Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4

THE AWAKING

The beginning of day is sinister. A sad pale light penetrated the hut. It was the frozen dawn. The caravan was warm. The light of dawn was slowly taking possession of the horizon. Only a few large stars resisted.

The boy opened his eyes. He lay in a state of semi-stupor, without knowing where he was or what was near him, without making an effort to remember, gazing at the ceiling. He gazed dreamily at the letters of the inscription – “Ursus, Philosopher”. The sound of the key turning in the lock caused him to turn his head.

The boy awoke. The wolf gave him a morning yawn, showing two rows of very white teeth. The boy, seeing the wolf in the caravan, got out of the bear-skin, and placed himself in front of the little infant, who was sleeping more soundly than ever.

Ursus had just hung the lantern up on a nail in the ceiling. His eyes were glassy. He exclaimed, -

“Happy, doubtless! Dead!”

He bent down, -

“I found her. The mischief had buried her under two feet of snow. Homo helped me. How cold she was! I touched her hand – a stone! What silence in her eyes! How can any one be such a fool as to die and leave a child behind? A pretty 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 licked it so softly that he did not awake the little infant. Ursus turned round.

“Well done, Homo. I shall be father, and you shall be uncle. Adoption! Homo is willing.”

Raising his eyes, they met those of the boy, who was listening. Ursus addressed him abruptly, -

“What are you laughing about?”

The boy answered, -

“I am not laughing.”

Ursus looked at him fixedly for a few minutes, and said, -

“Then you are frightful.”

The interior of the 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 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 laugh, I tell you.”

Then he asked him: roughly, -

“Who did that to you?”

The child replied, -

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How long have you had that laugh?”

“I have always been thus,” said the child.

Ursus turned towards the chest. Then the sun arose. The red rays gleamed through the glass, and struck against the face of the infant, which was turned towards him. Her eyeballs reflected his purple orbit like two mirrors. The eyeballs were immovable, the eyelids also.

“See!” said Ursus. “She is blind.”

LORD CLANCHARLIE AND LORD DAVID DIRRY-MOIR

There was, in those days, an old tradition. That tradition was Lord Clancharlie. He was one of the peers of England – few in number – who accepted the republic. He had retired into Switzerland, and dwelt in a sort of lofty ruin on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. It was the sketch of a madman. Thinking of Lord Clancharlie, some laughed out aloud, others could not restrain their anger. Lord Clancharlie had never had any brains. Everyone agreed on that point.

Lord Clancharlie. was walking, his hands behind him, along the shores of the Lake of Geneva. In London they sometimes spoke of the exile. He was accused before the tribunal of public opinion. They pleaded for and against him.

But Lord Clancharlie had not always been old and proscribed. He had had his phase of youth and passion. He had a natural 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 at the court of Charles II. Then he prospered under James II.

The king is dead. Long live the king! It was on the accession of the Duke of York that he obtained permission to call himself Lord David Dirry-Moir, from an estate which his mother had left him.

Lord David was head of the king’s granary. He had the management of the race-horses. He was a brave lord, handsome, generous, and majestic in look and in manner. His person was like his quality. He was tall in stature as well as high in birth.

The king had no objection to raise Lord David Dirry-Moir to the Upper House. He wanted to transform Lord David Dirry-Moir, lord by courtesy, into a lord by right.

The opportunity occurred.

One day it was announced that several things had happened to the old exile, Lord Clancharlie, the most important of which was that he was dead. People related what they knew, or what they thought they knew, of the last years of Lord Clancharlie. What they said was probably a legend. King James declared, one fine morning, Lord David Dirry-Moir sole and positive heir, and by his royal pleasure, of Lord Clancharlie, his natural father. So the king instituted Lord David Dirry-Moir in the titles, rights, and prerogatives of the late Lord Clancharlie, 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. This little infant was called the Duchess Josiana.

It was to this little duchess that the king granted the peerage of Clancharlie. Besides the Clancharlie inheritance, Lady Josiana had her own fortune. She possessed great wealth, much of which was derived from Henrietta of England, Duchess of Orleans, the lady of highest rank in France after the queen.

Lord David prospered under Charles and James, and he prospered under William. A poet, like everyone else; a good servant of the state, a good servant to the prince; assiduous at feasts, at galas, at ladies’ receptions, at ceremonies, and in battle; servile in a gentlemanlike way; very haughty; inclined to integrity; obsequious or arrogant, as occasion required; frank and sincere on first acquaintance; careless before a sword; always ready to risk his life on a sign from his Majesty with heroism and complacency; a man of courtesy and etiquette; a courtier on the surface, a paladin below; quite young at forty-five. Lord David sang French songs, loved eloquence and fine language^[25].

DUCHESS JOSIANA

Towards 1705, although Lady Josiana was twenty-three and Lord David forty-four, the wedding had not yet taken place. Did they hate each other? Far from it. Josiana wanted to remain free, David to remain young.

Josiana and David carried on a flirtation. They did not love, they pleased, each other. To be at each other’s side was enough. Why hasten? Josiana, while she knew herself to be a bastard, felt herself a princess. She had a fancy for Lord David. Lord David was handsome, she considered him to be fashionable.

To be fashionable is everything. Lord David bowed down before the fascinations of the Duchess Josiana – a maiden without spot or scruple, haughty, inaccessible, and audacious. He addressed sonnets to her, which Josiana sometimes read. He waited in the antechamber outside Josiana’s heart; and this suited the convenience of both. Lady Josiana said,

“It is a bore that I should be obliged to marry Lord David; I, who would desire nothing better than to be in love with him!”

Josiana was very tall – too tall. Her hair 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 round with pride. Men! oh, fie! A god only would be worthy of her, or a monster. Josiana possessed all possible virtue, but without any innocence. She disdained intrigues. She thought little of her reputation, but much of her glory. Josiana felt herself majestic and material. She trod upon hearts. She was earthly.

She would show herself without hesitation to a satyr or a eunuch. She had the self-possession of a goddess. She was a possible Astarte in a real Diana. She was tempting and inaccessible. She dwelt in a halo of glory. She was a little too heavy for her cloud. Josiana was in everything – in birth, in beauty, in irony, in brilliancy – almost a queen. She had felt a moment’s enthusiasm for Louis de Bouffes, who used to break horseshoes between his fingers. She regretted that Hercules was dead. She lived in some undefined expectation of a voluptuous and supreme ideal.

The Duchess knew Latin. Then (another fine thing) she was secretly a Catholic. With all that she was a prude. The advantage of prudes is that they disorganize the human race. They deprive it of the honour of their adherence. Beyond all, keep the human species at a distance. This is a point of the greatest importance.

She must eventually marry Lord David, since such was the royal pleasure. It was a necessity, doubtless; but what a pity! They eluded each other.

Lord David was forty. He did not perceive this, and in truth he looked no more than thirty. He considered it more amusing to desire Josiana than to possess her. He possessed others. He had mistresses. On the other hand, Josiana had dreams.

BARKILPHEDRO

It is useful to know what people do, and a certain surveillance is wise. Josiana had Lord David watched by a man, whose name was Barkilphedro. She was sure of him.

Lord David had Josiana discreetly observed by a man, of whom he was sure, and whose name was Barkilphedro as well.

Queen Anne, on her part, kept herself secretly informed of the actions and conduct of the Duchess Josiana, her bastard sister, and of Lord David, her future brother-in-law, by a man, on whom she counted fully, and whose name was Barkilphedro.

A man between two women. What modulations possible! What amalgamation of souls! Barkilphedro was an old servant of the Duke of York. He had tried to be a churchman but had failed. Josiana liked this man of poverty and wit, an interesting combination. She presented him 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 even spoke to him.

One day Barkilphedro said to Josiana, -

“Would your Grace like to make my fortune?”

“What do you want?”

“An appointment^[26].”

“An appointment? for you!”

“Yes, madam.”

“What an idea! You, who are good for nothing.”

“That’s just the reason.”

Josiana burst out laughing.

“Which appointment do you desire?”

“That of cork drawer of the bottles^[27] of the ocean.”

“What do you mean thou? You are fooling.”

“No, madam.”

“To amuse myself, I shall answer you seriously,” said the duchess. “What do you 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 news to me. Go on.”

“There is such an appointment at the Admiralty.”

“Then you wish…? Begin again.”

“To uncork the bottles of the ocean.”

“It is like grooming a bronze horse.”

“Very nearly.”

“Nothing to do. Well you are good for that much.”

“You see I am good for something.”

“Come! you are talking nonsense. Is there such an appointment?”

“Your Grace the sea is boundless: there is always something floating. This appointment is vacant now. The appointment exists. There is for the office a room and lodgings at the Admiralty.”

“And how is one paid?”

“One hundred guineas a year. It is enough to live upon.”

“Like a beggar. It’s a bagatelle.”

“What keeps you for a minute, keeps us for a year. That’s the advantage of the poor.”

“You will have the place.”

A week afterwards, Barkilphedro was installed at the Admiralty.

There is one thing: people are ungrateful. Having received so many benefits from Josiana, Barkilphedro 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 well.

Barkilphedro was an Irishman who had denied Ireland. This man was full of malice.

What was Barkilphedro’s age? It is difficult to say. 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, certainly; a republican – who knows? A Catholic, perhaps; a Protestant, without doubt. To be For is a power only on the condition of being at the same time Against. Barkilphedro practised this wisdom.

What was Barkilphedro? That meanest and most terrible of men – an envious man. Envy is good stuff to make a spy.

Barkilphedro had other qualities. He was discreet, secret, concrete. He was liked by those whom he amused, and hated by all others. He felt that he was disdained by those who hated him, and despised by those who liked him. He restrained himself. He was indignant. To swallow everything was his talent.

He was kind, prompt, easy, amiable, obliging. Never mind to whom, never mind where, he bowed. Barkilphedro’s body was obese and his face lean. A fat bust and a bony countenance. His nose, long, sharp, and flabby, nearly met his mouth. Patience, temperance, continence, reserve, self-control, amenity, deference, gentleness, politeness, sobriety, chastity, completed and finished Barkilphedro. In a short time Barkilphedro took a foothold at court^[28].

Besides the queen, Barkilphedro secretly worked, influenced, and plotted upon Lady Josiana and Lord David. Barkilphedro became a necessity. Many great people honoured him with their confidence.

Josiana reposed such confidence in him that she had entrusted him with one of the keys of her apartments, by means of which he was able to enter them at any hour. This 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.

BARKILPHEDRO IN AMBUSCADE

To find the vulnerable spot in Josiana, and to strike her there, was the imperturbable determination of Barkilphedro. But how? That was the question.

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. How did the queen feel towards the Duchess Josiana? Did she wish her good or evil?

Here was the problem. Barkilphedro set himself to solve it. Divers chances served Barkilphedro.

Anne was, on her husband’s side, slightly related to the new Queen of Prussia. One day, in the presence of Barkilphedro, Anne asked the ambassador some question about this Drika.

“They say she is rich?”

“Very rich.”

“She has palaces?”

“More magnificent than those of her sister, the queen.”

“Whom will she marry?”

“A great lord, the Count Gormo.”

“Pretty?”

“Charming.”

“Is she young?”

“Very young.”

“As beautiful as the queen?”

The ambassador lowered his voice, and replied, -

“More beautiful.”

“That is insolent,” murmured Barkilphedro.

The queen was silent; then she exclaimed, -

“Those bastards!”

Another time, when the queen was leaving the chapel, Barkilphedro kept pretty close to her Majesty, behind the two grooms. Lord David Dirry-Moir made a sensation by his handsome appearance. As he passed 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. 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?

One day Lady Josiana asked Lord David, -

“What can drive my spleen away?”

Lord David stopped, looked at Josiana, shut his mouth, and inflated his cheeks, 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?”

GWYNPLAINE AND DEA

Nature had bestowed on Gwynplaine a mouth opening to his ears, ears folding over to his eyes, a shapeless nose to support the spectacles, and a face that no one could look upon without laughing.

Gwynplaine was a mountebank. He showed himself on the platform. 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. One day the executioner came, and Gwynplaine made him laugh. He spoke, and the people rolled on the ground.

It was Gwynplaine’s laugh which created the laughter of others, yet he did not laugh himself. His 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.

On seeing Gwynplaine, all laughed. When they had laughed they turned away their heads. Women especially shrank from him with horror. The man was frightful. 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 nature. Gwynplaine, beautiful in figure, had probably been beautiful in face. At his birth he had no doubt resembled other infants.

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. 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. Fifteen years had elapsed. It was in 1705. Gwynplaine was twenty-five years old.

Ursus had kept the two children with him. They were a group of wanderers. Ursus and Homo had aged. Ursus had become quite bald. The wolf was growing gray.

The little girl found on the dead woman was now a tall creature of sixteen, with brown hair, slight, fragile, admirably beautiful, her eyes full of light, yet blind. That fatal winter had killed the mother and blinded the child. Her eyes, large and clear, had a strange quality: to others they were brilliant. They were mysterious torches lighting only the outside. They gave light.

In her dead look there was a celestial earnestness. She was the night, she was a star. Ursus, with his mania 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 will represent the world. Human, animal, and Divine.”

The wolf made no objection. Therefore the girl was called Dea.

As to Gwynplaine, Ursus had not had the trouble of inventing a name for him. He had asked him,

“Boy, what is your name?” and the boy had answered,

“They call me Gwynplaine.”

“Be Gwynplaine, then,” said Ursus.

Dea assisted Gwynplaine in his performances. Mankind was for Gwynplaine, as for Dea, an exterior fact. She was alone, he was alone. The isolation of Dea was funereal, she saw nothing; that of Gwynplaine sinister, he saw all things. Nothing was infinite to her but darkness. For Gwynplaine to live was to have the crowd for ever before him and outside him. They had reached the depth of possible calamity; they had sunk into it, both of them. And they were in a Paradise. They were in love. Gwynplaine adored Dea. Dea idolized Gwynplaine.

“How handsome you are!” she would say to him.

TRUE EYES

Only one woman on earth saw Gwynplaine. It was the blind girl. She had learned what Gwynplaine had done for her, from Ursus, to whom he had related his rough journey from Portland to Weymouth, and the many sufferings which he had endured. He had given her his rags, because she was cold; he had given her food and drink. Dea 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 her sickness, and sight to her blindness. Through the mist of the unknown, she distinguished clearly his devotion, his abnegation, his courage. Dea quivered with certainty and gratitude, her anxiety changed into ecstasy. Kindness is the sun; and Gwynplaine dazzled Dea.

To the crowd, Gwynplaine was a clown, a merry-andrew^[29], a mountebank, a creature grotesque, a little more and a little less than a beast. The crowd knew only the face.

For Dea, Gwynplaine was the saviour, who made life tolerable; the liberator, whose hand guided her through that labyrinth called blindness. Gwynplaine was her brother, friend, guide, support; the personification of heavenly power; the husband, winged and resplendent. Where the multitude saw the monster, Dea recognized the archangel. Blind Dea perceived his soul.

Ursus, a philosopher, understood that. He approved of the fascination of Dea. He said,

“The blind see the invisible. 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. Gwynplaine was not ugly; he was frightful. Dea was sweet. He was horror; she was grace. Dea was his dream. She was almost an angel, and yet just a woman.

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 please, to seek, and to find each other.