CHAPTER III.
EVE.
An octagon room, with a vaulted ceiling, without windows but lighted bya skylight; walls, ceiling, and floors faced with peach-coloured marble;a black marble canopy, like a pall, with twisted columns in the solidbut pleasing Elizabethan style, overshadowing a vase-like bath of thesame black marble--this was what he saw before him. In the centre of thebath arose a slender jet of tepid and perfumed water, which, softly andslowly, was filling the tank. The bath was black to augment fairnessinto brilliancy.
It was the water which he had heard. A waste-pipe, placed at a certainheight in the bath, prevented it from overflowing. Vapour was risingfrom the water, but not sufficient to cause it to hang in drops on themarble. The slender jet of water was like a supple wand of steel,bending at the slightest current of air. There was no furniture, excepta chair-bed with pillows, long enough for a woman to lie on at fulllength, and yet have room for a dog at her feet. The French, indeed,borrow their word _canape_ from _can-al-pie_. This sofa was of Spanishmanufacture. In it silver took the place of woodwork. The cushions andcoverings were of rich white silk.
On the other side of the bath, by the wall, was a lofty dressing-tableof solid silver, furnished with every requisite for the table, having inits 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, likea little window, which was closed by a door of solid silver. This doorwas fitted with hinges, like a shutter. On the shutter there glistened achased and gilt royal crown. Over it, and affixed to the wall, was abell, silver gilt, if not of pure gold.
Opposite the entrance of the chamber, in which Gwynplaine stood as iftransfixed, there was an opening in the marble wall, extending to theceiling, and closed by a high and broad curtain of silver tissue. Thiscurtain, of fairy-like tenuity, was transparent, and did not interruptthe view. Through the centre of this web, where one might expect aspider, Gwynplaine saw a more formidable object--a woman. Her dress wasa long chemise--so long that it floated over her feet, like the dressesof angels in holy pictures; but so fine that it seemed liquid.
The silver tissue, transparent as glass and fastened only at theceiling, could be lifted aside. It separated the marble chamber, whichwas a bathroom, from the adjoining apartment, which was a bedchamber.This tiny dormitory was as a grotto of mirrors. Venetian glasses, closetogether, mounted with gold mouldings, reflected on every side the bedin the centre of the room. On the bed, which, like the toilet-table, wasof silver, lay the woman; she was asleep.
The crumpled clothes bore evidence of troubled sleep. The beauty of thefolds was proof of the quality of the material.
It was a period when 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 Chinese; for a great golden lizard was partly visiblein between the folds.
Beyond the couch, and probably masking a door, was a large mirror, onwhich were painted peacocks and swans.
Shadow seemed to lose its nature in this apartment, and glistened. Thespaces between the mirrors and the gold work were lined with thatsparkling material called at Venice thread of glass--that is, spunglass.
At the head of the couch stood a reading desk, on a movable pivot, withcandles, and a book lying open, bearing this title, in large redletters, "Alcoranus Mahumedis."
Gwynplaine saw none of these details. He had eyes only for the woman. Hewas at once stupefied and filled with tumultuous emotions, statesapparently incompatible, yet sometimes co-existent. He recognized her.Her eyes were closed, but her face was turned towards him. It was theduchess--she, the mysterious being in whom all the splendours of theunknown were united; she who had occasioned him so many unavowabledreams; she who had written him so strange a letter! The only woman inthe 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. Hehad, as far as lay in his power, banished the remembrance of her fromhis thoughts and dreams. He no longer thought of her. He had forgottenher....
Again he saw her, and saw her terrible in power. His breath came inshort 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 anereid, a nymph, a fairy. Always an apparition. He tried to fly, butfelt the futility of the attempt. His eyes were riveted on the vision,as though he were bound. Was she a woman? Was she a maiden? Both.Messalina was perhaps present, though invisible, and smiled, while Dianakept watch.
Over all her beauty was the radiance of inaccessibility. No purity couldcompare with her chaste and haughty form. Certain snows, which havenever been touched, give an idea of it--such as the sacred whiteness ofthe Jungfrau. Immodesty was merged in splendour. She felt the securityof an Olympian, who knew that she was daughter of the depths, and mightsay to the ocean, "Father!" And she exposed herself, unattainable andproud, to everything that should pass--to looks, to desires, to ravings,to dreams; as proud in her languor, on her boudoir couch, as Venus inthe 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 shuddered. He admired her with an unhealthy and absorbingadmiration, which ended in fear. Misfortunes never come singly.Gwynplaine thought he had drained to the dregs the cup of his ill-luck.Now it was refilled. Who was it who was hurling all those unremittingthunderbolts on his devoted head, and who had now thrown against him, ashe stood trembling there, a sleeping goddess? What! was the dangerousand desirable object of his dream lurking all the while behind thesesuccessive glimpses of heaven? Did these favours of the mysterioustempter tend to inspire him with vague aspirations and confused ideas,and overwhelm him with an intoxicating series of realities proceedingfrom apparent impossibilities? Wherefore did all the shadows conspireagainst him, a wretched man; and what would become of him, with allthose evil smiles of fortune beaming on him? Was his temptationprearranged? This woman, how and why was she there? No explanation! Whyhim? 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? Whosesimplicity was being abused? Was it God who was being deceived? Allthese undefined thoughts passed confusedly, like a flight of darkshadows, through his brain. That magical and malevolent abode, thatstrange and prison-like palace, was it also in the plot? Gwynplainesuffered a partial unconsciousness. Suppressed emotions threatened tostrangle him. He was weighed down by an overwhelming force. His willbecame powerless. How could he resist? He was incoherent and entranced.This time he felt he was becoming irremediably insane. His dark,headlong fall over the precipice of stupefaction continued.
But the woman slept on.
What aggravated the 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 againstsuch a temptation? Here were no skilful effects of dress, no silkenfolds, no complex and coquettish adornments, no affected exaggeration ofconcealment or of exhibition, no cloud. It was fearful simplicity--asort of mysterious summons--the shameless audacity of Eden. The whole ofthe dark side of human nature was there. Eve worse than Satan; the humanand the superhuman commingled. A perplexing ecstasy, winding up in abrutal triumph of instinct over duty. The sovereign contour of beauty isimperious. When it leaves the ideal and condescends to be real, itsproximity is fatal to man.
Now and then the duchess moved softly on the bed, with the vaguemovement of a cloud in the heavens, changing as a vapour changes itsform. Absurd as it may appear, though he saw her present in the fleshbefore him, yet she seemed a chimera; and, palpable as she was, sheseemed to him afar off. Scared and livid, he gazed on. He listened forher breathing, and fancied he heard only a phantom's respiration. Hewas 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 hisexpected antagonists. He looked for Cerberus; he saw Hebe. A sleepingwoman! What an opponent! He closed his eyes. Too bright a dawn blindsthe eyes. But through his closed eyelids there penetrated at once thewoman's form--not so distinct, but beautiful as ever.
Fly! Easier said than done. He had already tried and failed. He wasrooted to the ground, as if in a dream. When we try to draw back,temptation clogs our feet and glues them to the earth. We can stilladvance, but to retire is impossible. The invisible arms of sin risefrom below and drag us down.
There is a commonplace idea, accepted by every one, that feelings becomeblunted by experience. Nothing can be more untrue. You might as well saythat by dropping nitric acid slowly on a sore it would heal and becomesound, and that torture dulled the sufferings of Damiens. The truth is,that each fresh application intensifies the pain.
From one surprise after another, Gwynplaine had become desperate. Thatcup, his reason, under this new stupor, was overflowing. He felt withinhim a terrible awakening. Compass he no longer possessed. One idea onlywas before him--the woman. An indescribable happiness appeared, whichthreatened to overwhelm him. He could 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 tearhimself away from this magnet; but how was he to carry out his wish? Hehad ceased to feel any basis of support. Who can foresee thefluctuations of the human mind! A man may be wrecked, as is a ship.Conscience is an anchor. It is a terrible thing, but, like the anchor,conscience may be carried away.
He had not even the chance of being repulsed on account of his terribledisfigurement. The woman had written to say that she loved him.
In every crisis there is a moment when the scale hesitates beforekicking the beam. When we lean to the worst side of our nature, insteadof strengthening our better qualities, the moral force which has beenpreserving the balance gives way, and down we go. Had this criticalmoment in Gwynplaine's life arrived?
How could he escape?
So it is she--the duchess, the woman! There she was in that lonelyroom--asleep, far from succour, helpless, alone, at his mercy; yet hewas in her power! The duchess! We have, perchance, observed a star inthe distant firmament. We have admired it. It is so far off. What canthere 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 starwhich 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 becomesenormous. It advances towards us. Oh, horror, it is coming our way! Thecomet recognizes us, marks us for its own, and will not be turned aside.Irresistible attack of the heavens! What is it which is bearing down onus? An excess of light, which blinds us; an excess of life, which killsus. That proposal which the heavens make we refuse; that unfathomablelove we reject. We close our eyes; we hide; we tear ourselves away; weimagine the danger is past. We open our eyes: the formidable star isstill before us; but, no longer a star, it has become a world--a worldunknown, a world of lava and ashes; the devastating prodigy of space. Itfills the sky, allowing no compeers. The carbuncle of the firmament'sdepths, a diamond in the distance, when drawn close to us becomes afurnace. You are caught in its flames. And the first sensation ofburning is that of a heavenly warmth.