CHAPTER IX.
ABYSSUS ABYSSUM VOCAT.
Another face, disappeared--Tom-Jim-Jack's. Suddenly he ceased tofrequent the Tadcaster Inn.
Persons so situated as to be able to observe other phases of fashionablelife in London, might have seen that about this time the _WeeklyGazette_, between two extracts from parish registers, announced thedeparture of Lord David Dirry-Moir, by order of her Majesty, to takecommand of his frigate in the white squadron then cruising off the coastof Holland.
Ursus, perceiving that Tom-Jim-Jack did not return, was troubled by hisabsence. He had not seen Tom-Jim-Jack since the day on which he haddriven 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 offduchesses under his arm. What an interesting investigation! Whatquestions to propound! What things to be said. Therefore Ursus said nota 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 neitherhear nor see. Tom-Jim-Jack had got into a princely carriage. Thetavern-keeper had seen him. It appeared so extraordinary that the sailorshould sit by the lady that it made Ursus circumspect. The caprices ofthose in high life ought to be sacred to the lower orders. The reptilescalled the poor had best squat in their holes when they see anything outof the way. Quiescence is a power. Shut your eyes, if you have not theluck to be blind; stop up your ears, if you have not the good fortune tobe deaf; paralyze your tongue, if you have not the perfection of beingmute. The great do what they like, the little what they can. Let theunknown pass unnoticed. Do not importune mythology. Do not interrogateappearances. Have a profound respect for idols. Do not let us direct ourgossiping towards the lessenings or increasings which take place insuperior regions, of the motives of which we are ignorant. Such thingsare mostly optical delusions to us inferior creatures. Metamorphoses arethe business of the gods: the transformations and the contingentdisorders of great persons who float above us are clouds impossible tocomprehend and perilous to study. Too much attention irritates theOlympians engaged in their gyrations of amusement or fancy; and athunderbolt may teach you that the bull you are too curiously examiningis Jupiter. Do not lift the folds of the stone-coloured mantles of thoseterrible powers. Indifference is intelligence. Do not stir, and you willbe safe. Feign death, and they will not kill you. Therein lies thewisdom of the insect. Ursus practised it.
The tavern-keeper, who was puzzled as well, questioned Ursus one day.
"Do you observe that Tom-Jim-Jack never comes here now!"
"Indeed!" said Ursus. "I have not remarked it."
Master Nicless made an observation in an undertone, no doubt touchingthe intimacy between the ducal carriage and Tom-Jim-Jack--a remarkwhich, as it might have been irreverent and dangerous, Ursus took carenot to hear.
Still Ursus was too much of an artist not to regret Tom-Jim-Jack. Hefelt some disappointment. He told his feeling to Homo, of whosediscretion 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 chillas a poet." This pouring out of his heart to a friend relieved Ursus.
His lips were sealed before Gwynplaine, who, however, made no allusionto Tom-Jim-Jack. The fact was that Tom-Jim-Jack's presence or absencemattered not to Gwynplaine, absorbed as he was in Dea.
Forgetfulness fell more and more on Gwynplaine. As for Dea, she had noteven suspected the existence of a vague trouble. At the same time, nomore cabals or complaints against the Laughing Man were spoken of. Hateseemed to have let go its hold. All was tranquil in and around the GreenBox. No more opposition from strollers, merry-andrews, nor priests; nomore grumbling outside. Their success was unclouded. Destiny allows ofsuch sudden serenity. The brilliant happiness of Gwynplaine and Dea wasfor the present absolutely cloudless. Little by little it had risen to adegree which admitted of no increase. There is one word which expressesthe situation--apogee. Happiness, like the sea, has its high tide. Theworst thing for the perfectly happy is that it recedes.
There are two ways of being inaccessible: being too high and being toolow. At least as much, perhaps, as the first is the second to bedesired. More surely than the eagle escapes the arrow, the animalculeescapes being crushed. This security of insignificance, if it had everexisted on earth, was enjoyed by Gwynplaine and Dea, and never beforehad it been so complete. They lived on, daily more and more ecstaticallywrapt in each other. The heart saturates itself with love as with adivine salt that preserves it, and from this arises the incorruptibleconstancy of those who have loved each other from the dawn of theirlives, and the affection which keeps its freshness in old age. There issuch a thing as the embalmment of the heart. It is of Daphnis and Chloethat Philemon and Baucis are made. The old age of which we speak,evening resembling morning, was evidently reserved for Gwynplaine andDea. In the meantime they were young.
Ursus looked on this love as a doctor examines his case. He had what wasin those days termed a hippocratical expression of face. He fixed hissagacious eyes on Dea, fragile and pale, and growled out, "It is luckythat she is happy." At other times he said, "She is lucky for herhealth's sake." He shook his head, and at times read attentively aportion treating of heart-disease in Aviccunas, translated by VossiscusFortunatus, Louvain, 1650, an old worm-eaten book of his.
Dea, when fatigued, suffered from perspirations and drowsiness, and tooka daily _siesta_, as we have already seen. One day, while she was lyingasleep on the bearskin, Gwynplaine was out, and Ursus bent down softlyand applied his ear to Dea's heart. He seemed to listen for a fewminutes, and then stood up, murmuring, "She must not have any shock. Itwould find out the weak place."
The crowd continued to flock to the performance of "Chaos Vanquished."The success of the Laughing Man seemed inexhaustible. Every one rushedto see him; no longer from Southwark only, but even from other parts ofLondon. The general public began to mingle with the usual audience,which no longer consisted of sailors and drivers only; in the opinion ofMaster Nicless, who was well acquainted with crowds, there were in thecrowd gentlemen and baronets disguised as common people. Disguise is oneof the pleasures of pride, and was much in fashion at that period. Thismixing of the aristocratic element with the mob was a good sign, andshowed that their popularity was extending to London. The fame ofGwynplaine has decidedly penetrated into the great world. Such was thefact. Nothing was talked of but the Laughing Man. He was talked abouteven at the Mohawk Club, frequented by noblemen.
In the Green Box they had no idea of all this. They were content to behappy. It was intoxication to Dea to feel, as she did every evening, thecrisp and tawny head of Gwynplaine. In love there is nothing like habit.The whole of life is concentrated in it. The reappearance of the starsis the custom of the universe. Creation is nothing but a mistress, andthe sun is a lover. Light is a dazzling caryatid supporting the world.Each day, for a sublime minute, the earth, covered by night, rests onthe rising sun. Dea, blind, felt a like return of warmth and hope withinher when she placed her hand on the head of Gwynplaine.
To adore each other 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 felicitywhich, like the intoxication of perfumes, causes a sort of deliciousfaintness, was strolling, as he usually did after the performance, inthe meadow some hundred paces from the Green Box. Sometimes in thosehigh tides of feeling in our souls we feel that we would fain pour outthe sensations of the overflowing heart. The night was dark but clear.The stars were shining. The whole fair-ground was deserted. Sleep andforgetfulness reigned in the caravans which were scattered overTarrinzeau Field.
One light alone was unextinguished. It was the lamp of the TadcasterInn, the door of which was left ajar to admit Gwynplaine on his return.
Midnight had just struck in the five parishes of Southwark, with thebreaks and differences
of tone of their various bells. Gwynplaine wasdreaming of Dea. Of whom else should he dream? But that evening, feelingsingularly troubled, and full of a charm which was at the same time apang, he thought of Dea as a man thinks of a woman. He reproachedhimself for this. It seemed to be failing in respect to her. Thehusband's attack was forming dimly within him. Sweet and imperiousimpatience! He was crossing the invisible frontier, on this side ofwhich is the virgin, on the other, the wife. He questioned himselfanxiously. A blush, as it were, overspread his mind. The Gwynplaine oflong ago had been transformed, by degrees, unconsciously in a mysteriousgrowth. His old modesty was becoming misty and uneasy. We have an ear oflight, into which speaks the spirit; and an ear of darkness, into whichspeaks the instinct. Into the latter strange voices were making theirproposals. However pure-minded may be the youth who dreams of love, acertain grossness of the flesh eventually comes between his dream andhim. Intentions lose their transparency. The unavowed desire implantedby nature enters into his conscience. Gwynplaine felt an indescribableyearning of the flesh, which abounds in all temptation, and Dea wasscarcely flesh. In this fever, which he knew to be unhealthy, hetransfigured Dea into a more material aspect, and tried to exaggerateher seraphic form into feminine loveliness. It is thou, O woman, that werequire.
Love comes not to permit too much of paradise. It requires the feveredskin, the troubled life, the unbound hair, the kiss electrical andirreparable, the clasp of desire. The sidereal is embarrassing, theethereal is heavy. Too much of the heavenly in love is like too muchfuel on a fire: the flame suffers from it. Gwynplaine fell into anexquisite nightmare; Dea to be clasped in his arms--Dea clasped in them!He heard nature in his heart crying out for a woman. Like a Pygmalion ina dream modelling a Galathea out of the azure, in the depths of his soulhe worked at the chaste contour of Dea--a contour with too much ofheaven, too little of Eden. For Eden is Eve, and Eve was a female, acarnal mother, a terrestrial nurse; the sacred womb of generations; thebreast of unfailing milk; the rocker of the cradle of the newborn world,and wings are incompatible with the bosom of woman. Virginity is but thehope of maternity. Still, in Gwynplaine's dreams, Dea, until now, hadbeen enthroned above flesh. Now, however, he made wild efforts inthought to draw her downwards by that thread, sex, which ties every girlto earth. Not one of those birds is free. Dea, like all the rest, waswithin this law; and Gwynplaine, though he scarcely acknowledged it,felt a vague desire that she should submit to it. This desire possessedhim in spite of himself, and with an ever-recurring relapse. He picturedDea as woman. He came to the point of regarding her under a hithertounheard-of form; as a creature no longer of ecstasy only, but ofvoluptuousness; as Dea, with her head resting on the pillow. He wasashamed of this visionary desecration. It was like an attempt atprofanation. He resisted its assault. He turned from it, but it returnedagain. He felt as if he were committing a criminal assault. To him Deawas encompassed by a cloud. Cleaving that cloud, he shuddered, as thoughhe were raising her chemise. It was in April. The spine has its dreams.He rambled at random with the uncertain step caused by solitude. To haveno one by is a provocative to wander. Whither flew his thoughts? Hewould not have dared to own it to himself. To heaven? No. To a bed. Youwere looking down upon him, O ye stars.
Why talk of a man in love? Rather say a man possessed. To be possessedby 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 apretty woman! The true name of love is captivity.
Man is made prisoner by the soul of a woman; by her flesh as well, andsometimes even more by the flesh than by the soul. The soul is the truelove, the flesh, the mistress.
We slander the devil. It was not he who tempted Eve. It was Eve whotempted him. The woman began. Lucifer was passing by quietly. Heperceived the woman, and became Satan.
The flesh is the cover of the unknown. It is provocative (which isstrange) by its modesty. Nothing could be more distracting. It is fullof shame, the hussey!
It was the terrible love of the surface which was then agitatingGwynplaine, and holding him in its power. Fearful the moment in whichman covets the nakedness of woman! What dark things lurk beneath thefairness of Venus!
Something within him was calling Dea aloud, Dea the maiden, Dea theother half of a man, Dea flesh and blood, Dea with uncovered bosom. Thatcry was almost driving away the angel. Mysterious crisis through whichall love must pass and in which the Ideal is in danger! Therein is thepredestination of Creation. Moment of heavenly corruption! Gwynplaine'slove of Dea was becoming nuptial. Virgin love is but a transition. Themoment was come. Gwynplaine coveted the woman.
He coveted a woman!
Precipice of which one sees but the first gentle slope!
The indistinct summons of nature is inexorable. The whole of woman--whatan abyss!
Luckily, there was no woman for Gwynplaine but Dea--the only one hedesired, the only one who could desire him.
Gwynplaine felt that vague and mighty shudder which is the vital claimof infinity. Besides there was the aggravation of the spring. He wasbreathing the nameless odours of the starry darkness. He walked forwardin a wild feeling of delight. The wandering perfumes of the rising sap,the heady irradiations which float in shadow, the distant opening ofnocturnal flowers, the complicity of little hidden nests, the murmurs ofwaters and of leaves, soft sighs rising from all things, the freshness,the warmth, and the mysterious awakening of April and May, is the vastdiffusion of sex murmuring, in whispers, their proposals ofvoluptuousness, till the soul stammers in answer to the giddyprovocation. The ideal no longer knows what it is saying.
Any one observing Gwynplaine walk would have said, "See!--a drunkenman!"
He almost staggered under the weight of his own heart, of spring, and ofthe night.
The solitude in the bowling-green was so peaceful that at times he spokealoud. The consciousness that there is no listener induces speech.
He walked with slow steps, his head bent down, his hands behind him, theleft 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 who, coming behind him with the stealth of a cat, hadplaced 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, exposedfrom top to toe through the opening of a long gray cloak, then called acapenoche, 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 aplume of tisserin feathers. He stood motionless before Gwynplaine, likea dark outline in a dream.
Gwynplaine recognized the duchess's page.
Before Gwynplaine could utter an exclamation of surprise, he heard thethin 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 bethere to conduct you--"
"Whither?" demanded Gwynplaine.
"Where you are expected."
Gwynplaine dropped his eyes on the letter, which he was holdingmechanically in his hand.
When he looked up the page was no longer with him.
He perceived a vague form lessening rapidly in the distance. It was thelittle valet. He turned the corner of the street, and solitude reignedagain.
Gwynplaine saw the page vanish, then looked at the letter. There aremoments in our lives when what happens seems not to happen. Stupor keepsus for a moment at a distance from the fact.
Gwynplaine raised the letter to his eyes, as if to read it, but soonperceived that he could not do so for two reasons--first, because he hadnot broken the seal; and, secondly, because it was too dark.
It was some minutes before he remembered that there was a lamp at theinn. He took a few steps sid
eways, as if he knew not whither he wasgoing.
A somnambulist, to whom a phantom had given a letter, might walk as hedid.
At last he made up his mind. He ran rather than walked towards the inn,stood in the light which broke through the half-open door, and by itagain examined the closed letter. There was no design on the seal, andon the envelope was written, "_To Gwynplaine_." He broke the seal, torethe envelope, unfolded the letter, put it directly under the light, andread as follows:--
"You are hideous; I am beautiful. You are a player; I am a duchess. I amthe highest; you are the lowest. I desire you! I love you! Come!"
BOOK THE FOURTH.
_THE CELL OF TORTURE._