Instead of concluding with these simple words: “I do not understand because the cause escapes me,” we immediately imagine terrifying mysteries and supernatural powers.
July 14. Bastille Day. I walked about in the streets. I was as delighted by the firecrackers and flags as a child. It is idiotic, though, to be happy on schedule, on a day decreed by the government. The people are an imbecilic herd, sometimes stupidly patient and sometimes ferociously rebellious. They are told, “Have fun.” They have fun. They are told, “Go fight with your neighbor.” They go fight. They are told, “Vote for the Emperor.” They vote for the Emperor. Then, they are told: “Vote for the Republic.” And they vote for the Republic.
Those who run it are also fools; but instead of obeying people, they obey principles, which can only be inane, impotent, and false because of the very fact that they are principles, that is, ideas imagined to be definite and immutable, in this world where we are sure of nothing, since light is an illusion, since sound is an illusion.
July 16. I saw some things yesterday that troubled me very much.
I was dining at my cousin’s, Madame Sablé, whose husband is in command of the 76th Chasseurs in Limoges. I was there as a guest along with two young women, one of whom had married a doctor, Dr. Parent, who spends much of his time studying nervous illnesses and the extraordinary symptoms that experiments with hypnotism and suggestion are producing these days.
He told us at great length about the incredible results obtained by English scholars and by doctors in the Nancy school.
The facts he mentioned seemed to me so bizarre that I told him I didn’t believe him at all.
“We are,” he asserted, “on the verge of discovering one of the most important secrets of nature, I mean one of its most important secrets on this earth, for nature must have far more important ones, up there, in the stars. Ever since man has thought, ever since he has known how to speak and write his thoughts, he has felt touched by a mystery impenetrable to his coarse and imperfect senses, and he has tried, by the effort of his intelligence, to compensate for the powerlessness of his organs. When this intelligence was still in its rudimentary state, this haunting by invisible phenomena took frightening forms of the most commonplace kind. Hence popular beliefs in the supernatural were born, legends of wandering spirits, fairies, gnomes, ghosts, I will even say the legend of God, for our concepts of the artificer-creator, from whatever religion they come to us, are indeed the most mediocre inventions, the stupidest, the most unacceptable ones ever to have come from the frightened brains of creatures. Nothing is truer than this saying of Voltaire’s: ‘God made man in his image, but man has returned the favor.’
“But for a little more than century there has been a presentiment of something new. Mesmer and a few others have put us on an unexpected track, and we have truly arrived, especially in the last four or five years, at surprising results.”
My cousin, also very skeptical, smiled. Dr. Parent said to her,
“Do you want me to try to put you to sleep, Madame?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.”
She sat down in an armchair and he began to look at her fixedly, hypnotizing her. I felt all of a sudden a little troubled; my heart was beating and my throat tightened. I saw Madame Sablé’s eyes becoming heavier, her mouth clenching, her chest heaving.
After ten minutes, she was asleep.
“Position yourself behind her,” the doctor said to me.
So I sat down behind her. He placed in her hands a visiting card and said to her, “This is a mirror. What do you see in it?”
She replied, “I see my cousin.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is twisting his moustache.”
“And now?”
“He is taking a photograph out of his pocket.”
“What does this photograph show?”
“Himself.”
It was true! And this photograph had just been delivered to me, that very evening, at the hotel.
“How is he shown in this portrait?”
“He is standing, with his hat in his hand.”
So she could see in this card, in this white pasteboard, as she would have seen in a mirror.
The other young women, terrified, said, “That’s enough! Enough! Enough!”
But the doctor commanded, “You will get up tomorrow at eight o’clock; then you will go find your cousin at his hotel, and you will beg him to lend you five thousand francs, which your husband asks you for, and which he needs to get from you for his next trip.”
Then he woke her up.
As I was returning to the hotel, I thought about this curious séance, and I began to be assailed by doubts—not about the absolute, unquestionable good faith of my cousin, whom I have known like my sister, since childhood, but about the possible trickery of the doctor. Might he not have been hiding a mirror in his hand, which he was showing to the young woman asleep, at the same time as his visiting card? Professional magicians are known to do even more unusual things.
I returned, then, and went to bed.
This morning, around eight-thirty, I was awakened by my valet, who said to me:
“Madame Sablé is here, asking to speak to Monsieur right away.”
I dressed myself in haste and invited her in.
She sat down, very agitated, her eyes lowered, and, without raising her veil, she said to me:
“My dear cousin, I have a great favor to ask you.”
“What is it, cousin?”
“It embarrasses me very much to tell you, but I must. I am in need, in dire need, of five thousand francs.”
“Really? You?”
“Yes, me, or rather, my husband, who has asked me to get them.”
I was so stupefied that I stammered out my replies. I wondered if she and Dr. Parent weren’t really making fun of me, if this weren’t simply a farce prepared in advance and very well played.
But, as I looked at her attentively, all my doubts dissipated. She was trembling with anxiety, so painful was this task to her, and I could tell that her throat was choking with sobs.
I knew she was very wealthy, and I continued:
“But doesn’t your husband have five thousand francs at his disposal? Think about it. Are you really sure he told you to ask me for them?”
She hesitated for a few seconds, as if she were making a great effort to search through her memory, then replied:
“Yes … yes … I am sure.”
“He wrote to you?”
She hesitated again, thinking. I could see how hard it was for her to think. She didn’t know. She just knew that she had to borrow five thousand francs from me for her husband. So she dared to lie.
“Yes, he wrote to me.”
“When? You never mentioned it to me yesterday.”
“I only received his letter this morning.”
“Can you show it to me?”
“No … no … no … it contained private matters … too personal … I … I burned it.”
“So, your husband has debts, then?”
She hesitated again, then murmured:
“I don’t know.”
I stated flatly: “The fact is, I can’t give you five thousand francs right now, my dear cousin.”
She let out a sort of cry of anguish.
“Oh! I implore you, I implore you, find them.…”
She became distraught, joining her hands together as if she were praying to me! I heard her voice change tone. She cried and stammered, tormented, dominated by the irresistible order she had received.
“Oh! I beg you … if you only knew how much I am suffering … I must have the money today.”
I took pity on her.
“You will have it this afternoon, I swear to you.”
She cried out: “Oh! Thank you! Thank you! How good you are.”
I continued: “Do you remember what happened yesterday at your house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember that Dr. Pa
rent put you to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he ordered you to come to me this morning to borrow five thousand francs from me, and you are obeying his suggestion right now.”
She thought for a few seconds and replied:
“But it’s my husband who wants them.”
I tried to convince her for an hour, but didn’t succeed.
When she had left, I ran over to the doctor’s. He was about to go out; and he listened to me, smiling. Then he said:
“Do you believe now?”
“Yes, I’m compelled to.”
“Let’s go to your cousin’s.”
She was already napping on a chaise longue, overwhelmed with fatigue. The doctor took her pulse, looked at her for some time, then raised his hand over her eyes. Gradually they closed, under the irresistible force of this magnetic power.
When she had fallen asleep:
“Your husband no longer needs the five thousand francs. You are going to forget that you begged your cousin to lend them to you. If he speaks to you about it, you will not understand.”
Then he woke her up. I took my wallet out of my pocket.
“Here, dear cousin, is what you asked me for this morning.”
She was so surprised that I didn’t dare insist. I did try to revive her memory, but she strongly denied everything, thought I was making fun of her, and, in the end, almost became angry.
There you have it. I have just returned; I couldn’t eat lunch, so upsetting this experience was for me.
July 19. Many people to whom I reported this adventure made fun of me. I no longer know what to think. The wise man says, “Perhaps!”.
July 21. I went out to dine in Bougival; then I spent the evening at a dance at the rowing club. Decidedly, everything depends on places and environments. To believe in the supernatural on the Ile de la Grenouillère would be the height of folly … but on top of Mont Saint-Michel? Or in India? We are appallingly subject to the influence of our surroundings. I will return to my house next week.
July 30. I have been back home since yesterday. Everything is fine.
August 2. Nothing new; the weather is superb. I spend my days watching the Seine flow by.
August 4. Quarrels among the servants. They claim someone is breaking the glasses at night in the china closets. The valet blames the cook, who blames the laundress, who blames the other two. Who is guilty? Who can say, in the end?
August 6. This time, I am not mad. I saw … I saw … I saw! I can no longer doubt—I saw! I am still cold down to my fingertips … I am still afraid to the marrow of my bones … I saw!
I was taking a walk at two o’clock, in the full sunlight, in my rose garden … in the lane of autumn roses, which are beginning to flower.
As I was pausing to look at a Géant des Batailles, which bore three magnificent flowers, I saw, very distinctly, quite close to me, the stem of one of these roses bend itself, as if an invisible hand were twisting it, then break off, as if this hand had plucked it! Then the flower rose up, following the curve an arm would have described when carrying it toward a mouth, and it remained suspended in the transparent air, all alone, immobile, a terrifying red shape three feet from my eyes.
Agitated, I threw myself on it, to seize it. I found nothing; it had disappeared. Then I was overcome with a furious rage at myself; for a reasonable, serious man may not permit himself such hallucinations.
But was this truly a hallucination? I turned back to look for the stem, and I found it immediately on the shrub, freshly broken, between the two other roses that remained on the branch.
Then I returned to my house, my soul in turmoil; for I am certain, now, certain as I am of the alternation of day and night, that there exists close to me an invisible being, who feeds on milk and water, who can touch things, hold them, and make them change places. He is gifted, consequently, with a material nature, although it is imperceptible to our senses, and he is living, as I am, beneath my roof.…
August 7. I slept calmly. It drank the water from my carafe, but did not trouble my sleep at all.
I wonder if I am crazy. As I was walking just now in the full sunshine, along the river, doubts about my reason came to me, not vague doubts as I have had till now, but precise, absolute doubts. I have seen madmen; I have known some who remained intelligent, lucid, even perceptive about all matters of life, except on one point. They speak of everything with clarity, agility, and profundity, and suddenly, as their thoughts turn to the stumbling-block of their madness, their thought processes shatter, scatter, and sink into that terrifying and furious ocean, full of leaping waves, fogs, and squalls, which we call “dementia”.
Surely, I would think myself crazy, absolutely crazy, if I weren’t aware of my condition, if I weren’t completely familiar with it, if I didn’t probe it by means of the most complete and lucid analysis. So I am in fact just a rational person suffering from hallucinations. An unknown distress has been produced in my brain, one of those distresses that the physiologists of today try to observe and explain. This distress has established a profound divide in my mind, in the order and logic of my ideas. Similar phenomena occur in dreams, which parade us through the most implausible phantasmagoria without our being surprised, since the verifying apparatus, the sense of control, is asleep, while the imaginative faculty is awake and at work. Isn’t it possible that one of those imperceptible keys on the cerebral keyboard has become paralyzed in me? After an accident, people can lose their memory of proper names or verbs or numbers, or just dates. The localizations of all these fragments of thought have now been proven. So what is so surprising about the fact that my faculty of controlling the unreality of certain hallucinations has been numbed in me for the moment?
I was thinking about all of that as I followed the water’s edge. The sun was coating the river with brightness, making the land delightful, filling my gaze with love for life, for the swallows, whose agility is a joy to my eyes, for the grasses on shore, whose rustling is a delight to my ears.
Little by little, however, an inexplicable uneasiness penetrated me. A force, it seemed to me, an occult force was making me go numb, stopping me, preventing me from going further, was calling me back. I felt that painful need to return that oppresses you when you have left an ailing loved one at home, and you suddenly feel a premonition that the sickness has grown worse.
So I returned, despite myself, certain that I was going to find, in my house, some piece of bad news, a letter or a telegram. There was nothing there, yet I was more surprised and anxious than if I had had another fantastic vision.
August 8. I had a frightful evening yesterday. It no longer manifests itself, but I feel it close to me, spying on me, watching me, penetrating me, dominating me, being all the more dreadful by hiding itself than if it gave some sign of its invisible and constant presence by means of supernatural phenomena.
Yet I slept.
August 9. Nothing, but I am afraid.
August 10. Nothing. What will happen tomorrow?
August 11. Still nothing. I can no longer remain at home with this fear and this thought always in my soul. I am going to go away.
August 12, 10 o’clock in the evening. All day I wanted to leave, but I could not. I wanted to perform this act of freedom that is so easy, so simple—going out—climbing into my carriage to go to Rouen—but I could not. Why?
August 13. When one is stricken with certain illnesses, all the resources of the physical being seem to be destroyed, all energies annihilated, all muscles limp. The bones seem to have become soft as flesh, and the flesh liquid as water. I am experiencing exactly that in my moral fiber in a strange and distressing way. I have lost all strength, all courage, all self-control, even all power to put my will in motion. I can no longer want anything; but someone wants for me; and I obey.
August 14. I am lost. Someone possesses my soul and governs it. Someone controls all my actions, all my movements, all my thoughts. I am nothing inside, nothing but a slave spectator, terri
fied of all the things I do. I want to go out. I cannot. It doesn’t want to, so I remain, distraught, trembling, in the armchair where it is keeping me seated. I just want to get up, to stand up, just to believe I am still master of myself. I can’t. I am riveted to my chair; my chair sticks to the floor, so that no strength can raise us.
Then all of a sudden, I must, I must go to the back of my garden to pick strawberries and eat them. And I go. I pick strawberries and I eat them! Oh my God! My God! Is there a God? If there is, set me free, save me! Help me! Forgive me! Have pity on me! Mercy! Save me! Save me from this suffering—this torture—this horror!
August 15. Surely this is how my poor cousin was possessed and dominated, when she came to borrow five thousand francs from me. She was undergoing a strange will that had entered her, like another soul, like a parasitic and dominating soul. Is the world about to end?
But the one that is governing me, what is it, this invisible thing? This unknowable thing, this prowler from a supernatural race?
So Invisible Beings do exist! But why haven’t they ever revealed themselves in a clear way since the beginning of the world, as they are doing for me? I have never read anything that resembles what has been going on in my house. If only I could leave it, if only I could go out, flee and not come back, I would be saved. But I cannot.
August 16. I was able to escape today for two hours, like a prisoner who finds the door of his dungeon left open by chance. I felt I was free all of a sudden, and that he was far away. I ordered the carriage to be harnessed quickly, and I reached Rouen. What joy it was to be able to say to someone who obeys: “Go to Rouen!”
I had him stop in front of the library, and I asked them to lend me the great treatise by Dr. Hermann Herestauss on the unknown inhabitants of the ancient and modern world.
Then, as I was climbing back into my carriage, I wanted to say, “To the train station!” but I shouted—not said, but shouted—in such a loud voice that a passersby turned around, “Home,” and I fell, stricken with anguish, onto the cushion of my car. He had found me and recaptured me.
The Horla Page 2