The Missing Link and Other Tales of Ape-Men

by Georges T. Dodds

  He had immediately signaled to his friends to meet him backstage. Casot-Dorlys was ecstatic. Alix, still shaken by the strong feelings evoked in her, joined her congratulations to those of Murlich, who declared with kind affability:

  “I see, dear sir, that we share the same vision of man’s triumph; you leave the best part to Nature!”

  Maximin was content to smile. The critic spoke:

  “But Nature is a great crucible in which the most complex of elements are assembled. The scientist can frequently lend a hand to the poet!”

  “You in particular, Mr. Murlich!” said Maximin, nodding his head towards the ape.

  Gulluliou had bundled himself up in his fur coat. Since his bout of bronchitis, greater precautions had been taken to avoid a relapse which the doctors foresaw would be very dangerous. There were few moments when Murlich was not concerned about the ape’s state of health. He must constantly be on guard to avoid possible ill-advised situations, and to attend to everything. That very night, it was by way of an exception that he had consented to allow him out. It took the long anticipated opening of Maximin’s work for the naturalist to relent somewhat on his strict rules.

  Gulluliou had never been so happy; all he saw was new: the lights, the hubbub, the colorful hall, the curtain exposing another equally large space where people came to speak and talk to one another at length, with gestures by which he could almost understand, even without the words, to build in his imagination a complete story adapted to his understanding of the play. At last, the curtain went down, the hall was suddenly lit up again, and people were getting to their feet, clapping their hands together: awestruck moments, a succession of scenes which had Gulluliou’s eyes and mind aflutter!

  As the group of friends made their way through the corridors, the crowd, in a sympathetic curiosity, recognized the ape and his master. Murlich, not without some personal sense of irony, remarked to himself how little separated jeers from praises, the whistles from the bravos, that the two were too similar for the distinction to be of any significance. Maximin, praised from all sides, thought of Murlich: the first victory to the scientist, the second to the poet. But was Murlich not a poet of the sciences?

  They finally reached, many opened doors later, the greenroom; Maximin immediately met Albani, imposing and powerful in his neutral colors, an ageless and timeless personification of Man.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right, isn’t it?” asked the actor.

  “Yes, yes, I think so, the last act carried it.”

  The actor and author stood before each other, both very excited. As those who accompanied the poet were nearby, Maximin only shook hands with those actors who were present, apologizing:

  “I will see you all later, I must see Balsamore. Is she up there?”

  “Yes, yes, in her dressing room.”

  “Come,” said Maximin.

  They slipped into a hallway that gave onto a staircase and went up one floor. The dresser obsequiously welcomed the author and his entourage. This was the floor for the leads, the stars. Emanating from the doors of three or four large and rather sumptuous dressing rooms the weak smell of grease paint and oils saturated the air. The party was a rather strange one: Maximin and Casot-Dorlys, Alix, and Murlich with his ape, proceeding in that order.

  At a turn they spied through a wide-open steel door the stage drowned in the twilight of a night ship with the props upright like sails filled by air draughts and entangled ropes shooting up to the flies. The quick peek dissolved; Berthe Balsamore, in a mischievous voice, greeted them from the depths of her dressing room where she was painting her eyes in black before a mirror.

  “Do come in, dear!” she yelled out to Maximin.

  But when she saw that he was not alone, she turned to them pleasantly, her shadow brush in hand.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s an invasion,” said the poet, “I have brought along some friends.”

  “How marvelous to see you! Do come in and sit down. Good evening. Miss Forest, be a dear and move that out of the chair. Good evening, Casot!

  Murlich, very much disoriented by her indifferent attitude, and Gulluliou whose uneasiness overcame his joy, were both presented.

  “You know, pet,” the actress declared, “I’ve never played Paris before, but I can tell you for sure, it’s a hit! Although you owe me a great deal. I fed Albani one of his lines, didn’t you even notice?”

  “Why, no,” answered Maximin a bit embarrassed, in front of Alix, at the familiarity of her tone.

  But little was Miss Forest listening, for she saw but one thing; Balsamore’s gown, the precious gown now complete, flamboyant with all its silky-orangey mushrooms. And from thence emerged, like the pistil of an enormous tropical flower, the actress’ heavy shoulders, and her golden locks.

  “Do admire me, Miss Alix,” Balsamore said upon noticing the girl’s gaze. “Are you pleased? It’s better than the first try, eh? We did well to make those alterations, otherwise I wouldn’t have worn it!”

  But Murlich was in turn tested. He tried, before the opulent and scantily clad 30-year-old actress, to maintain an air of amused reserve though the strange room, both washroom and small drawing-room, overflowing with a jumble of fancy dresses, slips, negligees, of drawings and photographs, of vials and pots, was somewhat disconcerting compared to the cold and ordered layout of the laboratory. Gulluliou lowered his head a bit, like a child intimidated by a stranger.

  His serious features, with the creases of a man of a certain age, his full beard, amused Berthe no end. When Murlich stated that the ape was 13 years old, she wished at all cost to take his hand, to make him get up, to see him walk, his legs somewhat relaxed in his black pants, his feet dragging in polished boots.

  “Why, Maximin, you ought to write something about him,” she exclaimed. “Here is a form of humanity which you hadn’t considered!”

  “Mr. Murlich is considering it in our stead!” the poet declared, thinking absent-mindedly of vague objects his hands were manipulating in the air.

  Casot looked at the naturalist.

  “There it is indeed, the triumph of man, your generosity extends all the way to the ape! Is it not right to say that she speaks the truth? Is it not so, Gulluliou?”

  “Yes,” answered Gulluliou.

  It was the only French word he knew as yet, and he would interject it all over the place, when he heard his name spoken. Sometimes it turned out well.

  But the actress, who with the help of her dresser, had finished lacing over her bare ankles with pink sandal-ties, begged Murlich to speak to his student in her presence. Just then, Maximin, whose worry had reached a fever pitch at the approach of the third curtain-rise, interrupted them.

  “I think it’s time we leave, the intermission must be over.”

  “Well, see you later my pets. Mr. Murlich, will you allow me to go and visit the young man? Truly, I would have liked to hear him talk…see you later!” Her voice was marked with a certain tenseness as she addressed herself to Maximin. “If the crowd isn’t asleep, I won’t be afraid, but must have their help!”

  The poet said, with a chill:

  “I will applaud when you come on stage…Good luck!”

  “And you too, old fellow.”

  As the others were already in the hallway, Berthe stopped on the threshold of her dressing room, a finger raised:

  “The prelude has begun,” she said.

  A nasal warning followed a slamming of doors, the murmur of voices arguing, some laughs: “On stage for the third act! On stage for the third!” Meanwhile, between the walls, rising from the inner staircase, spreading through the building, a distant harmony arose, coming closer and closer, like some mysterious fluid. And Maximin was taken by the powerful emotion that the music which he recognized as his own, was now being heard by a large crowd of people. He drew along his friends behind him, heading for the hall. They quickly passed the great metal door, open on the darkened stage, where the set was now installed, w
aiting only to be given life by the lights.

  Above them, on every floor the same warning rang out: “On stage for the third act! On stage for the third!”

  They returned to their places in the fore-stage, overlooking the orchestra; the room was listening attentively under the growing sway of the first bars of the music. Maximin, breathless, listened.

  It was the entire scope of the drama which he wished to reflect with the magic and richness of the orchestra. The previous two acts were recalled, Man rising little by little from a darkness of ignorance and blunder towards greater truth. A plaintive confusion, sketched out by the deep notes of the double basses and cellos, then taken up in muted tones by the violins and violas, which allowed slow, monotonous notes to drag out. Battles were undertaken, light striving by fits and starts to bring day, tearing asunder the moaning veil of the human night, the flutes high-pitched modulations weaving their lacework on the primitive canvas. These fused in to sudden interrupted bursts. Slowly, arduously, the battle continued; the moaning of violins was followed by a syncopation sustained by the quicker tempo of the violas. The storm rumbled with its magnificent and powerful strength, striated with flashes of incendiary high notes. Suddenly there arose, after a moment’s silence, the mysterious oboes’ melody. These indicated a dawn motif, soon propagated by English horns, veiled by the bold clarinets. And this major theme thus constituted, the whole orchestra took it up in successive tones, ringing in a sort of deliverance. Upon the trill of the stringed instruments, the brass instruments emerged, building their ascending sound in pomp and circumstance.

  The whole crowd let out the breath they had so far held; Maximin felt his face grazed by a wing whose touch made him weak-kneed, sensing himself at the pinnacle of artistic happiness, he realized that the crowd had been subjugated. He had to retire in the back, near Alix. He felt the young woman’s hand searching for his, squeezing it. In the fore-stage, everyone was speechless as the curtain rose.

  Casot-Dorlys shifted his stance with a sigh, Murlich half closed his eyes, kept a secret watch over Gulluliou, whose attitudes continually piqued his scientific curiosity. He had watched him all through the prelude, worried how the novelty of orchestral music would affect this strange creature, and amused himself in transposing his sensibilities onto the animal, and in representing to himself its varied impressions.

  Gulluliou, at the first chords of the violins, had had a quizzical look, his head shifting in a silent query to his master. But, the phenomenon persisting, he had shifted his attention back to the orchestra, particularly entranced by the movement of the bows and those of the conductor.

  A confused awakening of the senses.

  A man who moves his arms about, like the puppet made to walk by pulling on its strings…

  It makes noise, very loud noise…

  Men who move their arms about make a very loud noise, which lasts a long time…;

  Oh! how they move about their arms, and how the sound goes on for a very long time, so long that one’s ears ring and one’s stomach is queasy, and one cannot breathe…;

  As if there were a great typhoon in the guava trees: one hears the wind whistle in the branches, and…;

  Minnili, the little bird has sung!…;

  Minnili, Minnili, why does he sing through the big storm? Master is not afraid…

  The men who move about their arms and those who blow…;

  Master is looking at me…;

  The noise, the ears, the heart; the noise, the ears, the heart. The heart stops, the noise gets louder, the machine rises, and now it is light again!…;

  But, but…; Mother!…;

  Minnili! Far…; far…;

  the clouds, the Sun!

  With a raucous, stifled cry, Gulluliou stood up, his chest heaving, wide-eyed, his hand extended. For, on the stage, he rediscovered all the elements of his forest, alive with waving palms, virginal in its tangles, lianas dropping from the trees like twisted serpents. The entire tropical forest, vast and deep! And this was sufficient to immediately bring back to the ape’s dark soul the aromas of his youth, so many scattered memories, nearly forgotten, and which returned! And as it was so close, he wanted to go there, to run there once again; Gulluliou wished to go into his forest. Standing with the black suit tight about his hunched over waist, his neck in the carcan of a detachable collar, he forgot his human condition, his lacquer of citizenry and sought to leap forward and reach the stage.

  But it was over in a flash, Murlich had risen too, had guessed what was coming and prevented it. With a few words whispered in his firm but tender voice, which the animal could never resist, he calmed him down. The others had barely had time to notice. It happened when the crowd was silent, taking in the verses which Balsamore, who had just come on stage in her stunning robe, was reciting to them at the top of her lungs.

  The act went on under the sumptuous rhythm of the poet’s stanzas. The crowd, their artistic sensibilities now brought to the desired state of exaltation, were so vibrant with sincerity that Maximin himself was surprised. This night, begun under the cloud of doubt and nerves, was ending in a rush of triumph. Besides, Maximin had trouble hearing the rest of his play; listening to the prelude had overwhelmed him; he had relived one by one too many powerful feelings, a crushing sense of fatigue was mixed with his sense of victory.

  He had retired with Alix, behind their friends, in a small sitting-room where the lights were dimmed, and not saying anything to one another, they waited, listening vacantly. The act was finishing; already a portion of the crowd had risen to acclaim Maximin. Casot and Murlich, when the curtain fell, leaned over to applaud with the electrified crowd.

  They were unable to see Maximin, who, after long gazing at the young woman, and taking hold of her wrist, sought to possess himself of her mouth. In the burst of glory which arose, no one knew what was occurring at the back of the fore-stage. The poet was using the energy left him in this gesture of conquest.

  But Alix had disengaged herself suddenly, the blond beard had grazed her cheek. Very pale and chopping her words, she said in a very soft voice:

  “It is unconscionable to thus defile such a moment! Leave me alone!”

  And she saw Gulluliou, who, half turned, watched her with the same strange, fixed gaze which she had already noticed on a number of occasions. It was tinged with sadness, and fathomless resignation…; Alix was moved by it, and feared that she had understood the expression in those haunting eyes. In her mind she linked Gulluliou’s silence with the poet’s boldness. She was shaken by a sudden start, that of the free and virginal woman. She wished to lash out at the one who had thought that her independence would succumb to the night’s excitements. Pointing out the animal to Maximin, she added:

  “That monkey is laughing at you!”

  Maximin hunched his shoulders, his lips tightened like fists. In the hall, the cheering continued, the curtain had risen on three occasions, the clapping and ovations were crushed beneath the ceiling where the great candelabrum was shaking. Casot ran towards the playwright:

  “Do come, they’re asking for you, they want to see you.”

  The poet, stiff from his unsuccessful passionate outburst, moved to the edge of the fore-stage, so that their outpouring could finally confirm his fame.

  He could make out, in a haze, to his right, the footlights behind which all the actors stood; in front of him, to the left, hands clapping and mouths open. Such was glory. He felt both its grandeur and its fragility. Tomorrow his name would be in all the newspapers, his work played, published, interpreted. It would have its supporters and its detractors, one Casot-Dorlys would place him on a pedestal, a Gribory would no doubt vent the bile of his kidney condition upon him. But at last the task was accomplished, this evening perhaps marked a stage in the evolution of the art. A stage…perhaps…he didn’t know, he couldn’t think, he could barely distinguish between the jeers and the applause.

  He held before his eyes the vision of Gulluliou spying out his erstwhile actions, a
nd very precise in his ears were Alix’s cruel words:

  “That monkey is laughing at you!”

  CHAPTER VI

  February was drawing to a close. In the house on d’Auteuil, life for Alix, Murlich and Gulluliou went on as usual. They seldom saw each other during the day; the seamstress, very busy on all fronts, threw herself into her work; her cousin busied himself with Gulluliou who, after a second presentation at the Museum, had become the most popular of apes. The creature was beginning to learn a few French words, and a certain exchange of ideas was now possible between him and his hosts. Every night during dinner, Alix had great fun observing the developing Parisianisms and innocent wonderment of this child of Borneo transplanted into the great capital.

  Gulluliou grew in mind twice as fast as in body. Given his experience with men, the happiness of his youth had almost vanished, without him however becoming silent or morose. But he bore a certain nonchalant gravity, quite frequent among the blacks.31 His health remained fragile; a long hunched over body, sometimes shaken by a worrisome weak, dry cough. The doctor had warned Murlich that the antituberculin serum he had injected some time before, would not take effect, should it be needed, for at least a month or more. Murlich then waited, not without some apprehension, limiting his student’s activities as much as possible, not allowing him any overly tiring walks, or any exaggerated efforts. And his overfeeding continued: twice a day Gulluliou took a dose of protoplasmic extract, some Darembert granules, raw eggs which he swallowed with delight, and raw meat, which greatly disgusted him. However, clearly the climate did not favor his development. In order to distract him and allow him to endure the winter season, he was told at great length of the coming of spring, of the house in Basel where they would soon return, where he had his own room filled with souvenirs of his homeland and of his early childhood. Gulluliou listened, indeed answered, and then his gaze would always shift towards Alix, with the meek steadiness which had already so often struck her. But now the young woman could not help but associate this strange gaze upon her, with her memories of the night Maximin had infringed upon their agreement regarding matters of love. She remembered the suspicions she had fleetingly entertained; was it not in such a manner that, long ago, the poet had himself, during a long awkward silence between them, looked upon her? She shrugged her shoulders at such a parallel: a simple coincidence, something which particularly drew Gulluliou’s eyes to her, an overly showy color, the sparkle of a piece of jewelry.