Meanwhile, Dea sp=
oke.
Her voice was almost indistinct, as if a cloud already interposed between h=
er
and earth.
"Father, you=
are
wrong. I am not in the least delirious. I hear all you say to me, distinctl=
y.
You tell me that there is a great crowd of people, that they are waiting, a=
nd
that I must play to-night. I am quite willing. You see that I have my reaso=
n;
but I do not know what to do, since I am dead, and Gwynplaine is dead. I am
coming all the same. I am ready to play. Here I am; but Gwynplaine is no lo=
nger
here."
"Come, my
child," said Ursus, "do as I bid you. Lie down again."
"He is no lo=
nger
here, no longer here. Oh! how dark it is!"
"Dark!"
muttered Ursus. "This is the first time she has ever uttered that
word!"
Gwynplaine, with =
as
little noise as he could help making as he crept, mounted the step of the
caravan, entered it, took from the nail the cape and the esclavine, put the
esclavine round his neck, and redescended from the van, still concealed by =
the
projection of the cabin, the rigging, and the mast.
Dea continued
murmuring. She moved her lips, and by degrees the murmur became a melody. In
broken pauses, and with the interrupted cadences of delirium, her voice bro=
ke
into the mysterious appeal she had so often addressed to Gwynplaine in Chaos
Vanquished. She sang, and her voice was low and uncertain as the murmur of =
the
bee,--
"Noche, quita te de all&iacut=
e;. El alba canta...."[23]
She stopped.
"No, it is not true. I am not dead. What was I saying? Alas! I am aliv=
e. I
am alive. He is dead. I am below. He is above. He is gone. I remain. I shall
hear his voice no more, nor his footstep. God, who had given us a little
Paradise on earth, has taken it away. Gwynplaine, it is over. I shall never
feel you near me again. Never! And his voice! I shall never hear his voice
again. And she sang:--
"Es menester a cielos ir-- Deja, quiero, A tu negro Caparazon."
"We must go to heaven. Take off, I entreat thee,
She stretched out=
her
hand, as if she sought something in space on which she might rest.
Gwynplaine, risin=
g by
the side of Ursus, who had suddenly become as though petrified, knelt down
before her.
"Never,"
said Dea, "never shall I hear him again."
She began, wander=
ing,
to sing again:--
"Deja, quiero, A tu negro Caparazon."
Then she heard a
voice--even the beloved voice--answering:--
"O ven! ama! Eres alma, Soy corazon."
"O come and love Thou art the soul, I am the heart."
And at the same
instant Dea felt under her hand the head of Gwynplaine. She uttered an
indescribable cry.
"Gwynplaine!=
"
A light, as of a
star, shone over her pale face, and she tottered. Gwynplaine received her in
his arms.
"Alive!"
cried Ursus.
Dea repeated
"Gwynplaine;" and with her head bowed against Gwynplaine's cheek,=
she
whispered faintly,--
"You have co=
me
down to me again. I thank you, Gwynplaine."
And seated on his
knee, she lifted up her head. Wrapt in his embrace, she turned her sweet fa=
ce
towards him, and fixed on him those eyes so full of light and shadow, as th=
ough
she could see him.
"It is
you," she said.
Gwynplaine covered
her sobs with kisses. There are words which are at once words, cries, and s=
obs,
in which all ecstasy and all grief are mingled and burst forth together. Th=
ey
have no meaning, and yet tell all.
"Yes, it is!=
It
is I, Gwynplaine, of whom you are the soul. Do you hear me? I, of whom you =
are
the child, the wife, the star, the breath of life; I, to whom you are etern=
ity.
It is I. I am here. I hold you in my arms. I am alive. I am yours. Oh, when=
I
think that in a moment all would have been over--one minute more, but for H=
omo!
I will tell you everything. How near is despair to joy! Dea, we live! Dea,
forgive me. Yes--yours for ever. You are right. Touch my forehead. Make sure
that it is I. If you only knew--but nothing can separate us now. I rise out=
of hell,
and ascend into heaven. Am I not with you? You said that I descended. Not s=
o; I
reascend. Once more with you! For ever! I tell you for ever! Together! We a=
re
together! Who would have believed it? We have found each other again. All o=
ur
troubles are past. Before us now there is nothing but enchantment. We will
renew our happy life, and we will shut the door so fast that misfortune sha=
ll
never enter again. I will tell you all. You will be astonished. The vessel =
has
sailed. No one can prevent that now. We are on our voyage, and at liberty. =
We
are going to Holland. We will marry. I have no fear about gaining a livelih=
ood.
What can hinder it? There is nothing to fear. I adore you!"
"Not so
quick!" stammered Ursus.
Dea, trembling, a=
nd
with the rapture of an angelic touch, passed her hand over Gwynplaine's
profile. He overheard her say to herself, "It is thus that gods are
made."
Then she touched =
his
clothes.
"The
esclavine," she said, "the cape. Nothing changed; all as it was b=
efore."
Ursus, stupefied,
delighted, smiling, drowned in tears, looked at them, and addressed an asid=
e to
himself.
"I don't
understand it in the least. I am a stupid idiot--I, who saw him carried to =
the
grave! I cry and I laugh. That is all I know. I am as great a fool as if I =
were
in love myself. But that is just what I am. I am in love with them both. Old
fool! Too much emotion--too much emotion. It is what I was afraid of. No; i=
t is
that I wished for. Gwynplaine, be careful of her. Yes, let them kiss; it is=
no
affair of mine. I am but a spectator. What I feel is droll. I am the parasi=
te
of their happiness, and I am nourished by it."
Whilst Ursus was
talking to himself, Gwynplaine exclaimed,--
"Dea, you are
too beautiful! I don't know where my wits were gone these last few days. Tr=
uly,
there is but you on earth. I see you again, but as yet I can hardly believe=
it.
In this ship! But tell me, how did it all happen? To what a state have they
reduced you! But where is the Green Box? They have robbed you. They have dr=
iven
you away. It is infamous. Oh, I will avenge you--I will avenge you, Dea! Th=
ey
shall answer for it. I am a peer of England."
Ursus, as if stri=
cken
by a planet full in his breast, drew back, and looked at Gwynplaine
attentively.
"It is clear
that he is not dead; but can he have gone mad?" and he listened to him
doubtfully.
Gwynplaine resume=
d.
"Be easy, De=
a; I
will carry my complaint to the House of Lords."
Ursus looked at h=
im
again, and struck his forehead with the tip of his forefinger. Then making =
up
his mind,--
"It is all o=
ne
to me," he said. "It will be all right, all the same. Be as mad as
you like, my Gwynplaine. It is one of the rights of man. As for me, I am ha=
ppy.
But how came all this about?"
The vessel contin=
ued
to sail smoothly and fast. The night grew darker
and darker. The
mists, which came inland from the ocean, were invading the zenith, from whi=
ch
no wind blew them away. Only a few large stars were visible, and they
disappeared one after another, so that soon there were none at all, and the
whole sky was dark, infinite, and soft. The river broadened until the banks=
on
each side were nothing but two thin brown lines mingling with the gloom. Ou=
t of
all this shadow rose a profound peace. Gwynplaine, half seated, held Dea in=
his
embrace. They spoke, they cried, they babbled, they murmured in a mad dialo=
gue
of joy! How are we to paint thee, O joy!
"My life!&qu=
ot;
"My heaven!&=
quot;
"My love!&qu=
ot;
"My whole
happiness!"
"Gwynplaine!=
"
"Dea, I am
drunk. Let me kiss your feet."
"Is it you,
then, for certain?"
"I have so m=
uch
to say to you now that I do not know where to begin."
"One kiss!&q=
uot;
"O my
wife!"
"Gwynplaine,=
do
not tell me that I am beautiful. It is you who are handsome."
"I have found
you again. I hold you to my heart. This is true. You are mine. I do not dre=
am.
Is it possible? Yes, it is. I recover possession of life. If you only knew!=
I
have met with all sorts of adventures. Dea!"
"Gwynplaine,=
I
love you!"
And Ursus murmure=
d,--
"Mine is the=
joy
of a grandfather."
Homo, having come
from under the van, was going from one to the other discreetly, exacting no
attention, licking them left and right--now Ursus's thick shoes, now
Gwynplaine's cape, now Dea's dress, now the mattress. This was his way of
giving his blessing.
They had passed
Chatham and the mouth of the Medway. They were approaching the sea. The sha=
dowy
serenity of the atmosphere was such that the passage down the Thames was be=
ing
made without trouble: no manoeuvre was needful, nor was any sailor called on
deck. At the other end of the vessel the skipper, still alone, was steering.
There was only this man aft. At the bow the lantern lighted up the happy gr=
oup
of beings who, from the depths of misery, had suddenly been raised to happi=
ness
by a meeting so unhoped for.
Suddenly Dea, disengaging herself f=
rom
Gwynplaine's embrace, arose. She pressed both her hands against her heart, =
as if
to still its throbbings.
"What is wro=
ng
with me?" said she. "There is something the matter. Joy is
suffocating. No, it is nothing! That is lucky. Your reappearance, O my
Gwynplaine, has given me a blow--a blow of happiness. All this heaven of joy
which you have put into my heart has intoxicated me. You being absent, I fe=
lt
myself dying. The true life which was leaving me you have brought back. I f=
elt
as if something was being torn away within me. It is the shadows that have =
been
torn away, and I feel life dawn in my brain--a glowing life, a life of fever
and delight. This life which you have just given me is wonderful. It is so
heavenly that it makes me suffer somewhat. It seems as though my soul is
enlarged, and can scarcely be contained in my body. This life of seraphim, =
this
plenitude, flows into my brain and penetrates it. I feel like a beating of
wings within my breast. I feel strangely, but happy. Gwynplaine, you have b=
een my
resurrection."
She flushed, beca=
me
pale, then flushed again, and fell.
"Alas!"
said Ursus, "you have killed her."
Gwynplaine stretc= hed his arms towards Dea. Extremity of anguish coming upon extremity of ecstasy, what a shock! He would himself have fallen, had he not had to support her.<= o:p>
"Dea!" =
he
cried, shuddering, "what is the matter?"
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
said she--"I love you!"
She lay in his ar=
ms,
lifeless, like a piece of linen; her hands were hanging down helplessly.
Gwynplaine and Ur=
sus
placed Dea on the mattress. She said, feebly,--
"I cannot
breathe lying down."
They lifted her u=
p.
Ursus said,--
"Fetch a
pillow."
She replied,--
"What for? I
have Gwynplaine!"
She laid her head=
on
Gwynplaine's shoulder, who was sitting behind, and supporting her, his eyes
wild with grief.
"Oh," s=
aid
she, "how happy I am!"
Ursus took her wr=
ist,
and counted the pulsation of the artery. He did not shake his head. He said
nothing, nor expressed his thought except by the rapid movement of his eyel=
ids,
which were opening and closing convulsively, as if to prevent a flood of te=
ars
from bursting out.
"What is the
matter?" asked Gwynplaine.
Ursus placed his =
ear
against Dea's left side.
Gwynplaine repeat=
ed
his question eagerly, fearful of the answer.
Ursus looked at
Gwynplaine, then at Dea. He was livid. He said,--
"We ought to=
be
parallel with Canterbury. The distance from here to Gravesend cannot be very
great. We shall have fine weather all night. We need fear no attack at sea,
because the fleets are all on the coast of Spain. We shall have a good
passage."
Dea, bent, and
growing paler and paler, clutched her robe convulsively. She heaved a sigh =
of
inexpressible sadness, and murmured,--
"I know what
this is. I am dying!"
Gwynplaine rose in
terror. Ursus held Dea.
"Die! You di=
e!
No; it shall not be! You cannot die! Die now! Die at once! It is impossible!
God is not ferociously cruel--to give you and to take you back in the same
moment. No; such a thing cannot be. It would make one doubt in Him. Then,
indeed, would everything be a snare--the earth, the sky, the cradles of
infants, the human heart, love, the stars. God would be a traitor and man a
dupe. There would be nothing in which to believe. It would be an insult to =
the
creation. Everything would be an abyss. You know not what you say, Dea. You
shall live! I command you to live! You must obey me! I am your husband and =
your
master; I forbid you to leave me! O heavens! O wretched Man! No, it cannot
be--I to remain in the world after you! Why, it is as monstrous as that the=
re
should be no sun! Dea! Dea! recover! It is but a moment of passing pain. One
feels a shudder at times, and thinks no more about it. It is absolutely
necessary that you should get well and cease to suffer. You die! What have I
done to you? The very thought of it drives me mad. We belong to each other,=
and
we love each other. You have no reason for going! It would be unjust! Have I
committed crimes? Besides, you have forgiven me. Oh, you would not make me
desperate--have me become a villain, a madman, drive me to perdition? Dea, I
entreat you! I conjure you! I supplicate you! Do not die!"
And clenching his
hands in his hair, agonized with fear, stifled with tears, he threw himself=
at
her feet.
"My
Gwynplaine," said Dea, "it is no fault of mine."
There then rose to
her lips a red froth, which Ursus wiped away with the fold of her robe, bef=
ore
Gwynplaine, who was prostrate at her feet, could see it.
Gwynplaine took h=
er
feet in his hands, and implored her in all kinds of confused words.
"I tell you,=
I
will not have it! You die? I have no strength left to bear it. Die? Yes; but
both of us together--not otherwise. You die, my Dea? I will never consent to
it! My divinity, my love! Do you understand that I am with you? I swear that
you shall live! Oh, but you cannot have thought what would become of me aft=
er
you were gone. If you had an idea of the necessity which you are to me, you
would see that it is absolutely impossible! Dea! you see I have but you! The
most extraordinary things have happened to me. You will hardly believe that=
I have
just explored the whole of life in a few hours! I have found out one
thing--that there is nothing in it! You exist! if you did not, the universe
would have no meaning. Stay with me! Have pity on me! Since you love me, li=
ve
on! If I have just found you again, it is to keep you. Wait a little longer;
you cannot leave me like this, now that we have been together but a few
minutes! Do not be impatient! O Heaven, how I suffer! You are not angry with
me, are you? You know that I could not help going when the wapentake came f=
or
me. You will breathe more easily presently, you will see. Dea, all has been=
put
right. We are going to be happy. Do not drive me to despair, Dea! I have do=
ne
nothing to you."
These words were = not spoken, but sobbed out. They rose from his breast--now in a lament which mi= ght have attracted the dove, now in a roar which might have made lions recoil.<= o:p>
Dea answered him =
in a
voice growing weaker and weaker, and pausing at nearly every word.
"Alas! it is=
of
no use, my beloved. I see that you are doing all you can. An hour ago I wan=
ted
to die; now I do not. Gwynplaine--my adored Gwynplaine--how happy we have b=
een!
God placed you in my life, and He takes me out of yours. You see, I am goin=
g.
You will remember the Green Box, won't you, and poor blind little Dea? You =
will
remember my song? Do not forget the sound of my voice, and the way in which=
I
said, 'I love you!' I will come back and tell it to you again, in the night
while you are asleep. Yes, we found each other again; but it was too much j=
oy.
It was to end at once. It is decreed that I am to go first. I love my fathe=
r,
Ursus, and my brother, Homo, very dearly. You are all so good. There is no =
air
here. Open the window. My Gwynplaine, I did not tell you, but I was jealous=
of
a woman who came one day. You do not even know of whom I speak. Is it not s=
o?
Cover my arms; I am rather cold. And Fibi and Vinos, where are they? One co=
mes
to love everybody. One feels a friendship for all those who have been mixed=
up
in one's happiness. We have a kindly feeling towards them for having been
present in our joys. Why has it all passed away? I have not clearly underst=
ood
what has happened during the last two days. Now I am dying. Leave me in my
dress. When I put it on I foresaw that it would be my shroud. I wish to kee=
p it
on. Gwynplaine's kisses are upon it. Oh, what would I not have given to have
lived on! What a happy life we led in our poor caravan! How we sang! How I
listened to the applause! What joy it was never to be separated from each
other! It seemed to me that I was living in a cloud with you; I knew one day
from another, although I was blind. I knew that it was morning, because I h=
eard
Gwynplaine; I felt that it was night, because I dreamed of Gwynplaine. I fe=
lt
that I was wrapped up in something which was his soul. We adored each other=
so
sweetly. It is all fading away; and there will be no more songs. Alas that I
cannot live on! You will think of me, my beloved!"
Her voice was gro=
wing
fainter. The ominous waning, which was death, was stealing away her breath.=
She
folded her thumbs within her fingers--a sign that her last moments were
approaching. It seemed as though the first uncertain words of an angel just
created were blended with the last failing accents of the dying girl.
She murmured,--
"You will th=
ink
of me, won't you? It would be very sad to be dead, and to be remembered by =
no
one. I have been wayward at times; I beg pardon of you all. I am sure that,=
if
God had so willed it, we might yet have been happy, my Gwynplaine; for we t=
ake
up but very little room, and we might have earned our bread together in ano=
ther
land. But God has willed it otherwise. I cannot make out in the least why I=
am
dying. I never complained of being blind, so that I cannot have offended any
one. I should never have asked for anything, but always to be blind as I wa=
s, by
your side. Oh, how sad it is to have to part!"
Her words were mo=
re
and more inarticulate, evaporating into each other, as if they were being b=
lown
away. She had become almost inaudible.
"Gwynplaine,=
"
she resumed, "you will think of me, won't you? I shall crave it when I=
am
dead."
And she added,--<= o:p>
"Oh, keep me
with you!"
Then, after a pau=
se,
she said,--
"Come to me =
as
soon as you can. I shall be very unhappy without you, even in heaven. Do not
leave me long alone, my sweet Gwynplaine! My paradise was here; above there=
is
only heaven! Oh! I cannot breathe! My beloved! My beloved! My beloved!"=
;
"Mercy!"
cried Gwynplaine.
"Farewell!&q=
uot;
murmured Dea.
And he pressed his
mouth to her beautiful icy hands. For a moment it seemed as if she had ceas=
ed to
breathe. Then she raised herself on her elbows, and an intense splendour
flashed across her eyes, and through an ineffable smile her voice rang out
clearly.
"Light!"
she cried. "I see!"
And she expired. =
She
fell back rigid and motionless on the mattress.
"Dead!"
said Ursus.
And the poor old =
man,
as if crushed by his despair, bowed his bald head and buried his swollen fa=
ce
in the folds of the gown which covered Dea's feet. He lay there in a swoon.=
Then Gwynplaine
became awful. He arose, lifted his eyes, and gazed into the vast gloom above
him. Seen by none on earth, but looked down upon, perhaps, as he stood in t=
he
darkness, by some invisible presence, he stretched his hands on high, and
said,--
"I come!&quo=
t;
And he strode acr=
oss
the deck, towards the side of the vessel, as if beckoned by a vision.
A few paces off w= as the abyss. He walked slowly, never casting down his eyes. A smile came upon= his face, such as Dea's had just worn. He advanced straight before him, as if watching something. In his eyes was a light like the reflection of a soul perceived from afar off. He cried out, "Yes!" At every step he was approaching nearer to the side of the vessel. His gait was rigid, his arms = were lifted up, his head was thrown back, his eyeballs were fixed. His movement = was ghost-like. He advanced without haste and without hesitation, with fatal precision, as though there were before him no yawning gulf and open grave. = He murmured, "Be easy. I follow you. I understand the sign that you are making me." His eyes were fixed upon a certain spot in the sky, where = the shadow was deepest. The smile was still upon his face. The sky was perfectly black; there was no star visible in it, and yet he evidently saw one. He cr= ossed the deck. A few stiff and ominous steps, and he had reached the very edge.<= o:p>
"I come,&quo=
t;
said he; "Dea, behold, I come!"
One step more; th=
ere
was no bulwark; the void was before him; he strode into it. He fell. The ni=
ght
was thick and dull, the water deep. It swallowed him up. He disappeared cal=
mly
and silently. None saw nor heard him. The ship sailed on, and the river flo=
wed.
Shortly afterwards
the ship reached the sea.
When Ursus return=
ed
to consciousness, he found that Gwynplaine was no longer with him, and he s=
aw
Homo by the edge of the deck baying in the shadow and looking down upon the
water.
THE END.
[Footnote 1: As much as to say, the=
other
daughters are provided for as best may be. (Note by Ursus on the margin of =
the
wall.)]
[Footnote 2: Una =
nube
salida del malo lado del diablo.]
[Footnote 3: Till=
er
of the mountain, who is that man?--A man.
What tongue does =
he
speak?--All.
What things does =
he
know?--All.
What is his
country?--None and all.
Who is his God?--=
God.
What do you call
him?--The madman.
What do you say y=
ou
call him?--The wise man.
In your band, wha=
t is
he?--He is what he is.
The chief?--No.
Then what is he?-=
-The
soul.]
[Footnote 4:
Traitors.]
[Footnote 5: The
above is a very inefficient and rather absurd translation of the French. It
turns upon the fact that in the French language the word for darkness is
plural--ténèbres.--TRANSLATOR.]
[Footnote 6:
Transcriber's note: The original text refers to "vitres épaisse=
s",
thick panes, without specific dimensions. Glass only a millimetre thick wou=
ld
have been rather flimsy.]
[Footnote 7:
Gaufrier, the iron with which a pattern is traced on stuff.]
[Footnote 8: Art =
thou
near me?]
[Footnote 9:
Côtes, coasts, costa, ribs.]
[Footnote 10:
[Footnote 11: Reg=
ina
Saba coram rege crura denudavit.--Schicklardus in Proemio Tarich Jersici, F.
65.]
[Footnote 12: Book
I., p. 196.]
[Footnote 13: Pra=
y!
weep! Reason is born of the word. Song creates light.]
[Footnote 14: Nig=
ht,
away! the dawn sings hallali.]
[Footnote 15: Thou
must go to heaven and smile, thou that weepest.]
[Footnote 16: Bre=
ak
the yoke; throw off, monster, thy dark clothing.]
[Footnote 17: O c=
ome
and love! thou art soul, I am heart.]
[Footnote 18: The
Fenian, Burke.]
[Footnote 19: The
life and the limbs of subjects depend on the king. Chamberlayne, Part 2, ch=
ap.
iv., p. 76.]
[Footnote 20: This
fashion of sleeping partly undrest came from Italy, and was derived from the
Romans. "Sub clarâ nuda lacernâ," says Horace.]
[Footnote 21: The
author is apparently mistaken. The Chamberlains of the Exchequer divided the
wooden laths into tallies, which were given out when disbursing coin, and
checked or tallied when accounting for it. It was in burning the old tallie=
s in
an oven that the Houses of Parliament were destroyed by fire.--TRANSLATOR.]=
[Footnote 22:
Villiers called James I., "Votre cochonnerie."]
[Footnote 23:
"Depart, O night! sings the dawn."]