Then he rose and went unsteadily toward the man, who held the parchment up before his eyes; upon it the words “Note of Hand” served as a heading to several lines followed by a name, beneath which a horse with a short, thick neck was crudely delineated.
Pointing his finger at the equestrian sketch, the nobleman repeated in a tone of extreme anguish: “The cob! . . . The cob! . . .”
∗ ∗ ∗
But already Canterel was making us move a short distance further in the same direction, to halt before a child of about seven, dressed in a plain blue indoor costume, with his head and his legs uncovered. He was sitting on the knee of a warmly wrapped young woman in mourning, settled in a chair standing right on the ground. The assistant, who had approached the child for a moment by way of a detour behind the stage, was now striding toward the actor with the uncovered neck.
A second bull’s-eye, precisely similar to the first, enabled us clearly to hear the little boy, who was in any case not far from us through the transparent wall. He pronounced the title “Virelai cousu” by Ronsard, then accurately recited the whole of a piece of verse, with his eyes gazing into those of the young woman, and his gestures most aptly illustrating every meaning contained in the text.
∗ ∗ ∗
When the childish voice had fallen silent, we went a little way with Canterel in the customary direction and stationed ourselves, round a young observer, in front of a man in an undyed smock, who was seated at a table standing against the inside of the glass partition, which he faced. The assistant left him and went toward the little boy, behind whom he had modestly passed in a fairly wide curve during the recitation, so as to cause no disturbance.
The man in the smock, displaying the noble head of an artist, with long gray hair, was bent over a sheet of paper completely blackened with well-dried ink. With the aid of a fine scraper he began to make some white appear on it, brushing the light scrapings aside from time to time with the lateral tip of his little finger.
Little by little beneath the blade, which he handled with consummate skill, there emerged, in white on black, the full-face portrait of a Pierrot — or rather, in view of certain details imitated from Watteau, of a clown.
The young observer in our midst, with his forehead almost pressed against the glass, was watching the artist’s subtle operations with great attention, while the latter, unable to control his mirth, several times uttered the phrase “One gross ditto” — which was carried to the outside by a third bull’s-eye identical to the others.
The work went on apace, and despite the strangeness of the purely eliminatory procedure, the clown was most elaborately drawn. At last he showed himself, full of exuberant life, with his hands on his hips and his face wreathed in laughter. The fine ink lines that the steel adroitly left behind constituted a truly graceful and charming masterpiece, whose value we could appreciate even though, from our position, we were obliged to look at it upside down.
When this had all been completed, the scraper once more demonstrated the mastery of the hand that wielded it, by composing lower down, the same clown seen from the back, still in white on the previously blackened sheet; the complete identity of pose, appearance and proportions in the two productions made it impossible to doubt the singleness of the artist’s conception. In this one also the parts deliberately missed out by the astutely suppressive blade formed an admirable whole which, even seen the wrong way up, fascinated us by the elegance of its finish.
When the artist had completed the final retouching and laid down his scraper, he stood up to take the sheet away, and spread it out slightly further from us on the revolving platform of a sculptor’s turntable — where a small armature of iron wire, in the form of a man, stood next to a set of roughing chisels and a white, lidless cardboard box, whose front displayed the words “Nocturnal Wax,” in large, inked letters.
The back of the armature was attached to a rigid vertical metal rod, with its base expanded into a disc and fastened by a screw to a wooden block set on a revolving platform. Thanks to the softness of the iron wire, the artist, by manipulating the armature, easily gave it exactly the same attitude as the clown which his scraper had just created.
Then he plunged his hand into the box and withdrew a thick stick of a kind of black wax flecked with tiny white grains, which, being reminiscent of a starry night, justified the name traced on the box. He enveloped the head, trunk and limbs of the armature, one after the other, in this nocturnal wax, then replaced all that was left of the stick in the box.
Using only his fingers, he began to give the work thus prepared a fairly definite form, continuing his task with a roughing chisel selected from among his large supply; the latter, in view of its whitish color, peculiar texture and hard, dry appearance, was evidently made of the white of bread, first shaped and then allowed to become stale.
The further the work progressed, the better we were able to recognize the figurine as the clown we had beheld just now, of which it was an exact sculptural copy — as was in any case testified by the enquiring glances which the artist incessantly darted at the black-grounded sheet.
The chisels, of varied and most unusual shapes, and composed, without exception, of hardened bread white, each served in turn.
The wax removed by the artist in his modeling was collected between the fingers of his left hand in a diminutive ball, upon which he occasionally drew for various additions.
In conjunction with his sculpting task, the active creator performed another which, although in itself a work of pure supererogation, seemed to be an indispensable aid to him in consequence of some inflexible routine: with each chisel he collected certain white specks in the nocturnal wax, which he then aligned on the statuette’s surface to form lines precisely imitating those in the ink of the model that guided him; even when he came to the laughing face he acquitted himself of this singular task, which was more delicate there than anywhere else.
From time to time he swiveled the turntable more or less, so as to tackle some other side of the work; then he would move the guiding sheet to have the two images, which served him in turn, right before his eyes — thrusting the box of wax aside when it obstructed him.
The clown made rapid progress and acquired an incomparable delicacy. In one place the artist would hide beneath the wax, unwanted white specks blemishing the work; elsewhere on the other hand, when the surface was insufficiently supplied, he would delve down slightly to procure some.
At last we had an exquisite black figurine before our eyes, which, due to the discreet highlighting in white, was a perfect negative of the playful clown whose positive was shown upon the sheet.
∗ ∗ ∗
After advancing again in the same direction, at a sign from Canterel, our group posted itself before a circular grille nearly two meters high and about one pace in diameter, in the form of a cramped cage bathed in blue light, not far behind the transparent wall dividing us from it. Binding the whole thing together were two horizontal iron circles, one above and the other below, which appeared to be completely spanned by all the bars; four of these, particularly stout and situated at the four corners of an imaginary square with two sides parallel to the glass partition, entered a fairly large floorboard, which the others did not reach.
A sick and wasted man, in dressing gown and sandals, was lying on a stretcher with a peculiar kind of helmet on his head; leaving him was the assistant who had preceded us by a detour, in accordance with his custom. The latter took a large key from his pocket and inserted it in a lock placed halfway up one of the thick bars, the one on the left furthest from us. After turning the key, he pulled a curved door to his right and opened it wide. This door simply constituted one quarter of the circular grille, and swung open on two hinges set one into each of the horizontal circles. The designation “Focal Jail” was then visible upon it, engraved, so as to be read from the outside, on a curved iron plaque whose back was attached,
quite high up, to three bars next to one another.
On the left, the sick man, who had just risen and was standing in front of the stretcher, removed his dressing gown and appeared in bathing trunks. His helmet riveted our attention. He had a small metal skullcap stuck on the top of his head and secured by a leather chinstrap passing between his lower jaw; this was surmounted by a short pivot to which was fitted the center of a round and mobile horizontal needle about five decimeters long, which, according to Canterel, was powerfully magnetic. Above the sick man’s right shoulder an old square picture frame was hanging from two small, widely separated hooks screwed vertically into the outermost part of its upper edge and passing through two horizontal holes in the needle at right angles to the latter’s axis. Within the frame, devoid of any protective glass, was an obviously very ancient print on silk showing a detailed plan of ancient Paris, identified by the three words “Map of Lutetia” arrayed in three lines in the top left-hand corner. Running through the most north-westerly suburb like a secant, was a perfectly straight, thick black line, each of whose ends overlapped the very regular curve formed by that part of the surrounding wall. A square new picture frame, likewise devoid of glass, was suspended in exactly the same manner as the old one, above the subject’s left shoulder, displaying an engraved cartoon on paper to our gaze. Beneath it was the caption “Nourrit in the role of Aeneas”; it represented a singer in profile, wearing the costume of a Trojan prince, standing on the isolated terrestrial globe, surrounded by limitless space, with his body twisted toward the middle and his throat inflamed by violent vocal effort. His feet trod Italy, situated at the top of the sphere, whose axis was considerably inclined; from his hugely distended mouth came a vertical line of dots which passed diametrically across the earth, always remaining visible amid vague geographical indications, then descended a long way without deviating and ended, at a treble stave showing a high C accompanied by three fs, in the center of a cluster of stars where the word “Nadir” was written.
The sick man, evidently afraid, advanced a few steps and entered the cylindrical prison before him. The door was shut and the key turned twice, and the bar bearing the lock, which for a time had been lacking one lengthwise portion of itself between the iron circles, once more became complete. The assistant took the key and hurried back toward the artist, who was still working on his statuette.
Shifting our gaze from the sick prisoner three meters to the right, in a straight line running parallel to the glass wall, we saw an immense round lens standing upright, perpendicular in plan to the path of the eye’s motion. This lens, exactly the same height as the circular grille, was held all round its edge by a copper ring, which was soldered beneath to the center of a disc of the same metal fixed solidly to the floor by strong screws.
Intrigued by a source of light behind it, we retreated several paces and were then able to make an unimpeded inspection of a heavy-looking black cylinder standing upright on the floor, surmounted by a large spherical ampoule of glass, from which emanated a blue radiance that was visible in spite of the broad daylight. The ampoule happened to be extinguished for a fraction of a second, showing us that the glass was uncolored and that the light itself was blue. The centers of the ampoule, the lens and the jail were placed on a horizontal straight line.
Wearing a heavy pelisse and a warm cap, the celebrated Doctor Sirhugues, whose well-known features needed no introduction, was operating various clicking buttons laid out on the flat top of the cylinder, behind the ampoule with respect to the lens, which he himself was facing. He kept his eyes constantly fixed on a round mirror with a special, invariant orientation, which was set, slightly in front of him and to his right, at the top of a vertical metal rod attached to the floor.
After advancing two paces, which brought us right up to the glass partition, we saw that the sick man was showing signs of extreme excitement, undoubtedly caused by the action of the blue light — which was more intense at the spot he occupied than anywhere else, for the lens’s focus fell glaringly at the center of the appropriately named focal jail.
Behind the jail, with respect to us who were opposite him, was a man wearing woollen gloves and snugly buttoned up in a stout capote, the hood of which enveloped his head. In his raised right hand he held horizontal an iron rod, which we understood from Canterel to be a magnet. Keeping his eyes on the sick man’s helmet, he so positioned himself that the engravings faced the light source constantly — since the poles were arranged with this in view, it only entailed holding the magnet close to the required part of the pivoting needle in such a way that the latter was in a line perpendicular to our glass partition at any given moment.
Canterel made us lean slightly to our right, advising us to observe the engraving in which Nourrit featured. Since the invalid’s incarceration it had become very faded and was visibly being effaced. Upon the rapidity or otherwise with which it was gradually abolished, the professor informed us, Doctor Sirhugues entirely relied as he devoted himself to manipulating the cylinder’s buttons; these, it seemed, produced fluctuations in the blue light’s intensity that, though imperceptible to the naked eye, were considerable. In his mirror, Sirhugues had a perfect view of the jail from which he was divided by the lens. The moment the new frame showed nothing except blank paper, the clicking of the buttons, which had still been audible for a certain time, proved, by stopping, that the focusing of the light had been finally accomplished. As for the map of Lutetia, it stood out as boldly as before.
Little by little the invalid had reached a pitch of agitation and was quite beside himself. Impelled to flee from some affliction, he tried to shake out several of the jail’s bars with his feet and hands; then he would jump, twist, kneel and stand up again, visibly tormented by unendurable anguish. In spite of these jerks and pirouettes, the two frames continued to face the distant lens, thanks to the efforts of the hooded man who, by moving his vigilant hand to right or left, or up or down, never for a moment failed to bring the imperious magnet, the slave of which was the pivoting needle, into the correct position — without ever letting it enter the jail or accidentally stick to the bars.
For some time we watched the invalid fling himself about like this, as though insane. Without waiting for the end of the ordeal, Canterel made us resume our walk. As we passed by the vicinity of the black cylinder, we saw Doctor Sirhugues, his hands over the buttons on the platform, still staring fixedly at his mirror, without having changed his position. The professor told us that now the burlesque engraving had disappeared, he was watching the map of Lutetia, which was highly resistant. Had it started to fade, this would have shown him that his photogenic apparatus had suddenly broken down and was working with excessive power — which would have required his brisk intervention.
∗ ∗ ∗
As we continued on our way, we noticed behind Doctor Sirhugues the back of a kind of stage set, which we passed before stopping. Its front then appeared to us as the partial representation of an opulent façade of painted and moulded plaster at right angles to the glass wall, which it touched slightly to our left.
Right next to us, the two genuine leaves of an entrance in this façade opened widely inward, surmounted by the words “Hôtel de l’Europe,” giving onto a kind of tiled hall whose walls were simply represented by painted canvas erected on frames. Over the entrance, just above the center of the horizontal part of the door frame, was a short wrought-iron bar projecting outward, perpendicular to the façade. An enormous fixed lantern hung at its tip, displaying a map of Europe painted all in red upon that of its four panes which would confront anyone walking straight toward the threshold. Above the entrance — contrasting with the windows of the supposed building, which were merely painted in trompe l’œil — jutted a large canopy of real glass that allowed a bright beam of light to pass through, slanting down onto the gaudy map from an electric lamp with a reflector fixed, above, to one of the iron crossbars of the vast cage’s transparent ceiling. The
effect was of the sun casting a ray of light onto the spot, despite the cloud concealing it at that moment.
A man in deep mourning, wrapped up as though to go out in freezing weather, stood before the entrance several paces from the threshold, next to a very young page who, by contrast, was wearing summer livery.
Just before, while we were halted in front of the invalid, we had seen the assistant pass by, bearing toward the right, some way away. Suddenly he emerged from the tiled hall, went off rapidly in a straight line, with his back toward us all the way along to the end of the façade, and vanished to the left. Leaning our heads backward, we saw him reach the focal jail at a run.
A beautiful woman, whose fascinating nails glittered like mirrors whenever her fingers moved, emerged in her turn from the hall, wearing a light and elegant costume for the beach. She was pursued by an old man in hotel livery, who was scarcely across the threshold when he stopped her by handing her an envelope.
In spite of the tea rose she was holding in her hand by the middle of its stem, it was with this hand that the young woman took the letter, since it was less encumbered than the other, in which parasol and gloves convened. Thanks to our closeness, we noticed on the envelope the word “peeress,” which was the only one to be written in red ink.
This fascinating person was evidently disturbed by some detail in the address, for she seemed suddenly rooted to the spot, and gave a start which made her prick herself on a thorn upon the stem, just then positioned between the envelope and her thumb.
As if the sight of her blood, which at once stained the paper and the stem, had for some reason made an abnormally strong impression on her, she let go of the two moist red objects in horror — then, motionless and hypnotized, she began to stare at her thumb, which was by now half-raised.
“In the half-moon . . . all of Europe . . . red . . . all of it . . .” — these words which she spoke reached us through a bull’s-eye contrived here also in the glass partition, and no way different from the previous ones; they were occasioned by the contents of the map on the glass, which glittered in mid-air behind her back beneath the artificial sunbeam, presenting itself to her view in the half-moon of her so amazingly reflective thumbnail.
Locus Solus Page 11