The Vengeance of the Oval Portrait

by Gabriel de Lautrec

  Even the stones of the pillars, by their manner of holding themselves, one above another, very squarely or according to the rounded form of arches, let a discrete and contained joy shine through. Lost in the crowd, a venerable old man with a white beard was pointed out to me, whom I was assured was the good Lord; he seemed intimidated. He might really be the Absolute for the host of exterior entities, but here, in the actuary of the ineffable secret, the good Lord, benevolent and embarrassed, was doubtless glad to be a modest unity. The real God, the one whose anticipated arrival was making all hearts tremble, had not yet come.

  I do not know in the midst of what noise of vesperal bells or what formidable silence the doors of carved wood would open, between the vascular marble of the double fonts. Those who were coming were not advancing though the open air and the trees, beneath the blue sky, but along shadowed corridors with liturgical lamps, whose oil was renewed by pious hands at dawn as at dusk. Their procession seemed o have been wandering forever beneath vaults and though closed cloisters. In advance of the royal cortege, as a superb reminder, in sadness, of carnal joys—dead, O dead, one knows how profoundly dead—a choir of naked and disdainful adolescents was dancing a slow dance before the unknown master. An adorable sweat perfumed the secrets of their young flesh like an incense. They were the servants of voluptuousness.

  Then, nodding their heads in a manner concentrated by habit, doubtless having come from some presbytery situated in a street with arbors of faded roses, with the maternal care of an old maidservant afflicted with extreme infatuation, and knowing all the bells in the district by their baptismal names, the canons of the Beatitude, in golden capes and violet robes, advanced two by two toward the choir.

  There were strange things there, a world in revolt against conventional forms, a desperate appeal to the new. People were standing about the hall, their hands upraised, sustaining old gilded missals in their slanted palms. Devoutly leaning over antiphonary lecterns set in front of them, the red face of cantors were singing the daily psalms.

  Then the choir of virgins made its entrance.

  Their prayer rose up, at first, in a vague and confused voice, as the mist rises over the wheatfields at dawn. Clearer and sadder notes gushed from their lips in light ramifications. They could not be singing anything other than a eulogy to the Moon. There were alternate and slow verses, as in amoebic poems. Each one found more sumptuous eulogies than the last. I was delighted to hear that sacerdotal homage rendered to the old Moon, the ancient goddess known on Earth for such a long time.

  “O Moon of Chaldean nights, which shines upon the silence of herdsmen! They have planted their curved staffs in the sandy ground to sustain tents. In the melancholy of thresholds never to be attained, they demand the horizon.

  “You are the resigned landscape in which every dream finds a dwelling. You are the repose to which, after death, the light souls of poets go, dead cicadas scattered over the blanched soil of memory. A pale-faced lady, gazing through the importunate clouds at her reflection in the polished mirror of the sea. On the oval frame, a work of genius, mountains and forests are silhouetted.

  “But O Moon of the seas! The Moon laughs, the Moon insinuates; the Moon mocks the vain waves; beneath its impassive face, like some silken mantle, the last ripples spread out toward the most distant shore, trickling like a sob. The Moon laughs, the Moon insinuates, the eternal Moon bites the waves.

  “Moon of incantations! White basket in which, for centuries, the amorous have poured their roses, tragic and glowing mask. The Moon triumphs over the entire line. She is celebrated by the chair of virgins, like all vain things, like modesty, lilies, and unique love, the ivory and divine scorn of joy.

  “Inviolate vestal of preambles and purifications! Are you the mystery and do you know the key? Perhaps, if we had followed you in your errant course with our eyes, we would have found it traced by your passage through the blue ether.

  “What charming and fearful face will you reflect this evening, beautiful unparalleled mirror?

  “Is the comedy that has held you in distant hands played out? One awaits the scenery eternally. Do the prophets distressed by eternal suffering bear the ebony flute or the golden zither in their bosoms? Is it not true that a sublime drama, of which we are the reflection, was once played out up there? Our words are like the echo of an apocalyptic clarion. The stars, O Moon, are the incompletely darkened ramp of the ancient stage, and you, the grandiose mask that the divine protagonist throws disdainfully aside, once the words are spoken.”

  Thus the virgins spoke to the Moon, that evening. The Hebrews, by the waters of Babylon, spoke of Jerusalem. With the gold of phrases and the pure crystal of music, they built the temple in which regrets come to pray.

  When other torches had been lit, the silence was absolute. Except, in the depths of the temple, at the moment when the eulogy ended, a black velvet curtain moved aside, to reveal in the distant blue the two white horns, Diana’s bow, the slender cradle of chosen hearts.

  An infinite sadness penetrated hearts. The pewter incense-burners placed on the altar consumed themselves at the touch of red embers on which the Levites poured odorous and intoxicating grains.

  A violent wind lifted up the curtains, like a despairing hand. Was the master of the strange going to come? The king of the country of the Moon, the counselor of poets, the god whose mouth knew the words to open the door to occult treasures, the choir-master of adolescents who refuse to believe in life, the unique in sadness, and the beloved?

  The fear of not knowing the words to salute him made my retreat from the arch toward which my gestures had extended. These people where like those who put a finger to their lips, listening to redoubtable footsteps grow louder on the staircase—but my soul was almost absent already, and I fled, dreading the appearance, after that parade and that game, of the being with the sad and lunar face, the man with the goat’s face who leans over the cradle of some among us, scornful of them, ashamed of them, the dear master of human disquiet—the one, in sum, who is well-known to us but whose name we dare not pronounce.

  Expiation

  For Colette29

  Considering the causes that led to the death of my friend Désormeaux, and the circumstances of that death, I cannot help experiencing, modest as I am, a very legitimate pride. Never was a wisely-conceived project put into action with more security, or procured a more profound joy to the perpetrator.

  To tell the truth, I had wanted to kill Désormeaux for a long time. His existence had become incompatible with mine. I was used to the ingratitude of men, but that of my friend Désormeaux was something so monstrous that it exceeded the extraordinary. For several years I admired that special case, and came to cultivate it curiously, incessantly giving the wretch new opportunities to prove that radiant ingratitude to me. I furnished him with benefits, as a sumptuous king heaps gold upon the artist of genius whose works magnify him, but it was only gradually that I tasted the full savor of his inverted gratitude.

  A miserable hack when I met him, he was able, thanks to me, to enter into relations with the serious editors who helped him earn money. The old Duc de B***, who dabbled in literature, confided the editing of his memoirs to him at my request. Thus extracted gradually from poverty, Désormeaux settled down comfortably, abandoning the Bohemian life he had led until then. He was married, too, and had a little daughter about ten years old. I paid little heed to his family, for he alone interested me, by virtue of the delightful manner in which he discharged his debts to me, according to his mores.

  When my name was mentioned to him, he sighed—or talked, which was worse. Friends warned me. I laughed at them. In the course of several years, he represented me successively as a German spy, a homosexual, a vampire and a forger. I only exaggerate a little, for he had a fine imagination. He worked hard to blacken my name—to no avail, happily—with all the people to whom I introduced him in his interest. Some of them came to speak to me about it, indignantly, and I was obliged to sacrifice them,
to my great regret. The excess of his infamies attenuated their effect, and stung my generosity. When, maliciously—and very rarely, besides—I made allusion to some new dirty trick of his, he blushed lightly, with stammering and voluble protestations of friendship. Until the day when I wearied of it, as one wearies of everything.

  A few innocents began looking at me disapprovingly. It appeared to me that my purse had then been open to the impudent fellow’s hand for a long time. I was, moreover, tired of him, and took pity on the efforts he made, every time we met, to conceal his hatred, the natural fruit of my benevolence. The strangeness of the case itself gradually ceased to interest me. Finally, I decided that enough was enough, and that it was necessary to get back to normality and punish the wretch as he deserved.

  That happened a month ago. Once the resolution was made, I waited patiently for an opportunity, preparing my security by means of the necessary precautions, with no harmful exaggeration. What dooms the majority of criminals is the extravagant care they take to ensure their impunity in advance. I had, meanwhile, avoided meeting Désormeaux. I made arrangements to run into him one evening, late, in a deserted quarter, as he was coming back from dining with friends.

  On seeing him, I manifested an extraordinary surprise, in order that he should not think of being astonished himself. I was able to draw him into some waste ground whose layout I knew. Slightly fuddled, it seemed to me, by the fumes of the wine, he followed me unreflectively, recounting things of no interest, in stammering and voluble words. I supported his tottering steps with my left arm. And nothing was easier, after looking around to make sure that we were alone, than suddenly to take a revolver out of my pocket.

  One second, and the barrel was pressed against his breast; another second, and I pressed the trigger. I saw my companion’s eyes open very wide. He had time, I am sure, to realize and understand. I knew by his expression. He fell without uttering a sound. In the direction of that which, in others, is the heart I discharged the rest of the revolver’s bullets. Then I left unhurriedly, lighting a cigarette as I left the waste ground, and went home by an indirect route.

  They were able, thanks to his papers, to identify the cadaver. An investigation was opened, which obviously produced no result. The burial is tomorrow. The widow came to see me. A grotesque and ugly creature, living under the brutal dependence of her husband, I had only seen her once or twice before, some years ago. I had, in fact, always avoided Désormeaux’s domicile; I knew full well that had I accepted a simple glass of water from him he would immediately have borrowed the money necessary to hire a cab for an hour, in order to go to all the editorial offices to say that I was a shameless sponger and a repulsive parasite—for that was his nature, and some calumnies are more wounding than others. But I could not refuse to see the woman, in the dolorous circumstances.

  She was perfect, anyway, without any affectation of exaggerated despair. She talked about her daughter, about whose future she was worried. I enquired politely and was astonished to learn that the child was about to turn eighteen. Then we sighed, with an exquisite naturalnesss on my part, over the unexpected misfortune that had struck the two poor women. The widow, to assure me of her sympathy, as I gave her the money to pay for the funeral, made a delicate allusion to the services that her husband had incessantly rendered to me. My joy no longer knew any bounds. The man truly had genius. I kissed the widow’s hand respectfully, and promised to arrive early at the following day’s ceremony.

  Oh, the wretch! How well he has been able to continue his work of hatred, and to avenge the death that I childishly thought to inflict upon him! We have taken him to the cemetery. Insane! Should I not rather have fled? What demon made me pursue my vengeance beyond the permissible bounds?

  In my blindness, I exulted, with that interior joy that is all the more powerful by virtue of the fact that one cannot manifest it. The weather was radiant. I had seen two women come out of the house and take up positions behind the hearse, wearing the mourning-dress that makes it impossible to perceive the features. I knew that one as the widow, though, and in the other I divined the gracious silhouette behind the black veils of my enemy’s already-grown-up daughter. In addition to them and me, there were only five or six unknown people, vague relatives or tradesmen. I was the only friend he had been able to retain.

  We went through the outlying districts. We arrived at the burial-ground. The ceremony was brief. When we found ourselves back at the cemetery gates, the few witnesses took their leave. I remained alone with the two women. The widow thanked me in emotional terms, and I heard a tremulous voice beside her. The young woman that I had only glimpsed as a child lifted her crêpe veil in order to smile at me sadly. And then…then! The miracle, in all its astounding rarity, occurred. Love entered my soul, imperious, all-conquering, immediate and definitive. I knew, from that moment on, that it would be futile to struggle, and that I will adore, for as long as I live, the daughter of the man I execrated. Oh, the frightful vengeance—and how small I feel by comparison with my vanished enemy!

  Transformed into its most redoubtable avatar, his hatred has bequeathed me love.

  Polar Terror

  For Pierre Louÿs30

  Now, the ship had set sail for the unknown lands of the South. The men had always had the desire for new stars, although still finding them indifferent to the miseries, as to the joys, of humankind. There was hope of discovering a passage, and verifying certain laws. Is the temperature at the two poles the same? Does the magnetic axis extend, like the central timber of a gigantic vessel, from one extreme to the other? And does the monstrous Earth, of whose form we are ignorant, as Homer and Ptolemy were ignorant in respect of other images, follow a regular movement of propulsion through space? Perhaps there was also some thought of filling with unexpected riches, for a sumptuous return, the supple cedar-wood hold solidly braced by shiny ribs with polished nails. Over the glaciers, at a timid pace, blue foxes with expensive fur and sadly pointed muzzles are running. And the ivories that the long night has rendered blacker than Erebus are buried in the depths of caverns immured by the ice, and the lugubrious wind no longer agitates even a single dead branch.

  But who can describe the familiar nostalgia of embarkation, and the afternoon on the indolent beautiful blue sea? Faces were leaning out of the old windows of the harbor. They have seen so many hopes perch there, white hair beneath worn headwear or pink cheeks and fluttering hearts. Sailors on shore leave were hastening out of the hospitable side-streets on to the steeped cobbled roadway. Yard-arms and rigging were silhouetted against the sky. As on the flanks for ancient hulls, the vessel had borne away regrets, garlands of roses and, in its masts, the echo of romances. It had, however, wandered over oceans as polished as breastplates. Every passing brush of a sail by the wing of a marine bird dispersed a memory into oblivion. Shorelines had appeared in the distance, like clouds, green with wheat, with trees and joyous cries. And so far had they voyaged that they arrived in the latitudes that extinguish all smiles. It is there that the Ocean mingles its waters with those of the river Lethe. The paler Sun rises more slowly. It wanders over the summits of the waves like a gaze; its yellow light brightens faces and the play of expressions more troubling than in other climes. The legendary geographers made these shores the domain of obscure terror.

  But that Sun with the lunar gleam, that dead Sun, will soon be lacking itself. The women who have followed the crew hide their eyes in their hands, their elbows prostrate on their seated knees. We were approaching the frightful pole of the Earth, which human beings had perhaps never known, but only the stars and the supreme intelligence, like all absolute things. It is there that the genius of the planet, raising its weary head above the gaping pit of the axis, sees whirling around it, in an eternal round growing more rapid with distance, the parallel continents and equators.

  And the ship constructed to make the discovery, which bore within its flanks the familiarity of old Europe, was imprisoned in the ice amid the whistling of tempests
and the bleak frisson of cold. White ice, then grey, having been seen, there no longer remains any but black ice and monstrous icebergs.

  All hands were obliged to grope in the dark, and all gestures to hesitate when we left the vessel—but the snow that, without being seen, was heard falling on the deck in muffled volleys, like mourning kisses, would have buried everything. We searched for higher ground in order to put up the tents, and caves hollowed in the rock. Forms passed in the night, with hair furtively loosed over shoulders, which men followed, consoling them. The waves of the invisible sea were like floods of ink gripped by torpor.

  The winter layover lasted a very long time.31

  As was its habit, the external world slowly reappeared.

  The most ordinary things, however, had taken on a solemn hue. And as the open sea never permits them to retrace their steps, they will forget the Sun and the foliage of the Equator. All the things of this world will be what the things of ours are, plus the shadow. Soon, it will be a long time since the memory of the vessel itself was lost; their new existence, which was only an adaptation to real life, made them forget that. They will construct a city and invent laws. People with quotidian preoccupations will be seen wandering through the streets. Those men will become accustomed to the cold, the darkness and the fear. Those who, having gone to hunt bear and walrus in the hollows in the ice-sheet, do not return, will be glorified as warriors who have died for the fatherland are. There had been love, a love to which the cold gave supplicant forms, and hands crossed over the heart. The slow years will run by. Someone found light and was regarded as a god. That light was, however, fainter than the brightness of the constellations and its flame was so feeble that people had to warm it up in their bosoms. But it was a triumph over the intermittent tumult of the polar volcanoes, whose formidable eruptions they heard in the distance without being able to perceive the glow. Proudly, they will erect a beacon on the edge of the city, on the summit of a sheer rock where, during the hours of summer, the black waves of the lugubrious sea tempted the genius of a Theocrates or Anacreon.32 It was a shroud that the wind, momentarily has caused too undulate. A yellow aurora wandered over the houses and the roofs with confused silhouettes, where the sullen as troubled by calls for help. Faces will appear at windows, blossoming at that great novelty. Other shadows, in the doorways, will chat idly. There were rich people insulting the miserable passers-by at the crossroads with their luxury. People will pass by, will labor, concerned for their daily bread, or the intermittent desire for revolution. And the heavy atmosphere extended its ancient wings over the gleams of shops in the streets or rosy idylls in the black rocks.