Là-bas

by J.-K. Huysmans

  CHAPTER XIX

  In a fiacre they went up the rue de Vaugirard. Mme. Chantelouve was asin a shell and spoke not a word. Durtal looked closely at her when, asthey passed a street lamp, a shaft of light played over her veil amoment, then winked out. She seemed agitated and nervous beneath herreserve. He took her hand. She did not withdraw it. He could feel thechill of it through her glove, and her blonde hair tonight seemeddisordered, dry, and not so fine as usual.

  "Nearly there?"

  But in a low voice full of anguish she said, "Do not speak."

  Bored by this taciturn, almost hostile tete-a-tete, he began to examinethe route through the windows of the cab. The street stretched outinterminable, already deserted, so badly paved that at every step thecab springs creaked. The lamp-posts were beginning to be further andfurther apart. The cab was approaching the ramparts.

  "Singular itinerary," he murmured, troubled by the woman's cold,inscrutable reserve.

  Abruptly the vehicle turned up a dark street, swung around, and stopped.

  Hyacinthe got out. Waiting for the cabman to give him his change, Durtalinspected the lay of the land. They were in a sort of blind alley. Lowhouses, in which there was not a sign of life, bordered a lane that hadno sidewalk. The pavement was like billows. Turning around, when the cabdrove away, he found himself confronted by a long high wall above whichdry leaves rustled in the shadows. A little door with a square gratingin it was cut into the thick unlighted wall, which was seamed withfissures. Suddenly, further away, a ray of light shot out of a showwindow, and, doubtless attracted by the sound of the cab wheels, a manwearing the black apron of a wineshop keeper lounged through the shopdoor and spat on the threshold.

  "This is the place," said Mme. Chantelouve.

  She rang. The grating opened. She raised her veil. A shaft of lanternlight struck her full in the face, the door opened noiselessly, and theypenetrated into a garden.

  "Good evening, madame."

  "Good evening, Marie. In the chapel?"

  "Yes. Does madame wish me to guide her?"

  "No, thanks."

  The woman with the lantern scrutinized Durtal. He perceived, beneath ahood, wisps of grey hair falling in disorder over a wrinkled old face,but she did not give him time to examine her and returned to a tentbeside the wall serving her as a lodge.

  He followed Hyacinthe, who traversed the dark lanes, between rows ofpalms, to the entrance of a building. She opened the doors as if shewere quite at home, and her heels clicked resolutely on the flagstones.

  "Be careful," she said, going through a vestibule. "There are threesteps."

  They came out into a court and stopped before an old house. She rang. Alittle man advanced, hiding his features, and greeted her in anaffected, sing-song voice. She passed, saluting him, and Durtal brusheda fly-blown face, the eyes liquid, gummy, the cheeks plastered withcosmetics, the lips painted.

  "I have stumbled into a lair of sodomists.--You didn't tell me that Iwas to be thrown into such company," he said to Hyacinthe, overtakingher at the turning of a corridor lighted by a lamp.

  "Did you expect to meet saints here?"

  She shrugged her shoulders and opened a door. They were in a chapelwith a low ceiling crossed by beams gaudily painted with coal-tarpigment. The windows were hidden by great curtains. The walls werecracked and dingy. Durtal recoiled after a few steps. Gusts of humid,mouldy air and of that indescribable new-stove acridity poured out ofthe registers to mingle with an irritating odour of alkali, resin, andburnt herbs. He was choking, his temples throbbing.

  He advanced groping, attempting to accustom his eyes to thehalf-darkness. The chapel was vaguely lighted by sanctuary lampssuspended from chandeliers of gilded bronze with pink glass pendants.Hyacinthe made him a sign to sit down, then she went over to a group ofpeople sitting on divans in a dark corner. Rather vexed at being lefthere, away from the centre of activity, Durtal noticed that there weremany women and few men present, but his efforts to discover theirfeatures were unavailing. As here and there a lamp swayed, heoccasionally caught sight of a Junonian brunette, then of asmooth-shaven, melancholy man. He observed that the women were notchattering to each other. Their conversation seemed awed and grave. Nota laugh, not a raised voice, was heard, but an irresolute, furtivewhispering, unaccompanied by gesture.

  "Hmm," he said to himself. "It doesn't look as if Satan made hisfaithful happy."

  A choir boy, clad in red, advanced to the end of the chapel and lighteda stand of candles. Then the altar became visible. It was an ordinarychurch altar on a tabernacle above which stood an infamous, derisiveChrist. The head had been raised and the neck lengthened, and wrinkles,painted in the cheeks, transformed the grieving face to a bestial onetwisted into a mean laugh. He was naked, and where the loincloth shouldhave been, there was a virile member projecting from a bush ofhorsehair. In front of the tabernacle the chalice, covered with a pall,was placed. The choir boy folded the altar cloth, wiggled his haunches,stood tiptoe on one foot and flipped his arms as if to fly away like acherub, on pretext of reaching up to light the black tapers whose odourof coal tar and pitch was now added to the pestilential smell of thestuffy room.

  Durtal recognized beneath the red robe the "fairy" who had guarded thechapel entrance, and he understood the role reserved for this man, whosesacrilegious nastiness was substituted for the purity of childhoodacceptable to the Church.

  Then another choir boy, more hideous yet, exhibited himself. Hollowchested, racked by coughs, withered, made up with white grease paint andvivid carmine, he hobbled about humming. He approached the tripodsflanking the altar, stirred the smouldering incense pots and threw inleaves and chunks of resin.

  Durtal was beginning to feel uncomfortable when Hyacinthe rejoined him.She excused herself for having left him by himself so long, invited himto change his place, and conducted him to a seat far in the rear, behindall the rows of chairs.

  "This is a real chapel, isn't it?" he asked.

  "Yes. This house, this church, the garden that we crossed, are theremains of an old Ursuline convent. For a long time this chapel was usedto store hay. The house belonged to a livery-stable keeper, who sold itto that woman," and she pointed out a stout brunette of whom Durtalbefore had caught a fleeting glimpse.

  "Is she married?"

  "No. She is a former nun who was debauched long ago by Docre."

  "Ah. And those gentlemen who seem to be hiding in the darkest places?"

  "They are Satanists. There is one of them who was a professor in theSchool of Medicine. In his home he has an oratorium where he prays to astatue of Venus Astarte mounted on an altar."

  "No!"

  "I mean it. He is getting old, and his demoniac orisons increase tenfoldhis forces, which he is using up with creatures of that sort," and witha gesture she indicated the choir boys.

  "You guarantee the truth of this story?"

  "You will find it narrated at great length in a religious journal. _Lesannales de la saintete_. And though his identity was made pretty patentin the article, the man did not dare prosecute the editors.--What's thematter with you?" she asked, looking at him closely.

  "I'm strangling. The odour from those incense burners is unbearable."

  "You will get used to it in a few seconds."

  "But what do they burn that smells like that?"

  "Asphalt from the street, leaves of henbane, datura, dried nightshade,and myrrh. These are perfumes delightful to Satan, our master." Shespoke in that changed, guttural voice which had been hers at times whenin bed with him. He looked her squarely in the face. She was pale, thelips pressed tight, the pluvious eyes blinking rapidly.

  "Here he comes!" she murmured suddenly, while women in front of themscurried about or knelt in front of the chairs.

  Preceded by the two choir boys the canon entered, wearing a scarletbonnet from which two buffalo horns of red cloth protruded. Durtalexamined him as he marched toward the altar. He was tall, but not wellbuilt, his bulging chest being out of proportion
to the rest of hisbody. His peeled forehead made one continuous line with his straightnose. The lips and cheeks bristled with that kind of hard, clumpy beardwhich old priests have who have always shaved themselves. The featureswere round and insinuating, the eyes, like apple pips, close together,phosphorescent. As a whole his face was evil and sly, but energetic, andthe hard, fixed eyes were not the furtive, shifty orbs that Durtal hadimagined.

  The canon solemnly knelt before the altar, then mounted the steps andbegan to say mass. Durtal saw then that he had nothing on beneath hissacrificial habit. His black socks and his flesh bulging over thegarters, attached high up on his legs, were plainly visible. Thechasuble had the shape of an ordinary chasuble but was of the dark redcolour of dried blood, and in the middle, in a triangle around which wasan embroidered border of colchicum, savin, sorrel, and spurge, was thefigure of a black billy-goat presenting his horns.

  Docre made the genuflexions, the full-or half-length inclinationsspecified by the ritual. The kneeling choir boys sang the Latinresponses in a crystalline voice which trilled on the ultimate syllablesof the words.

  "But it's a simple low mass," said Durtal to Mme. Chantelouve.

  She shook her head. Indeed, at that moment the choir boys passed behindthe altar and one of them brought back copper chafing-dishes, the other,censers, which they distributed to the congregation. All the womenenveloped themselves in the smoke. Some held their heads right over thechafing-dishes and inhaled deeply, then, fainting, unlaced themselves,heaving raucous sighs.

  The sacrifice ceased. The priest descended the steps backward, knelt onthe last one, and in a sharp, tripidant voice cried:

  "Master of Slanders, Dispenser of the benefits of crime, Administratorof sumptuous sins and great vices, Satan, thee we adore, reasonable God,just God!

  "Superadmirable legate of false trances, thou receivest our beseechingtears; thou savest the honour of families by aborting wombs impregnatedin the forgetfulness of the good orgasm; thou dost suggest to the motherthe hastening of untimely birth, and thine obstetrics spares thestill-born children the anguish of maturity, the contamination oforiginal sin.

  "Mainstay of the despairing Poor, Cordial of the Vanquished, it is thouwho endowest them with hypocrisy, ingratitude, and stiff-neckedness,that they may defend themselves against the children of God, the Rich.

  "Suzerain of Resentment, Accountant of Humiliations, Treasurer of oldHatreds, thou alone dost fertilize the brain of man whom injustice hascrushed; thou breathest into him the idea of meditated vengeance, suremisdeeds; thou incitest him to murder; thou givest him the abundant joyof accomplished reprisals and permittest him to taste the intoxicatingdraught of the tears of which he is the cause.

  "Hope of Virility, Anguish of the Empty Womb, thou dost not demand thebootless offering of chaste loins, thou dost not sing the praises ofLenten follies; thou alone receivest the carnal supplications andpetitions of poor and avaricious families. Thou determinest the motherto sell her daughter, to give her son; thou aidest sterile and reprobateloves; Guardian of strident Neuroses, Leaden Tower of Hysteria, bloodyVase of Rape!

  "Master, thy faithful servants, on their knees, implore thee andsupplicate thee to satisfy them when they wish the torture of all thosewho love them and aid them; they supplicate thee to assure them the joyof delectable misdeeds unknown to justice, spells whose unknown originbaffles the reason of man; they ask, finally, glory, riches, power, ofthee, King of the Disinherited, Son who art to overthrow the inexorableFather!"

  Then Docre rose, and erect, with arms outstretched, vociferated in aringing voice of hate:

  "And thou, thou whom, in my quality of priest, I force, whether thouwilt or no, to descend into this host, to incarnate thyself in thisbread, Jesus, Artisan of Hoaxes, Bandit of Homage, Robber of Affection,hear! Since the day when thou didst issue from the complaisant bowels ofa Virgin, thou hast failed all thine engagements, belied all thypromises. Centuries have wept, awaiting thee, fugitive God, mute God!Thou wast to redeem man and thou hast not, thou wast to appear in thyglory, and thou sleepest. Go, lie, say to the wretch who appeals tothee, 'Hope, be patient, suffer; the hospital of souls will receivethee; the angels will assist thee; Heaven opens to thee.' Impostor! thouknowest well that the angels, disgusted at thine inertness, abandonthee! Thou wast to be the Interpreter of our plaints, the Chamberlain ofour tears; thou wast to convey them to the Father and thou hast not doneso, for this intercession would disturb thine eternal sleep of happysatiety.

  "Thou hast forgotten the poverty thou didst preach, enamoured vassal ofBanks! Thou hast seen the weak crushed beneath the press of profit; thouhast heard the death rattle of the timid, paralyzed by famine, of womendisembowelled for a bit of bread, and thou hast caused the Chancery ofthy Simoniacs, thy commercial representatives, thy Popes, to answer bydilatory excuses and evasive promises, sacristy Shyster, huckster God!

  "Master, whose inconceivable ferocity engenders life and inflicts it onthe innocent whom thou darest damn--in the name of what originalsin?--whom thou darest punish--by the virtue of what covenants?--wewould have thee confess thine impudent cheats, thine inexpiable crimes!We would drive deeper the nails into thy hands, press down the crown ofthorns upon thy brow, bring blood and water from the dry wounds of thysides.

  "And that we can and will do by violating the quietude of thy body,Profaner of ample vices, Abstractor of stupid purities, cursed Nazarene,do-nothing King, coward God!" "Amen!" trilled the soprano voices of thechoir boys.

  Durtal listened in amazement to this torrent of blasphemies and insults.The foulness of the priest stupefied him. A silence succeeded thelitany. The chapel was foggy with the smoke of the censers. The women,hitherto taciturn, flustered now, as, remounting the altar, the canonturned toward them and blessed them with his left hand in a sweepinggesture. And suddenly the choir boys tinkled the prayer bells.

  It was a signal. The women fell to the carpet and writhed. One of themseemed to be worked by a spring. She threw herself prone and waved herlegs in the air. Another, suddenly struck by a hideous strabism,clucked, then becoming tongue-tied stood with her mouth open, the tongueturned back, the tip cleaving to the palate. Another, inflated, livid,her pupils dilated, lolled her head back over her shoulders, then jerkedit brusquely erect and belaboured herself, tearing her breast with hernails. Another, sprawling on her back, undid her skirts, drew forth arag, enormous, meteorized; then her face twisted into a horriblegrimace, and her tongue, which she could not control, stuck out, bittenat the edges, harrowed by red teeth, from a bloody mouth.

  Suddenly Durtal rose, and now he heard and saw Docre distinctly.

  Docre contemplated the Christ surmounting the tabernacle, and with armsspread wide apart he spewed forth frightful insults, and, at the end ofhis forces, muttered the billingsgate of a drunken cabman. One of thechoir boys knelt before him with his back toward the altar. A shudderran around the priest's spine. In a solemn but jerky voice he said,"_Hoc est enim corpus meum_," then, instead of kneeling, after theconsecration, before the precious Body, he faced the congregation, andappeared tumefied, haggard, dripping with sweat. He staggered betweenthe two choir boys, who, raising the chasuble, displayed his nakedbelly. Docre made a few passes and the host sailed, tainted and soiled,over the steps.

  Durtal felt himself shudder. A whirlwind of hysteria shook the room.While the choir boys sprinkled holy water on the pontiff's nakedness,women rushed upon the Eucharist and, grovelling in front of the altar,clawed from the bread humid particles and drank and ate divine ordure.

  Another woman, curled up over a crucifix, emitted a rending laugh, thencried to Docre, "Father, father!" A crone tore her hair, leapt, whirledaround and around as on a pivot and fell over beside a young girl who,huddled to the wall, was writhing in convulsions, frothing at the mouth,weeping, and spitting out frightful blasphemies. And Durtal, terrified,saw through the fog the red horns of Docre, who, seated now, frothingwith rage, was chewing up sacramental wafers, taking them out of hismouth, wiping himself with t
hem, and distributing them to the women, whoground them underfoot, howling, or fell over each other struggling toget hold of them and violate them.

  The place was simply a madhouse, a monstrous pandemonium of prostitutesand maniacs. Now, while the choir boys gave themselves to the men, andwhile the woman who owned the chapel, mounted the altar caught hold ofthe phallus of the Christ with one hand and with the other held achalice between "His" naked legs, a little girl, who hitherto had notbudged, suddenly bent over forward and howled, howled like a dog.Overcome with disgust, nearly asphyxiated, Durtal wanted to flee. Helooked for Hyacinthe. She was no longer at his side. He finally caughtsight of her close to the canon and, stepping over the writhing bodieson the floor, he went to her. With quivering nostrils she was inhalingthe effluvia of the perfumes and of the couples.

  "The sabbatic odour!" she said to him between clenched teeth, in astrangled voice.

  "Here, let's get out of this!"

  She seemed to wake, hesitated a moment, then without answering shefollowed him. He elbowed his way through the crowd, jostling women whoseprotruding teeth were ready to bite. He pushed Mme. Chantelouve to thedoor, crossed the court, traversed the vestibule, and, finding theportress' lodge empty, he drew the cord and found himself in the street.

  There he stopped and drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. Hyacinthe,motionless, dizzy, huddled to the wall away from him.

  He looked at her. "Confess that you would like to go in there again."

  "No," she said with an effort. "These scenes shatter me. I am in a daze.I must have a glass of water."

  And she went up the street, leaning on him, straight to the wine shop,which was open. It was an ignoble lair, a little room with tables andwooden benches, a zinc counter, cheap bar fixtures, and blue-stainedwooden pitchers; in the ceiling a U-shaped gas bracket. Twopick-and-shovel labourers were playing cards. They turned around andlaughed. The proprietor took the excessively short-stemmed pipe from hismouth and spat into the sawdust. He seemed not at all surprised to seethis fashionably gowned woman in his dive. Durtal, who was watching him,thought he surprised an understanding look exchanged by the proprietorand the woman.

  The proprietor lighted a candle and mumbled into Durtal's ear,"Monsieur, you can't drink here with these people watching. I'll takeyou to a room where you can be alone."

  "Hmmm," said Durtal to Hyacinthe, who was penetrating the mysteries of aspiral staircase, "A lot of fuss for a glass of water!"

  But she had already entered a musty room. The paper was peeling from thewalls, which were nearly covered with pictures torn out of illustratedweeklies and tacked up with hairpins. The floor was all in pieces. Therewere a wooden bed without any curtains, a chamber pot with a piecebroken out of the side, a wash bowl and two chairs.

  The man brought a decanter of gin, a large one of water, some sugar, andglasses, then went downstairs.

  Her eyes were sombre, mad. She enlaced Durtal.

  "No!" he shouted, furious at having fallen into this trap. "I've hadenough of that. It's late. Your husband is waiting for you. It's timefor you to go back to him--"

  She did not even hear him.

  "I want you," she said, and she took him treacherously and obliged himto desire her. She disrobed, threw her skirts on the floor, opened widethe abominable couch, and raising her chemise in the back she rubbedher spine up and down over the coarse grain of the sheets. A look ofswooning ecstasy was in her eyes and a smile of joy on her lips.

  She seized him, and, with ghoulish fury, dragged him into obscenities ofwhose existence he had never dreamed. Suddenly, when he was able toescape, he shuddered, for he perceived that the bed was strewn withfragments of hosts.

  "Oh, you fill me with horror! Dress, and let's get out of here."

  While, with a faraway look in her eyes, she was silently putting onher clothes, he sat down on a chair. The fetidness of the roomnauseated him. Then, too--he was not absolutely convinced ofTransubstantiation--he did not believe very firmly that the Saviourresided in that soiled bread--but--In spite of himself, the sacrilege hehad involuntarily participated in saddened him.

  "Suppose it were true," he said to himself, "that the Presence werereal, as Hyacinthe and that miserable priest attest--No, decidedly, Ihave had enough. I am through. The occasion is timely for me to breakwith this creature whom from our very first interview I have onlytolerated, and I'm going to seize the opportunity."

  Below, in the dive, he had to face the knowing smiles of the labourers.He paid, and without waiting for his change, he fled. They reached therue de Vaugirard and he hailed a cab.

  As they were whirled along they sat lost in their thoughts, not lookingat each other.

  "Soon?" asked Mme. Chantelouve, in an almost timid tone when he left herat her door.

  "No," he answered. "We have nothing in common. You wish everything and Iwish nothing. Better break. We might drag out our relation, but it wouldfinally terminate in recrimination and bitterness. Oh, and then--afterwhat happened this evening, no! Understand me? No!"

  And he gave the cabman his address and huddled himself into the furthestcorner of the fiacre.