Sometimes I ask myself whether I love her. I can’t answer that question entirely, because I have never been in love. But if the feeling I bear towards Clarimonde is really – well, love – then love is certainly very, very different from what I saw of it among my acquaintances or learned about it in novels.
It is becoming quite difficult to define my emotions. In fact, it is becoming difficult even to think about anything at all that has no bearing on Clarimonde – or rather, on our game. For there is truly no denying it: it’s really the game that preoccupies me – nothing else. And that’s the thing I understand least of all.
Clarimonde – well, yes, I feel attracted to her. But mingled with the attraction there is another feeling – almost like a sense of fear. Fear? No, it isn’t fear either: it is more of a temerity, a certain inarticulate alarm or apprehension before something I cannot define. And it is just this apprehension that has some strange compulsion, something curiously passionate that keeps me at a distance from her and at the same time draws me constantly nearer to her. It is as if I were going around her in a wide circle, came a little nearer at one place, withdrew again, went on, approached her again at another point and again retreated rapidly. Until finally – of that I am absolutely certain – I must go to her.
Clarimonde is sitting at her window and spinning. Threads – long, thin, infinitely fine threads. She seems to be making some fabric – I don’t know just what it is to be. And I can’t understand how she can make the network without tangling or tearing the delicate fabric. There are wonderful patterns in her work – patterns full of fabulous monsters and curious grotesques. For that matter – but what am I writing? The fact of the matter is that I can’t even see what it is she is spinning: the threads are much too fine. And yet I can’t help feeling that her work must be exactly as I see it when I close my eyes. Exactly. A huge network peopled with many creatures – fabulous monsters, and curious grotesque…
Thursday, March 17
I find myself in a strange state of agitation. I no longer talk to any one; I hardly even say good morning to Madame Dubonnet or the porter. I hardly take time to eat; I only want to sit at the window and play with her. It’s an exacting game. Truly it is.
And I have a premonition that tomorrow something must happen.
Friday, March 18
Yes, yes. Something must happen today…I tell myself – oh, yes, I talk aloud, just to hear my own voice – that it is just for that I am here. But the worst of it is that I am afraid. And this fear that what has happened to my predecessors in this room may also happen to me is curiously mingled with my other fear – the fear of Clarimonde. I can hardly keep them apart. I am afraid. I would like to scream.
6 p.m.
Let me put down a few words quickly, and then get into my hat and coat.
By the time five o’clock came, my strength was gone. Oh, I know now for certain that it must have something to do with this sixth hour of the next to the last day of the week…Now I can no longer laugh at the fraud with which I duped the Commissioner. I sat on my chair and stayed there only by exerting my will-power to the utmost. But this thing drew me, almost pulled me to the window. I had to play with Clarimonde – and then again there rose that terrible fear of the window. I saw them hanging there – the Swiss travelling salesman, a large fellow with a thick neck and a grey stubble beard. And the lanky acrobat and the stocky, powerful police sergeant. I saw all three of them, one after another and then all three together, hanging from the same hook with open mouths and with tongues lolling far out. And then I saw myself among them.
Oh, this fear! I felt I was as much afraid of the window-sash and the terrible hook as I was of Clarimonde. May she forgive me for it, but that’s the truth: in my ignominious fear I always confused her image with that of the three who hanged there, dangling their legs heavily on the floor.
But the truth is that I never felt for an instant any desire or inclination to hang myself: I wasn’t even afraid I would do it. No – I was afraid only of the window itself – and of Clarimonde – and of something terrible, something uncertain and unpredictable that was now to come. I had the pathetic irresistible longing to get up and go to the window. And I had to do it…
Then the telephone rang. I grabbed the receiver and before I could hear a word I myself cried into the mouthpiece: ‘Come! Come at once!’
It was just as if my unearthly yell had instantly chased all the shadows into the farthest cracks of the floor. I became composed immediately. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and drank a glass of water. Then I considered what I ought to tell the Commissioner when he came. Finally I went to the window, greeted Clarimonde, and smiled.
And Clarimonde greeted me and smiled.
Five minutes later the Commissioner was here. I told him that I had finally struck the root of the whole affair; if he would only refrain from questioning me today, I would certainly be able to make some remarkable disclosures in the very near future. The queer part of it was that while I was lying to him I was at the same time fully convinced in my own mind that I was telling the truth. And I still feel that that is the truth – against my better judgement.
He probably noticed the unusual condition of my temper, especially when I apologized for screaming into the telephone and tried to explain – and failed to find any plausible reason for my agitation. He suggested very amiably that I need not take undue consideration of him: he was always at my service – that was his duty. He would rather make a dozen useless trips over here than let me wait for him once when I really needed him. Then he invited me to go out with him tonight, suggesting that that might help distract me – it wasn’t a good thing to be alone all the time. I have accepted his invitation, although I think it will be difficult to go out: I don’t like to leave this room.
Saturday, March 19
We went to the Gaieté? Rochechouart, to the Cigale, and to the Lune Rousse. The Commissioner was right: it was a good thing for me to go out and breathe another atmosphere. At first I felt rather uncomfortable, as if I were doing something wrong (as if I were a deserter, running away from our flag). But by and by that feeling died; we drank a good deal, laughed, and joked.
When I went to the window this morning, I seemed to read a reproach in Clarimonde’s look. But perhaps I only imagined it: how could she know that I had gone out last night? For that matter, it seemed to last for only a moment; then she smiled again.
We played all day long.
Sunday, March 20
Today I can only repeat: we played all day long.
Monday, March 21
We played all day long.
Tuesday, March 22
Yes, and today we did the same. Nothing, absolutely nothing else. Sometimes I ask myself why we do it. What is it all for? Or, what do I really want, to what can it all lead? But I never answer my own question. For it’s certain that I want nothing other than just this. Come what may, that which is coming is exactly what I long for.
We have been talking to one another these last few days, of course not with any spoken word. Sometimes we moved our lips, at other times we only looked at one another. But we understood each other perfectly.
I was right: Clarimonde reproached me for running away last Friday. But I begged her forgiveness and told her I realized that it had been very unwise and horrid of me. She forgave me and I promised her never again to leave the window. And we kissed each other, pressing our lips against the panes for a long, long time.
Wednesday, March 23
I know now that I love her. It must be love – I feel it tingling in every fibre of my being. It may be that with other people love is different. But is there any one among a thousand millions who has a head, an ear, a hand that is like anyone else’s? Everyone is different, so it is quite conceivable that our love is very singular. But does that make it any less beautiful? I am almost happy in this love.
If only there would not be this fear! Sometimes it falls asleep. Then I forget it. But only for a few minu
tes. Then it wakes up again and will not let me go. It seems to me like a poor little mouse fighting against a huge and beautiful snake, trying to free itself from its overpowering embrace. Just wait, you poor foolish little fear, soon our love will devour you!
Thursday, March 24
I have made a discovery: I don’t play with Clarimonde – she plays with me.
It happened like this.
Last night, as usual, I thought about our game. I wrote down five intricate movements with which I wanted to surprise her today. I gave every motion a number. I practised them so as to be able to execute them as quickly as possible, first in order, and then backwards. Then only the even numbers and then the odd, and then only the first and last parts of each of the five motions. It was very laborious, but it gave me great satisfaction because it brought me nearer to Clarimonde, even though I could not see her. I practised in this way for hours, and finally they went like clockwork.
This morning I went to the window. We greeted each other, and the game began. Forward, backward – it was incredible to see how quickly she understood me, and how instantaneously she repeated all the things I did.
Then there was a knock at my door. It was the porter, bringing me my boots. I took them; but when I was going back to the window my glance fell on the sheet of paper on which I had recorded the order of the movements. And I saw that I had not executed a single one of these movements.
I almost reeled. I grabbed the back of the easy chair and let myself down into it. I couldn’t believe it. I read the sheet again and again. But it was true: of all the motions I had made at the window, not a single one was mine.
And again I was aware of a door opening somewhere far away – her door. I was standing before it and looking in…nothing, nothing – only an empty darkness. Then I knew that if I went out, I would be saved; and I realized that now I could go. Nevertheless I did not go. That was because I was distinctly aware of one feeling: that I held the secret of the mystery. Held it tightly in both hands. Paris – I was going to conquer Paris!
For a moment Paris was stronger than Clarimonde.
Oh, I’ve dropped all thought of it now. Now I am aware only of my love, and in the midst of it this quiet, passionate fear.
But in that instant I felt suddenly strong. I read through the details of my first movement once more and impressed it firmly in my memory. Then I went back to the window.
And I took exact notice of what I did: not a single motion I executed was among those I had set out to do.
Then I decided to run my index finger along my nose. But instead I kissed the window-pane. I wanted to drum on the window-sill, but ran my hand through my hair instead. So it was true: Clarimonde did not imitate the things I did: on the contrary, I repeated the things she indicated. And I did it so quickly, with such lightning rapidity, that I followed her motions in the same second, so that even now it seems as if I were the one who exerted the will-power to do these things.
So it is I – I who was so proud of the fact that I had determined her mode of thought – I was the one who was being so completely influenced. Only, her influence is so soft, so gentle that it seems as if nothing on earth could be so soothing.
I made other experiments. I put both my hands in my pockets and resolved firmly not to move them; then I looked across at her. I noticed how she lifted her hand and smiled, and gently chided me with her index finger. I refused to budge. I felt my right hand wanting to take itself out of my pocket, but I dug my fingers deep into the pocket lining. Then slowly, after several minutes, my fingers relaxed, my hand came out of the pocket, and I lifted my arm. And I chided her with my index finger and smiled. It seemed as if it were really not I who was doing all this, but some stranger whom I watched from a distance. No, no – that wasn’t the way of it. I, I was the one who did it – and some stranger was watching me. It was the stranger – that other me – who was so strong, who wanted to solve this mystery with some great discovery. But that was no longer I.
I – oh, what do I care about the discovery? I am only here to do her bidding, the bidding of my Clarimonde, whom I love with such tender fear.
Friday, March 25
I have cut the telephone wire. I can no longer stand being perpetually bothered by the silly old Commissioner, least of all when the fateful hour is at hand…
God, why am I writing all this? Not a word of it is true. It seems as if someone else were guiding my pen.
But I do – I want to set down here what actually happens. It is costing me a tremendous effort. But I want to do it. If only for the last time to do – what I really want to do.
I cut the telephone wire…oh…
Because I had to…There, I finally got it out! Because I had to, I had to!
We stood at the window this morning and played. Our game has changed a little since yesterday. She goes through some motions and I defend myself as long as possible. Until finally I have to surrender, powerless to do anything but her bidding. And I can scarcely tell what a wonderful sense of exaltation and joy it gives me to be conquered by her will, to make this surrender.
We played. And then suddenly she got up and went back into her room. It was so dark that I couldn’t see her; she seemed to disappear into the darkness. But she came back very shortly, carrying in her hands a desk telephone just like mine. Smiling, she set it down on the window-sill, took a knife, cut the wire, and carried it back again.
I defended myself for about a quarter of an hour. My fear was greater than ever, but that made my slow surrender all the more delectable. And I finally brought my telephone to the window, cut the wire, and set it back on the table.
That is how it happened.
I am sitting at the table. I have had my tea, and the porter has just taken the dishes out. I asked him what time it was – it seems my watch isn’t keeping time. It’s five fifteen…five fifteen…
I know that if I look up now Clarimonde will be doing something or other. Doing something or other that I will have to do too.
I look up anyhow. She is standing there and smiling. Well…if I could only tear my eyes away from her!…now she is going to the curtain. She is taking the cord off – it is red, just like the one on my window. She is tying a knot – a slipknot. She is hanging the cord up on the hook in the window-sash.
She is sitting down and smiling.
…No, this is no longer a thing one can call fear, this thing I am experiencing. It is a maddening, choking terror – but nevertheless I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. It is a compulsion of an unheard-of nature and power, yet so subtly sensual in its inescapable ferocity.
Of course I could rush up to the window and do exactly what she wants me to do. But I am waiting, struggling, and defending myself. I feel this uncanny thing getting stronger every minute…
So, here I am, still sitting here. I ran quickly to the window and did the thing she wanted me to do: I took the curtain cord, tied a slipknot in it, and hung it from the hook…
And now I am not going to look up any more. I am going to stay here and look only at this sheet of paper. For I know now what she would do if I looked up again – now in the sixth hour of the next to the last day of the week. If I see her, I shall have to do her bidding…I shall have to…
I shall refuse to look at her.
But I am suddenly laughing – loudly. No, I’m not laughing – it is something laughing within me. I know why, too: it’s because of this ‘I will not…’
I don’t want to, and yet I know certainly that I must. I must. I must look at her…must, must do it…and then – the rest.
I am only waiting to stretch out the torment. Yes, that is it…For these breathless sufferings are my most rapturous transports. I am writing…quickly, quickly, so that I can remain sitting here longer…in order to stretch out these seconds of torture, which carry the ecstasy of love into infinity…
More…longer…
Again this fear, again! I know that I shall look at her, that I shall get up, tha
t I shall hang myself. But it isn’t that that I fear. Oh, no – that is sweet, that is beautiful.
But there is something else…something else associated with it – something that will happen afterwards. I don’t know what it will be – but it is coming, it is certainly coming, certainly…certainly. For the joy of my torments is so infinitely great – oh, I feel it is so great that something terrible must follow it.
Only I must not think…
Let me write something, anything, no matter what. Only quickly, without thinking.
My name – Richard Bracquemont, Richard Bracquemont, Richard – oh, I can’t go any farther – Richard Bracquemont – Richard Bracquemont – now – now – I must look at her…Richard Bracquemont – I must – no – no, more – more…Richard…Richard Bracquemont –
The Commissioner of the Ninth Ward, after failing repeatedly to get a reply to his telephone calls, came to the Hotel Stevens at five minutes to six. In Room No. 7 he found the body of the student Richard Bracquemont hanging from the window-sash, in exactly the same position as that of his three predecessors.
Only his face had a different expression; it was distorted in horrible fear, and his eyes, wide open, seemed to be pushing themselves out of their sockets. His lips were drawn apart, but his powerful teeth were firmly and desperately clenched.
And glued between them, bitten and crushed to pieces, there was a large black spider, with curious purple dots.
On the table lay the medical student’s diary. The Commissioner read it and went immediately to the house across the street. There he discovered that the second apartment had been vacant and unoccupied for months and months…
The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories Page 21